Excerpt from Travels with Elly (MacDonald): Introduction

 

INTRODUCTION 

On a balmy afternoon in July, the weather turned ugly shards of lightning, booming thunder, roiling green and black clouds, and an angry wind that shook our trailer unmercifully. Forecasted tornado warnings in the Edmonton area had me peering through rain streaked windows at a darkening sky, scanning for dreaded vortexes that would prompt a hasty retreat to our campground’s washroom. 

A little brown head bunted my leg, chimpanzee-esque eyes expressing concern. “Don’t worry,” I said, “The odds of dying in a tornado are 20 million to one.” It’s the ONE I’m worried about, she replied, continuing her frantic pacing. 

An hour later, sanity returned with mottled gray skies and peaceful prairie breezes. Friedrich Nietzsche, the German philosopher, said it best: “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.” That’s good—being stronger may have helped us survive even worse weather yet to come, Canada’s “Storm of the Century.” 

In 1960, John Steinbeck traveled across the United States with his poodle, recording his experiences and musings in Travels with Charley… in Search of America. 

Fifty years later, I traveled across Canada with my poodle, also recording my experiences and musings. Our objectives were similar: to gain a better understanding of our respective countries. 

The renowned author felt that he had to travel alone because, as he so eloquently stated, “Two or more people disturb the ecologic complex of an area.” I briefly discussed this option with my wife, Sandy. During our 38- year relationship, I’ve learned that there are certain things I can do alone, such as wash windows and mow the yard. But travel across Canada? Not  a chance! She succinctly rgued that a disturbed ecologic complex was less important than having her along to confirm my observations. Our cat Buster also joined us, as did an unexpected orphan in the latter half of our journey. 

When I asked our poodle what she thought about traveling across Canada, she cocked her head slightly left, then further left, her stubby tail rigid like a scimitar. What a great idea! Her tail then began wagging like a windshield wiper on fast-forward…I’ll go wherever you go Dad. She thinks of me as her Dad, having never met her real father, Mel–a regal black poodle, who had won numerous Best-in Show awards. 

Ten years ago, Mel’s mate delivered a rainbow of puppies: three white, three black, and three brown. While observing the seven-week-old litter, we focused our attention on a little brown female that explored and roughhoused more than her littermates. According to the breeder, “Browns are clowns,” and in her estimation, this puppy was “Pick of the litter.” She was not only spirited but also affectionate, licking Sandy’s face, snuggling into her neck, and shouting, PICK ME; PICK ME! How could we not? Within a few days of trying out a gazillion names, we decided to call her “Elly” after her breeder. 

Elly had the requisite conformation to become a show dog having inherited her father’s physical characteristics; unfortunately, her lower canine teeth grew so long that they punctured the roof of her mouth, resulting in a severe case of halitosis, which we affectionately called “stinky nose.” Although we had the teeth extracted, traces of the noxious smell remained. Over time through many positive associations, we found the familiar odor somewhat appealing. This same principle likely explains why the wife of a dairy farmer who we later visited in Ontario delighted in the tangy scent of cow manure. According to her, “It smells like home.” The scent of pig manure on the other hand, she found “disgusting.” 

When it comes to odors, Elly’s keen sense of smell sometimes gets her in trouble. We know she can reliably distinguish between dog feces and deposits from other animals. She’ll sniff briefly at a pile of dog-doo and immediately back away; however, let her get a whiff of exotic dreck and a predictable pattern of behavior unfolds: with eyes focused on the object of interest and nose a measured distance away, she’ll prance sideways in a semicircle, first in one direction, then the other. Unless we fortuitously intervene, “Leave it,” she’ll proceed to the next stages of intimacy with a very deliberate roll, beginning with the side of her head and neck in a caressing motion, then onto her back, wriggling in ecstasy with feet pawing the air. To me, there’s no such word as “gross.” 

