On the Road ... Again

It is often remarked that in certain parts of Saskatchewan you can watch your dog run away for days. The east-west artery that is Highway 1, Canada’s main roadway from coast-to-coast, certainly lives up to that landscape. It is mostly flat and devoid of trees, just vast prairie and endless sky interrupted with the occasional small town. And dog. Because fifty minutes prior, a dog was the only thing concerning me on this stretch of road. A random dog walking along the side of Highway 1 by Whitewood that I felt was not long for the world if he were this foolish. Highway speeds are 110km/hr with most going faster. Even in perfect conditions, it is impossible to stop on a dime.

Driving along, I continued listening to a true crime podcast as Ham slept in his doggie bed in my backseat. Winnipeg back home to Saskatoon was a long car ride for him and I tried breaking it up with plenty of stops to stretch. Our next one would be Regina for dinner but we had over an hour to go. Passing through Indian Head, SK, I counted down the time again marvelling at how flat it was and how far I could see. In particular, I started to note how I could see a semi in the distance approaching the highway from the northside. It didn’t appear to be stopping. And neither was a Ford F250 heading into Indian Head from the south.

“What are these fuckers doing” I thought to myself lowering my speed to approximately 90km/hr as I tried to predict if they would pause before crossing. They didn’t. The Ford F250 crashed into the front driver’s side of my Volkswagen as I slammed on the brakes attempting to stop in time. My immediate reaction after this was to look up at the semi, facing what I initially believed to be my impending death. Instead my eyes locked with the shocked glance of two Punjabi drivers who looked like my car just magically materialized out of thin air. I quickly did a turn onto the same road to avoid being hit from behind and started to panic when I realized I couldn’t open my door. I was not aware of the damage yet and terrified of being trapped if my car caught fire.

I’ve had moments of fear in my life. I’ve had moments of anger. Of anxiety. This incident–this collision decision–culminated in a variety of emotions all at once. Including gratitude. I may have been shaking violently but both myself and my puppy weren’t badly hurt in the moment (the real physical pain would settle in a few days later). We were alive.

The driver of the Ford F250 admitted fault and was charged appropriately. He also shared that he didn’t look in my direction as he was also watching the errant semi. Those drivers didn’t stop at all.

❤️

When speaking of the beauty of this great country, most would inevitably reply with the Crown Jewels of our nation: the dual Rocky Mountain townships of Banff and Jasper, Alberta, topographic wonderlands of sweeping mountain vistas, lush forest and aquamarine lakes that leave an imprint on all who visit. I’ve been lucky to visit many, many times. As a western Canadian, these places feel like home. They are home. This past week has brought much sadness as one of those Jewels was tarnished by wildfire.

I reflect upon the wonderful memories had and look forward to the day I can create new ones.

A Hip Trip

There was no aux cord in the car in 1991. Air conditioning wasn’t even a standard feature, at least in the class of sedan my parents could afford. As such many of my summertime childhood memories revolve around daydreaming in the backseat, window down with a breeze through my hair, as we listened to songs on the radio. The lyrics of which I was too young to comprehend or understand their lasting imprint on my life.

AM was a mixed bag of golden oldies and angry citizens calling into conservative talk radio shows that claimed to give a voice but aimed to cause dissent. These stations were reserved for long-haul road trips throughout Western Canada and the Dakotas when radio signals were weak and they were the only thing we could pick up.

FM was much better to my ears, as it featured songs that seemed relevant to the energy of the times. And it was through these stations that artists I didn’t naturally gravitate towards provided the soundtrack to my life. Artists like The Tragically Hip, who are so engrained in Canadiana lore (and radio playlists) that it’s sometimes taken for granted how woven their work is into the tapestry of our lives. I can still see my father behind the wheel, arm relaxed on the driver-side window, with their music playing through the speakers as the heat of the sun guided us down Highway 9 to a day in lake country.

At the time, I didn’t know that Bobcaygeon was a township. Or that I would one day cross the 100th meridian to live in the Paris of the Prairies where Wheat Kings reign. Now that I’m older, these lines hold deeper resonance linking lyric to memory to sense of home. I seek them out for comfort, as nostalgia often provides in abundance (albeit with a shot of sadness for what once was). I may not have the carefree spirit I once did, unaware of the ways of the world and the people who inhabit it, but I now fully comprehend that it’s a good life if you don’t weaken. Soldier on.

A recent news story brought together the appreciation of these lyrics with my love of design and vintage travel artwork. A Hip Trip is an absolutely beautiful set of limited edition posters featuring Canada reflected through their music. Graphic artists John Belisle and Adam Rogers did a phenomenal job of bringing them to life and also inspiring me to elevate my own game as a designer. This is the type of work I would like to create; work that is artistic, meaningful and showcasing a refined sense of craft and skill.

In the meantime, these are going to look amazing framed on my walls.

Your Occasional Ham

My best friend of the past four months is keeping me busy. Being in advertising/design, I’ve also gotten to put him in some of my work (earning those treats).

Ham at six months (©2024, Deborah Clague).

Ham at six months (©2024, Deborah Clague).

Ham at six months (©2024, Deborah Clague).

Ham at six months (©2024, Deborah Clague).