Sunday, March 5, 9:00 a.m.
鈥淚鈥檝e been itching to take a rip out to Big Muddy to check out Castle Butte and the badlands. The forecast for Estevan looks good. The forecast for south-central Saskatchewan looks even better! Plus 11? Don鈥檛 mind if I do!鈥�
1:30 p.m.
Enter: the stark beauty of the badlands: rocks and coulees everywhere, with an abundance of sunshine and exposed ground. By the time I hit the Minton area, the only snow on the ground is in shadowy areas near shelterbelts where land is arable, as well as ditches and the lower parts of coulees.
I call and regale a family member back east with how great it is to be in the Prairies right now. I cavalierly quip about how lucky I am, thinking that since I鈥檓 not in the middle of the nor鈥檈aster storm pummelling Nova Scotia, that I have escaped winter鈥檚 wrath.
鈥淚 think we鈥檝e seen the last of winter out here,鈥� I smugly intone over my phone鈥檚 poor signal in the isolated Big Muddy badlands. 鈥淕reat, isn鈥檛 it?鈥�
Little did I know I was tempting Mother Nature, or Jack Frost, or whatever wrathful vengeful entity oversees the dispersion of snow and awful weather in Saskatchewan. Little did I know I鈥檇 later eat my unctuous words.
3:00 p.m.
鈥淲ow, this Big Beaver place is only about 15 minutes from Castle Butte, itself. It鈥檇 be awesome to camp here. Hell, it鈥檚 almost warm enough to camp here now! Spring is just around the corner! What a pleasant surprise!鈥�
By this time, I was almost wholly convinced an early spring had already arrived in south-central Sask., and it was only a matter of time before it crept east.
4:00 p.m.
I start back for Estevan, considering an itinerary of parks and nature preserves in Western Canada and the Western United States that I absolutely must visit, with spring around the corner. It鈥檚 not until later that evening that I actually check the forecast, baffled by a blizzard warning for early in the week. 鈥淢aybe it鈥檚 an exaggeration鈥︹��
Monday March 6, 7:30 a.m.
鈥淥h, wow! Look at that big, scary blizzard that they were predicting last night!鈥� I sarcastically rasp to myself, climbing out of bed. 鈥淎 bit of cloud cover and a dusting of snow. What a joke,鈥� I remark rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
鈥淲ake me up when something actually happens,鈥� I think, expecting whatever dire weather forecasted the night before to blow over.
10:30 a.m.
鈥淵ou鈥檝e got to be kidding me.鈥�
12:30 p.m.
My car is already buried; the sidewalks, too. The roads are already untenable and slick with ice and fresh snow. I begin to keenly regret what I said earlier.
I need to walk across the city for work purposes, so I take it upon myself to trudge through that mess. It only takes about twice as long as it does in good weather.
I discover a new threshold of distrust for vehicular traffic at every crosswalk I reach, the visibility at zero, and literally every vehicle I see drifting in and out of its lane, unable to do anything that can be described as a 鈥渟top,鈥� unless you add a 鈥渞olling-" prefix.
I鈥檇 worry about that but the wind makes it literally painful to look forward. Never knew I鈥檇 need a pair of ski goggles to walk to the courthouse.
2:00 p.m.
I鈥檝e descended into a humiliated, white-hot rage, frozen head to toe, beard covered in icicles, feet soaked and numb from misjudging the depth of the literal dunes of snow packed onto the sidewalks. I fantasize about relocating to Brazil, swearing even at the hood of my jacket for flipping back every time the wind took it.
Wednesday, March 8, 5:00 p.m.
I return to the parking lot of my apartment building to face the music. Shovel in hand, scarf wrapped tight, resolve firm, I鈥檓 as mentally ready as physically. My back, legs and shoulders are limbered up through a gauntlet of stretches that may or may not stave off injury when I lose my temper and start throwing the snow around more erratically and quickly.
Lesson learned. Don鈥檛 trust March in the Prairies.
