We kidnapped Doug Smarch, a wild-haired Tlingit Indian, and brought him along with us to the Edmonton Folk Festival to see Joni Mitchell to study the effects of culture shock on the Native Yukoner. Originally we were to drop him off at his parent's home in Teslin but we talked him into coming with us to Edmonton. He had a dime in his pocket. Doug asked me, "Do you always take off like this on the spur of the moment?""It's the only way to travel..." I answered him.
We were part of a small Yukon contigent. Doug, Craig, and I rode in the back of the converted school bus -replete with dual propane gas, two beds and all the homely accoutrements- with Kim Barlow at the helm.
Dinah Gaston and Caryn Sullivan followed us in a Volkswagon Van. Lori Shrader and Natalie Edelson drove a dog team down from Dawson City, Yukon. Somewhere along the Al-Can highway, we were almost driven off the highway by Nan and Ross in their high-tech- next-gen R.V. camper. Later, I recognized some Dawson City folk mingling in the thick crowds of Edmonton.
The original plan was to spend the weekend at the folkfest and then, Barlow and I would continue our journey down the Yellowhead highway. But like the myth of Charybdis, the swirling summer vortex of Edmonton sucked us in and twenty one days later spat us out. We came in for the folkfest, stayed for the Fringe Fest and managed to have a few adventures in between.
There seems to be a festival every weekend in Edmonton. We felt like small hick kids in the big city for the first time. We were held in thrall by sensory overload amidst the awe and wonder of carnvial madness as we soaked up all the smells and sounds: the rich aroma of dark roasted coffed beans; the sickly sweetness of ale and lager splashing about in the beer tent over the constant murmur of artsy conversations; hot dogs and burgers sizzling and spitting on the barbecue pits; the pungent sting of sauerkraut, and finally, the ruch and thunder of music rising steadily in the thick humidity of the hot prairie summer.
At the folkfest, the dark loamy earth of Gallegher Park was turned into a film set from one of those 'creature from the black lagoon' movies. I improvised a huge semi-dome shelter out of tarps and ski-poles and duct tape so we could escape the deluge of rain and muck while watched Solomon Burke, the last true impresario. As the dying strains of the obligatory Four Strong Winds drifted through the air, our Yukon gang made their long drawn out farewells, and went separate ways. Paths crossed will cross again. Barlow made a side trip to Vancouver.
At the Fringe, I weaved in and out of the crowds, pored over the festival program like it was a racetrack form, lined up for tickets, ran to the plays and got drunk with Dinah in the beer tent.
Within a few days of our arrival in Edmonton we had a strange encounter with celebrity and fortune, perhaps our fifteen minutes of fame. While I was mud-wrestling in the swamps of the beer tent with other displaced Yukoners-gone-bad, Barlow was innocently cooking up a concoction of Mr. Noodles and peanut butter. (Barlow is Chef Paul Prudhomme, Wok with Yan, and the Frugal Gourmet all rolled into one.) Just then as the noodles were coming to a boil; a not-so-famous actress wandered by the bus and was suddenly inspired by what she saw. She quickly climbed through the window and told Kim she needed the bus for a hippie commune scene for an episode of Destiny Ridge. Barlow's bus was perfect for the scene to the point of being stereotypical.
The bus was covered with flowers and sunshine. As it turned out, she needed hippies too. I was embarrassed because all the other actors were directed to wardrobe whereas we were told that we were okay as we were. The whole affair was surreal...like something out of Alice in Wonderland, less real than the festival sites. The shoot lasted the entire day, yet we only appeared in less than ninety seconds of the show.
Finally, we tired of festival celebrations and film sets. Our hearts yearned for the open road and we spoke of distant horizons. With 4500 kilometres to go, and less than one hundred dollars between us, Barlow and I, continued down the Yellowhead Highway towards the verdant fields of Saskatchewan with no idea of what adventures awaited us next...