Once, she rolled gaily on a rotting seal carcass that had washed up on the beach. The stench, and we’re talking stinky here, would have made a vulture vomit. Dad was not amused, waving his arms and hollering a litany of nonsensical words. He wouldn’t even let me ride home in the car. So we walked, silently and efficiently, from the beach to our house, then directly into the tub. Several baths later, the deliciously fragrant “bouquet of seal” was but a lingering memory and Dad became his civil self again. 

Steinbeck’s Charley also had deformed teeth, which allowed him to say just one word, “Ftt,” meaning he had to go outside “to salute a bush or a tree.” When Elly has the urge, she’ll stare intently at either of us and politely ask, May I go outside? If we don’t respond, she’ll approach the door and shout, “NOW!” Once outside and given the appropriate command, “Go pee-pee” or “Go poo-poo,” Elly prefers to squat in the woods or in high grass if available, rather than on a manicured lawn. And she never does her business on a walking path, road, or sidewalk. How she learned such appropriately discreet behavior is a mystery … certainly not from this Dad. Our friends are always impressed whenever she runs off into the woods and squats behind a bush or tree. No peeking! 

Aspiring writers are urged to write about things they know. Thus, I wrote much about Elly, who I know quite well. Her tilted head, pleading eyes, wagging tail, and tentative foot movements all have special meanings that she’s taught me over the years. And her thoughts are often more profound than her actions indicate. I like to think of myself, not as a clown but as a serious observer. I can focus on the antics of a squirrel for hours. Dad thinks I’m obsessed; I consider it being reflective. 

For 30 years, Sandy and I lived in Edmonton, Alberta, where I directed a government program that provided services to persons with mental disabilities. Born and raised in Nazareth, Pennsylvania, a three-stoplight town, I immigrated to Canada a few years after college to accept this employment. I have dual citizenship and shared allegiances but choose to live in Canada, a proud yet modest nation respected the world over for its compassion and support of people less fortunate. Since most of my time had been spent in the western provinces, I looked forward to seeing more of my adopted country. 

Sandy was born and raised in Ontario and had worked as a special education teacher and social worker. She has a particular gift for interacting with children, seniors, and animals, which facilitated numerous interactions during our journey. 

Dad forgot to mention that I was born in Edmonton. My first love, a Bichon Frisé, was also born there. As puppies, Toby and I played together often. One day, he moved far away to Ontario, one of the provinces we planned to visit. I looked forward to seeing him again. 

Buster is a Rag Doll breed of cat whose defining characteristic is going limp when he’s picked up. Having grown up with Elly, the slightly older Buster established himself early on as Alpha and maintained that relationship by a swat or nip on Elly’s hindquarters when he decided a playful interlude was over. While Elly was always a great traveler, Buster had some issues, even before our trip began. He occasionally upchucked if a road became too twisty or bumpy for more than 10 or 15 minutes. Buster’s problem behavior stopped suddenly and permanently during our trip, much to our delight. When appropriate, I’ll offer my opinion as to why. 

After my retirement, we moved to the West Coast of British Columbia and purchased a house. About five years passed. One day, we met a couple that had downsized from their house to a travel trailer without regrets. They were thoroughly enjoying “life on the road” and wished they had done it sooner. After much deliberation, we decided to sell our sticks and bricks and donate everything else that wouldn’t fit into a small storage shed. Our new residence consisted of a 38-foot, fifth-wheel trailer—four wheels on the back, the “fifth” being a sturdy pin, which mates to a hitch in the bed of a pick-up truck. Three slide-outs provided nearly 500 sq. ft. of living space, considerably less than our 2,400 sq. ft. house but totally adequate for two adults and two animals on the road. 

Make no mistake, such a major lifestyle change had some of our friends doubting our sanity. But an equal number were openly envious, wishing their lives could be similarly embellished with more adventure. “Take me with you” typified this group when they found out we were planning an extended road trip. Over the years, we had owned several small motorhomes used primarily for brief camping trips, but this was different—we no longer had a fixed address, permanent neighbours, or the responsibility of maintaining a home. “Vagabonds” is how we described our new lifestyle. 

