My real holiday is on. And it's not to some exotic resort in Mexico.
No, the scribbler has packed his beat-up old SUV and has headed out along dusty old trails in search of long forgotten locales in remote parts of both Saskatchewan and Manitoba. Instead of sleeping the night away in some $300 a night resort hotel, I will pitch a tent on the side of the road.
And of course there are no five-star restaurants, only the daily necessity of munching on popcorn and chowing down a can of oysters at night.
It's not that I have anything against going somewhere exotic. My last trip to the glorious beaches of the Caribbean in May was for my daughter's wedding. It was wonderful. I got to fulfill the dream of walking my kid down the aisle for the most important day of her life, and mine. But that was all for her. This time it is all for me.
Oddly, I must concede it is not really that relaxing. My adrenalin gets going in overdrive much the same way it does while pursuing a great news story. It is the journey along the way, and not the actual discovery of some treasure, that is most exhilarating. Once there, I am off again to find something new, and the adrenalin rush starts all over again. Call it an addiction, one that has consumed me for decades. There is no 12-step program for this, and that is OK. I know my higher power is still smiling.
There will be a two- to three-day break in Manitoba, east of Winnipeg in a district called Brokenhead. This is where there are special ghosts. My cousin Brian Lesko is taking me for a tour of old sites once inhabited by my long passed descendants, Europeans who came across the great Atlantic pond in the late 19th century to break land in a brand new country called Canada. I will again go to the site of the old homestead of my great-grandparents. It is only an empty field now but the memories remain, including a visit I made when I was 12 to see my great-uncle Walter, who was then living at the site with 40 or so cats. I will visit the gravesites of my parents, and quietly and humbly let them know all is well, and that their granddaughter just got married, graduated university and is prospering.
Between these stops I will marvel at the wonders I find on every trail, particularly the ones fading with time. There is a nobility to each one, be it a crumbling ancient grain elevator sitting forlornly in a field, a Main Street that has not had visitors in years or a playground that has not hosted children in decades. They still have meaning. There is a good story to each one. I am there to record it.
And when each day is done, the tent will be thrown up at any convenient spot, as far away as possible from civilization. I will start a campfire, and watch burning flying embers light up and fly away towards the heavens.
My imagination will run wild. There may even be an appropriate commune, with who or what is never really known.
But it is my special time, and while it can't be equated with one on some Central American beach resort, it is where I will always find a little bit more of myself. That is the best treasure of all.
