mostly abandoned farms doomed by the drought, then the land starts to roll as if a big sea was building under it, except the surface is covered with sage brush. Hardly any sign of living people. The hills got bigger and higher until suddenly we were in a pine forest. It smacks of the miraculous. Pine trees, and a cool breeze and even some green grass!
We didn’t think they would let us into Cypress Hills Provincial Park since we were collectors, but the park warden winked an eye. We set up camp then drove to a sparkling little clear-water lake we’d passed on the way in
.
We were stripping off in the car for a skinny dip and were mostly naked as frogs when another car pulled up and four big guys hopped out. They were Mounties. A corporal came loping over, peered through the back window, saw some of our guns and let out a shout
.
”They’re armed!”
At that they all pulled out revolvers and scurried for safety behind their car before ordering us to come out with our hands up
.
We were kind of slow, being nude and not too amiable after driving all day and night. We lined up, looking like a bunch of skinned rabbits. There was nothing on us to search so they searched the car and hauled out guns and ammo. They told us we were under arrest because we were a bunch of bank robbers from Ontario trying to make a getaway to B.C.! They’d been looking for us, they said
.
Frank and I dug out our collecting permits and all the other papers we could find and we tried to explain who we were. They just kept their revolvers pointed at us.Finally I told them Inspector Mundy of the R.C.M.P. in Saskatoon was a friend of my family and they should phone him. They let us get dressed but took the keys to the car and our guns and told us to stay in our camp till they came back. Which they did in about two hours. Inspector Mundy had vouched for me, but they were still suspicious and hung around asking more questions until I got out a mickey of Scotch whisky we were saving for a special occasion
.
Soon thereafter Frank and I made an expedition of our own to the U.S. border, looking for a prairie dog town we had heard about.
Drove south over the Frenchman River Flats, the most desolate country I’ve ever seen. From its few hills we could look pretty near as far as the border across a rolling yellow desert dotted with clumps of sage bush and not much else. Suddenly came upon a flock of birds as big as turkeys crossing the road. They were our first Sage Grouse. We brought down four and stowed them away to skin that night then we followed a cart track across the desert till it petered out. We set a course by the sun and bumped along until we reached the edge of a dry valley. Down below we could hear whistles and yelping as if a thousand puppies were on the loose. It took us an hour to find our way down to the ”dog town.” It consisted of some three hundred burrows, each marked by a cone of dirt two or three feet high, with a prairie dog (they look like small groundhogs) sitting perched on top of each, keeping an eye on us. Frank was desperate to collect somebut every time he hit one it would drop down into its burrow and we’d lose it
.
It was dusk before we gave up and coming upon another dirt track followed it although we had no idea where it went. Burrowing owls flitted ahead of us like giant bats. Then a coyote trotted across the track with a prairie dog in its mouth
.
I jammed on the brakes and Frank grabbed his rifle as the car slewed to a stop. The coyote vanished into the sage brush, but dropped the prairie dog. Frank was delighted to get the specimen and I was happy the coyote escaped
.
We eventually came to the small village of Val Marie, a ”one-elevator dump,” Frank called it, where we found an emaciated young coyote chained to a post in front of a gas station. Frank was desperate to get it for his collection, but I was determined to save its life – which I did with one of my last remaining dollars.
In deference to the
We didn’t think they would let us into Cypress Hills Provincial Park since we were collectors, but the park warden winked an eye. We set up camp then drove to a sparkling little clear-water lake we’d passed on the way in
.
We were stripping off in the car for a skinny dip and were mostly naked as frogs when another car pulled up and four big guys hopped out. They were Mounties. A corporal came loping over, peered through the back window, saw some of our guns and let out a shout
.
”They’re armed!”
At that they all pulled out revolvers and scurried for safety behind their car before ordering us to come out with our hands up
.
We were kind of slow, being nude and not too amiable after driving all day and night. We lined up, looking like a bunch of skinned rabbits. There was nothing on us to search so they searched the car and hauled out guns and ammo. They told us we were under arrest because we were a bunch of bank robbers from Ontario trying to make a getaway to B.C.! They’d been looking for us, they said
.
Frank and I dug out our collecting permits and all the other papers we could find and we tried to explain who we were. They just kept their revolvers pointed at us.Finally I told them Inspector Mundy of the R.C.M.P. in Saskatoon was a friend of my family and they should phone him. They let us get dressed but took the keys to the car and our guns and told us to stay in our camp till they came back. Which they did in about two hours. Inspector Mundy had vouched for me, but they were still suspicious and hung around asking more questions until I got out a mickey of Scotch whisky we were saving for a special occasion
.
Soon thereafter Frank and I made an expedition of our own to the U.S. border, looking for a prairie dog town we had heard about.
Drove south over the Frenchman River Flats, the most desolate country I’ve ever seen. From its few hills we could look pretty near as far as the border across a rolling yellow desert dotted with clumps of sage bush and not much else. Suddenly came upon a flock of birds as big as turkeys crossing the road. They were our first Sage Grouse. We brought down four and stowed them away to skin that night then we followed a cart track across the desert till it petered out. We set a course by the sun and bumped along until we reached the edge of a dry valley. Down below we could hear whistles and yelping as if a thousand puppies were on the loose. It took us an hour to find our way down to the ”dog town.” It consisted of some three hundred burrows, each marked by a cone of dirt two or three feet high, with a prairie dog (they look like small groundhogs) sitting perched on top of each, keeping an eye on us. Frank was desperate to collect somebut every time he hit one it would drop down into its burrow and we’d lose it
.
It was dusk before we gave up and coming upon another dirt track followed it although we had no idea where it went. Burrowing owls flitted ahead of us like giant bats. Then a coyote trotted across the track with a prairie dog in its mouth
.
I jammed on the brakes and Frank grabbed his rifle as the car slewed to a stop. The coyote vanished into the sage brush, but dropped the prairie dog. Frank was delighted to get the specimen and I was happy the coyote escaped
.
We eventually came to the small village of Val Marie, a ”one-elevator dump,” Frank called it, where we found an emaciated young coyote chained to a post in front of a gas station. Frank was desperate to get it for his collection, but I was determined to save its life – which I did with one of my last remaining dollars.
In deference to the
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