Prior to exploring Canada, we took our rig to Arizona the first winter. During this Snowbird experience, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being on holidays … you know, that carefree, happy feeling deep inside that you get when everything is right with the world. Being on holidays seems to bring out the excited and curious child within. I’ve gotten this feeling many times during my adult life while holidaying in the Caribbean, South Pacific, and other exotic places. But it always faded when the holiday was over and life got back to ordinary. This time, however, I wasn’t going back to ordinary. George Bernard Shaw once remarked, “A perpetual holiday is a good working definition of Hell.” Personally, I would have substituted Heaven for Hell. 

In RV vernacular, we’re called “Full-Timers,” referring to the large and growing number of folks who live in their rigs. Sandy’s modesty prompts her to inform everyone who admires our large, well-appointed trailer: “It’s our home.” This occurred so often during our journey that I was tempted to attach a sign, WE LIVE HERE FULL TIME! Fifty years ago, recreational vehicles were less common, providing a measure of novelty to Steinbeck’s camper, which he affectionately named “Rocinante” after Don Quixote’s horse. Following his lead, we also named our rig. Since our truck carried the load, we named it “Tenzing” after the Sherpa employed by Sir Edmund Hillary. Our trailer we named “Barouche,” after an elegant four-wheel carriage popular in the 1800’s. Clever names I thought, but seldom used in our ordinary conversations—we typically referred to them as the truck and the trailer. 

After purchasing our rig, my insurance agent informed me that I would require a Heavy Trailer Endorsement to pull a trailer over 10,000 pounds. Ours was half again that heavy. Obtaining this endorsement involved a written test, followed by a drive-about under the critical eye of an Examiner. No worries. Down I went to the licensing office for the written —which I promptly flunked, a humbling experience for someone with a Ph.D. who had been driving nearly half a century. A few days later, after perusing the information booklet that I should have read in the first place, I proudly passed the written and subsequently the drive-about, validating my insurance. Interestingly, people who drive large motorhomes do not currently require any special testing in Canada. Why the distinction between these behemoth cruisers and towed trailers is beyond me, considering their similar potential for causing major damage on our roadways. 

Steinbeck took three months to cover 10,000 miles, often driving relentlessly day and night. We traveled at a more leisurely pace, taking ten months to cover half that distance. Seldom did we drive more than three hours at a stretch. His small truck-camper allowed forays onto back roads and pastures, getting him close to the sights and smells of rural America. Our much larger rig precluded excursions on unfamiliar side roads. Nevertheless, we did occasionally access rural Canada by unhooking the trailer and bouncing down dirt roads in the truck. 

Our plan was to travel across Canada, observe surroundings, chat with locals, and identify characteristics that define each Province as well as Canadians in general. Our approach, different from Steinbeck’s, included visits to museums, monuments, and various other tourist attractions. Steinbeck felt that “stupendous works of man or nature,” such as Yellowstone National Park, are “no more representative of America than Disneyland.” I, on the other hand, would argue that such natural wonders define a country’s geographic diversity, while stupendous man-made objects often reflect a region’s historical or cultural identity. Thus, our palette of topics ranged from the first settlement and prettiest town to the greatest hero and most devastating shipwreck in Canada. And of course, we included activities that might interest our dear Miss Elly. 

We had legitimate concerns about surviving a Canadian winter in a poorly insulated trailer. Annual temperatures in Canada can range anywhere from -40 to +40 degrees Celsius. Since the minus signs are associated with snow, icy roads, wind chill, and runny noses, the prudent thing to do would be to break the trip into two parts. During the first four months, July to October, we would travel from British Columbia to Ontario. From there, like migrating geese, we would head south to spend the winter in Florida. Returning in the spring, we would spend the next six months traveling from Ontario to Newfoundland.

For more posts about Larry MacDonald and his books, click HERE.