THE SENTINEL IN THE FOOTHILLS

 

As soon as I am on Highway 3 heading east from British Columbia, I am already preparing myself for a “treat”. I make sure that my gas tank has just enough gas to reach Brocket, Alberta. I can already envision the weathered gas station on the left side of highway on the far side of Brocket. All signs advise “Red Feather” is ahead. One would anticipate an exciting adventure in a trading post as we are on First Nations lands.

I already know not to get too excited with gas prices at Crows Nest at some 10 to 15 cents per liter cheaper than British Columbia. The extra sixty (60) kilometers may receive rewards for additional 5 to 7 cents at Red Feather.

The gas pumps are dated and the parking lot has its pot holes with no pavement. The false front on the dated building does not indicate any life and so one assumes this must be a “self serve” station and you automatically check the meter reading for the price as the other hand takes the spout out of its holder.  The numbers are worn and hardly discernible but the trust remains and the spout enters the waiting gas inlet.

Out of nowhere, it seems, this tall handsome man comes forth and takes the spout out of my hand with “fill it up?”His questioning face is not smiling but friendly.

“Yes, of course,” is my response. It is almost as if I am on familiar turf as this experience is repeated at least twice a year. I am leaning to the west while trying to be in a nonchalant discussion in this strong wind. There is a reason why the few trees in this part of Canada all are bent eastward. “The wind is a bit strong today, isn’t it?” trying to start up a conversation.

“Yes, it calmed down a lot today,” he opined as he continued with his work, oblivious to the tattered flags trying desperately to hang on to the cord that secured them to the building face.

My eyes surveyed the scene around:

• Aging buildings in the town site
• Lonely Band housing units dotting the prairie
• Derelict care bodies parked around this housing where they their motors ceased to start again
• Horses grazing on the sparse vegetation
• Prairie on the eastern horizon
• Snow –capped mountains to the west
• Rolling hills to the north and south

The flick of the lever on the gas pump and the clang of the gas spout entering its holder indicated that the operation was over. Upon entering the single door to the station, the first sign reads “washrooms not in operation”. I recall that was the same sign that was there a few years ago. There was a time when some renovations were undertaken and the washrooms did operate. There must be a story in this washroom challenge as no matter what the Operator did, something would happen and the sign would go up again.

The lady behind the counter was tall, pretty and her red features displayed a natural beauty that indicated a partnership with the Owner. Again there is friendliness but without a false smile that is usual in other filling stations. There is something very genuine that I always feel at Red Feather but I sense that the business has not resulted in financial wealth. The temporary RV and vehicles parked may be the only residence or perhaps used as a shelter during operating hours.

Shopping is limited to confections and not artifacts as one would assume might be on the merchandise inventory. Perhaps a story may be there.

There is a history that I am sure could be told if and when I would take the time to chat. I wonder if my sincere interest will be reciprocated with any information that I should receive. How is life in the First Nations? Does this family lease from the Band? Do they operate for the Band?

When I drive away, my thoughts continue for the next hour with those questions as I wonder how they feel towards my white face. Are we all Canadians? Are we all equal?

How can I explain to them that I am proud of what they are doing to make a living just like every other Canadian?

One of these times, I will pause to visit more, next time.

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Written January 17, 2013, 1125 hours