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Wild At Heart
1 June 2004
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Determined that my pal Bob should get the full western trout bum experience and that no expense would be spared, I grinned at the little blonde behind the bar and slapped my money down. Thirty-five bucks (about fifteen quid to you Brits). Each. For this sum you get a tidy cinder block cell with an air conditioner of sorts, a sheet metal shower and a fridge for your six pack. Luxury indeed to a drunk cowboy, but it was the bar we had come for, a David Lynch movie set without a whif of post-modern irony. In short order we were sinking a couple of cold ones, gazing at the matched pair of mounted elk heads by the blue glow of the slot machines, and listening raptly to the saga of Yukon Sue. I’ve annointed her that myself, but she was from the Yukon all right.
Apart from being only a step away from the Crowsnest River, the great thing about the Lundbreck Hotel is that it’s right next door to the Alberta Rose Cafe. Good breakfasts served with down home hospitality, but they were closed for renovations, said Yukon. She was on the other side of the bar by now and feeling sociable, so we soon learned that she was just passing through. Sue had fetched up in Lundbreck on her way down from the arctic circle, en route to Cuba. Don’t ask, she said, so we didn’t.
By 1:00 AM, Yukon had invited us round to her house for breakfast and, frankly, was looking better by the minute. She pointed through the bar window, toward her porch light, and I have to say it looked pretty cheery, winking away out there in the prairie night. However, Morton had just landed in Calgary that afternoon and had the thousand yard stare, from either jet-lag or acute culture shock. I reckoned if we were seriously going to fish in the morning we’d better just call it a day.
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