辵Walk

WE DIDN’T STOP AGAIN UNTIL PINCHER CREEK. Along the way, I gawked at the dozens of colossal stalks protruding from yellow fields like massive steel flowers. The windmills made the mountains behind them seem small. They looked like an army that had invaded the prairie, ready to move together into battle. Some of the pointy petals were moving, the sharp blades rotating, winding around with the loud and forceful wind. We were tiny insects, racing to get out of the way.

The wind swirled around us as we got out of the van at Veterans Memorial Park in Pincher Creek. Mother wrapped a scarf around herself and commented, “We have met all four winds.”

“What does that mean, Mom?” I asked.

“The hong come from four directions: north, south, east, and west. They don’t come empty handed. Sometimes they bring sickness, or bad luck,” she explained.

“Can they bring good luck?”

“Sometimes, but never let your guard down. It’s better to prepare for the worst.”

“How do you know when they will bring good luck?”

“You don’t.”

My hair blew rapidly around my face, and the pages of the book in my hand flapped back and forth. Bea’s skirt danced wildly while her legs tried to stay firmly planted to the ground.

Father came around from his side of the van. He also couldn’t resist talking about the wind. “The Chinook winds like to flow off the mountains and land here, in the Oldman River and Castle River valleys. That’s why there are windmills here.”

Mother shivered. “Why does the cold have to come back to us? Winter has just left, but its tail is clutching the land, not wanting to let go yet. Maybe it’s an omen.”

“Enough with your superstitions!” Father said.

Father had a kite he’d bought in Chinatown the previous winter. He said this would show Mother how beautiful the mountain winds were. But its delicate tissue was torn, so he spent the better part of the late afternoon repairing the kite instead of flying it.

The next morning, we were awoken by the cool mountain air and the cawing of crows. After breakfast, Father drove onto Highway 6 towards Waterton Lakes National Park. Father had decided we would do a day hike on Rowe Lakes Trail.

The trail cut through a dense wilderness along the banks of Rowe Creek before connecting to two different lakes along the path. We climbed uphill, Mount Lineham and Mount Rowe guiding us. The stillness of the lakes below made me feel both tiny and large at the same time. Tiny because of the vastness of the valley, the calm lake framed by mountains. Large because I had conquered the trail with my two legs.

We took in the view, awestruck. Despite it being the height of summer, snow-capped peaks rose from the rolling grasslands. Red flowers of Indian paintbrush dotted the foothills. In the distance, along the rocky edges of the mountain base, Arctic poppies drank in the sun, their pale-yellow petals framing their black and gold faces. Beyond them, bear grass bloomed. It looked like a field of white ghosts made of shining diamonds, welcoming the royal poppies to the mountains, inviting them to be plucked.