1:12am in Coronach

When I was younger, I was much more acquainted with the night. My body and mind tested itself with how many sunrises I could chase, as though watching them paused the effects of time. But at some point, slumber–and the worlds I experienced within dreams–became more valuable.

With age, the night now seems foreign. I’d almost forgot just how magical dusk could be. Awhile back I would play a game before bed, peering out my window to count the stars. I never got higher than seven. The ambient light reflecting from my small prairie city simply too strong to properly showcase the wonder of the universe above. But now with a second (comparatively desolate) place to call home, it is easy to count entire galaxies.

Taking Hampton out late at night in rural Saskatchewan, our back door has nothing but a security light illuminating the immediate space. Everything beyond is a wall of black. The deepest, most dense shade of black I’ve ever seen. It is all-encompassing and unnerving. Especially when you realize there is also no sound. Being an urban dweller, I’m used to the sounds of the city such as traffic, industrial white noise and the occasional wails of drug-induced psychosis. But there is never, ever the sound of nothingness. It is both the most beautiful and haunting thing.

As I stare into the void, I feel it could swallow me whole. It’s impossible to see my hand in front of my face, yet I sense something out there. There is life under cloak of darkness hunting and being hunted. Through heightened senses, I try to catch a branch break or the subtle bristle of the tall grass parting to ensure my dog doesn’t become the latter. Up above, a perfectly preserved sky consisting of millions of twinkling lights reaffirms our existence and provides solace from the shadows.

In Coronach at 1:12am on a Friday night, this is the world that reintroduced itself to me.

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.

The One-Eyed Fox of Waskesiu

Before the first snowfall, I spent a day solo hiking in Prince Albert National Park. I wasn’t alone though. I made friends with the one-eyed fox of Waskesui.

One-eyed fox at Narrows Marina, Prince Albert National Park, Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague).

Fox at Narrows Marina, Prince Albert National Park, Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague).

Fox at Narrows Marina, Prince Albert National Park, Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague).

Fox at Narrows Marina, Prince Albert National Park, Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague).

Autumn scenes at Prince Albert National Park, Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague).

Long Drive Down a Long Road

In sharp contrast to the bustling streets of Tokyo, I can drive for miles and miles without seeing another being in my home province of Saskatchewan. But when I do, it’s guaranteed that I will be on the receiving end of a friendly wave of acknowledgement as we pass. Weekends like this—of getting lost under the living sky—are my favourite moments of living on the prairies.

The desolate Highway 36, Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague)

Abandoned homes house ghosts of the past in rural Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague)

Town of Coronach, Saskatchewan signage (©2023, Deborah Clague)

Mural on Main Street, Coronach, Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague)

Canola fields, rural Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague).

Our Lady of Lourdes Cemetery 1912-1953, Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague).

Grasslands

It was getting late. I placed the book I was reading on the nightstand and looked over at my partner who was fast asleep after a long day. I wasn’t ready for slumber just yet though … the night was calling.

And I was staying in a place famous for it.

Grasslands National Park in southwest Saskatchewan is the darkest dark sky preserve in Canada. After hours, as the gradient sunset fades to black, the sky becomes a glittering tapestry of stars and visible planets, the scale of which merits nothing short of awe. It is perhaps the best place in the country to humble one’s self and get a sense of the grand scope of our shared universe.

As part of a late summer road trip, we made our way to the village of Val Marie (population 126)—the gateway to Grasslands—and stayed overnight in a converted church named The Sanctuary Inn. As soon as I stepped inside, I was taken aback by how quiet everything was. There was no ambient noise from vehicular traffic. No TV for distraction. Just the sound of our own conversation and birds chirping outside. After a summer shaped by loss and hardship, it was the peace we needed.

Our first full day at Grasslands, we did the self-paced ecotour scenic drive and back country loop. At 140 kilometres long, I didn’t expect it to take as long as it did but in total our prairie safari lasted over seven hours. The adventure was exclusively on gravel roads (some more maintained than others). Beyond epic prairie landscapes, we also observed coyote, vast colonies of prairie dog, and several herds of bison roaming free … and even spotted a lone bison, whom the visitor centre staff informed me was “kicked out of the herd” during this rutting season for not being strong enough. I was assured, however, that his time-out would be over in a few weeks when he could return.

On the back country roads were a few isolated homes and ranches and I wondered what the occupant’s lives must be like with no immediate neighbours and any type of services literally hours away. A life in isolation can occasionally be appealing to me, especially after this pandemic, but the reality of it would be far different than my idealization. We do need others. Even if reluctantly.

I tiptoed to the entrance in an attempt to not wake him. After turning off the inside and outside light, I opened the door and was met with complete, enveloping darkness. It was the blackest night I have ever experienced. It was another world.

Borderlands Lookout, Grasslands National Park (©2022, Deborah Clague).

The Sanctuary Inn, Val Marie, Saskatchewan (©2022, Deborah Clague).

Val Marie, Saskatchewan (©2022, Deborah Clague)

Grasslands National Park, Saskatchewan (©2022, Deborah Clague).

The dark brown spot, just left of center, is a lone bison (©2022, Deborah Clague).

Like the surface of the moon, the prairie dog village at Grasslands National Park resembles a lunar landscape (©2022, Deborah Clague).

Remnants of a homestead, Grasslands National Park (©2022, Deborah Clague).

A herd of wild bison, Grasslands National Park (©2022, Deborah Clague).

A herd of wild bison, Grasslands National Park (©2022, Deborah Clague).

Roadblock ahead, Grasslands National Park (©2022, Deborah Clague).

Back Country Loop, Grasslands National Park (©2022, Deborah Clague).

Borderlands Lookout, Grasslands National Park (©2022, Deborah Clague).

Borderlands Lookout, Grasslands National Park (©2022, Deborah Clague).

Rosefield Grid Road, Grasslands National Park (©2022, Deborah Clague).

Abandoned church off Highway 4, Saskatchewan (©2022, Deborah Clague).