Stand on the Dunvegan Bridge, and Other Orders
Most people who live here keep a list of things they will get to eventually, and they keep it the way they keep a junk drawer. Somewhere under the dead batteries is the plan to finally see the dinosaurs. This is a shorter list, with opinions attached, for anyone who keeps meaning to.
Go to Dunvegan. Skip the campground, which is fine, and head for the river. The Peace is wide and brown and faster than it looks, and the valley walls are steep enough that the flat country you just drove across disappears completely. Walk the old mission grounds. Then stand on the suspension bridge and feel it hum when a truck goes over. Go in September, when the poplars on the slopes turn and the mosquitoes have retired.
See the swans at Saskatoon Island. This city has put a trumpeter on half its signage, which is reasonable, and which also means plenty of residents have never looked closely at a real one. Go early. Bring binoculars. Keep your voice down. They are bigger than you expect and considerably less friendly than the logo.
Visit the Philip J. Currie Dinosaur Museum. Then do the part people skip: remember that the Pipestone Creek bonebed is right there, near Wembley. A herd of Pachyrhinosaurus died in a creek bed out that way, and most of us have been driving past it on Highway 43 for years, thinking about groceries.
Walk the Kleskun Hills. These are badlands northeast of town, small and dry and slightly strange, with patches of native prairie that never met a plough. It is not Drumheller. That is the appeal. Nobody is trying to sell you a fibreglass T. rex, and on a weekday you may have the place to yourself and a few grasshoppers.
Walk Muskoseepi Park end to end in January. Anyone can manage it in July. In deep winter, with the trails packed down and Bear Creek frozen quiet beneath you, it becomes a different park, and a better one. The city goes muffled. You can hear your own boots.
Drive to Kakwa Falls. Honesty is required here: it is a long day on gravel, and you want a vehicle you trust and a spare you have checked. The road is a slog. The falls are worth the slog. Pack more food than seems sensible and accept that you will get home late and dusty.
Find Twelve Foot Davis in Peace River. His grave sits on the hill above town, looking down over the valley where the rivers meet. He was a gold-rush trader who earned his name from a twelve-foot claim, not his height, and his marker says he never locked his cabin door. The view alone justifies the trip. The epitaph makes you feel slightly worse about your deadbolt.
Two things that are not on the list. Driving out to chase the northern lights is optional, because they will come to you. Stand in the backyard on a clear night in February and wait. And nobody needs a special outing for the canola. It blooms in July. You will not have to look for it.