Lori Knutson

Another One Like the Other Ones

Posted on October 26, 2017     Leave a Comment

You can read all about my travel adventures below or you can hear me tell you about them. Either way, I’d love it!

As I walked through the cold countryside this morning, I tried to think of something new to write about. I came up with nothing. It seems I’ve already said everything you’d be interested in reading.

Sad.

Travel adventure’s all been done before.

I considered writing about my latest travel adventure again, more blah, blah, blah about where I’ve been and what I’ve seen. Anyway, the most recent trip was regional, and so it wouldn’t appeal to you listeners who don’t live around here.

Obviously not everyone wants to read about Medicine Hat, Alberta; Havre, Montana; or the Cypress Hills of southern Saskatchewan. Who can blame you? They’re just places with great names full of compelling, murderous history and tasty food.

Food: Does it really matter?

I’d tell you about the food if I thought you liked food. Most people don’t care for it.

Why would you want to read about the best burger of my life in Havre, the one I’d marry if I could? And Indian food in Medicine Hat: not one morsel of meat in it and the most delicious food of its kind I’ve ever had. I thought I was going to die a pleasant death of physically bursting after eating an astonishing amount of Naan bread and chickpeas.

The tale of the world’s best cheese omelet and hash browns that I had for breakfast at The Resort At Cypress Hills sounds like all my other breakfast stories. It just tasted better.

Food is food, and booze is not worth writing about.

I suppose I could tell you once more about all the beverages we sampled, but what would be the point? They’re cold. They’re bottled. They’re delicious. I’ve said it all before.

There’s no need to go on about the cherry cider and grapefruit beer that we bought from the grocery store in Havre.

Here’s something most Americans probably don’t know about us Canadians, not that there’re any Americans listening this: We Canadians love buying alcohol from your drugstores and grocery stores. It’s both thrilling and convenient. It feels a bit forbidden because in Canada, it is.

Why tell you about the exceptional fruit wine and tasty beer made right in Saskatchewan? It would just make you thirsty and make you want to head over to Saskatchewan. (The booze alone would be worth the trip to Maple Creek.)

Breweries in Medicine Hat? Who knew? I’d pass on the story of the Hell’s Basement taproom, but I don’t want to turn you off ever going to Medicine Hat. Let me just say this: The other people in there tried to talk to us.

One even approached my husband, saying, “Here, smell this beer.” Then another asked him what he was drinking. A bunch of them were lined up along a tasting bar with their elegant sampling glasses, visiting and trying different beers.

I don’t condone this kind of activity, so I certainly wouldn’t write about it. I say, buy your booze and get out. There’s no reason to discuss it with the friendly locals who also enjoy it.

If you’ve had one Saskatchewan-made beer at The Resort At Cypress Hills, I suppose you’ve had them all. Another story about beer would just bore you, so I won’t delve into the Milk Stout produced in Swift Current, sweeter than mother’s milk and just as nourishing.

More history? Seriously?

History is so dusty by now because much of it is awfully old.

In the past, I’ve written a lot about history. I apologize. You’ve probably heard enough about rum-running, Al Capone, illegal gambling, opium dens, and prostitution in the tunnels beneath the streets of Havre, Montana. Who hasn’t?

The North West Mounted Police only hung around Fort Walsh for four years. Even they were bored by it. After the massacre of Nakoda elders, women and children by wolf hunters, and after sheltering the Lakota people who fled the south country following the Battle of Little Bighorn, the Mounties left Fort Walsh in 1882.

Another thing I can’t write about here is my pleasant visit with a charming one-armed man outside the walls of Fort Walsh. I don’t know where I’d fit it in among all the killing stories.

I told you. There’s nothing new to write about.

You see my problem? It’s the end of the piece, and I still haven’t thought of anything new or interesting to tell you.

It would really help me, dear listener, if you would share with me some of the things you like to hear about. Then, the next time I don’t know what to talk about, I can refer to your suggestions. Thank you.