Wednesday, May 30th, 2012
It is eight-thirty in
the morning, and the brown and tan striped hillside across from the hotel is
basked in sunlight. There is nobody in this whole building but us.
The last customers
left at eleven last night, not long after we walked up the flight of creaking
stairs to our room at the Rosedeer Hotel of which the Last Chance Saloon is a
part. There weren’t many customers to begin with on this cold and windy Tuesday
night in May that brought us here.
Almost on the spur of
the moment we had decided to take a short holiday between seeding and spraying:
the weather was nice, and we had time, which isn’t always the case at the end
of May. We gave up our plans to explore the Whaleback region in southern
Alberta because two days didn’t seem to be sufficient for the long drive, and
Jasper, the next destination that came to mind, was discarded as well: it
simply is too early in the year still for mountain hiking, since we weren’t
eager to hike in the snow.
Where, then, could we
go to find a landscape and flora different from home, yet close enough that we
didn’t have to spend too much valuable time on driving? The badlands
around Drumheller immediately came to mind, only a four-hour drive away, yet so far removed from
what usually surrounds us that they could be on another planet.
We had planned to set
up our tent in one of the campgrounds around Drumheller along the Red Deer
River, but the wind had blown steadily all through the afternoon, and when we
stepped out of the Tyrell Museum at 7:30 last night it still hadn’t eased off –
not very tempting to sleep in a tent, especially if we couldn’t make a fire to
sit by before going to bed.
Scanning the small
brochure we had taken with us at the museum to look for hotels or motels in the
area we came upon an article describing the charms of “The Last Chance Saloon”
in the nearby hamlet of Wayne. In the picture it looked as if a hotel was attached
to the saloon, and a phone call confirmed that this was indeed the case and
that, yes, we could have a room there for the night.
We followed Hwy. 10 until
about seven kilometers southeast of Drumheller, where we turned off to the
right into the narrow valley of the Rosebud River. When I read the description
of the road in the brochure I had somehow pictured something similar to our
drive to Torres del Paine: a winding road, one lane bridges, remote ... The
fact that it is only six kilometers to Wayne should have been enough to cure me
of that notion. I suppose it had something to do with the relative lateness of
the hour, also reminiscent of that memorable day in Argentina, and, maybe, the
strange landscape, the intriguing description, that seemed to turn this drive
into a small adventure.
The drive itself was
totally uneventful: the road, though narrow, was paved, the nine bridges we
crossed following the meandering little river in good repair and wide enough for almost any vehicle to cross, the atmosphere peaceful, with late
sunlight painting the hilltops a warm gold.
We could have easily
missed Wayne if it hadn’t been for the sign and the photo of the Last Chance
Saloon in the travel brochure: few houses are left of a community that once
counted 2000 when coal was still in demand, and the valley was home to people that
had come from as far away as Eastern Europe and the UK to find work in one of several
coal mines. Now, the population is at 27, up from 15 at its low.
Two cars were parked
in front, but the dimly lit, long and narrow saloon stretched almost empty. Fred, the owner, greeted us at
the bar and showed us our room: just through a sliding door into the tiny lobby,
and up a set of narrow wooden stairs, room no. 4, of seven on the first floor altogether.
They all shared a bathroom and toilet at the end of the hallway, though we did
have a sink in our room with its old fashioned brass bed, small table and two
chairs, a row of hooks on the wall and a small clock radio. The elaborate scrolled
baseboard vent was most certainly an original feature of the room, as was the
vertical-slider wooden window, requiring an extra little heave to open it.
Everything was spotlessly clean, but obviously in need of renovation in the
longer run if it was to appeal to travelers used to more luxurious
surroundings.
But maybe whoever
chooses to stay here – and there are many during the summer – belongs, like us,
to a crowd that appreciates the uniqueness of the place, the feeling of
authenticity. We had all we needed, after all, including running cold and warm
water – and since we were indeed the only hotel guests last night we didn’t
have to stand in line to get to the bathroom either.
After we had taken
possession of our room we went back down to the saloon for a late supper and a
beer: draft beer is served in pint or quart sealers, has been ever since Fred
conceived of the idea when he cleaned out the basement of the hotel and found a
few boxes of sealers, left over from his mother’s canning days. If the weather
had been nicer and it had been earlier in the day, we might have made use of
the offer to grill a steak ourselves on one of the barbecues in the back yard;
instead, we were happy to be served a warm meal from the hotel’s kitchen.
While we waited we
studied the antiques displayed on the walls: many items related to the coal
industry past, like helmets with head lamps, picks, paper sacks used to sell
coal, 50 lbs per bag, advertisements for different coal companies, a band stand
in one corner, mounted hunting trophies – heads of antelope, moose, and bear - and an antique
piano that, as we read in the pamphlet Fred handed to us, gets played
regularly, just like the banjo and guitar hanging above it. Customers are
encouraged to use them all.
One other display is
worth mentioning: a framed area on the back wall sporting three bullet holes
and a revolver: as the story goes, three men once ordered drinks but refused to pay for them, and
the bartender fired three shots into the wall over their heads. This was as
late as the 1970s – the frontier spirit obviously alive and well even then.
We nodded to the two
couples still enjoying their drinks and said goodnight to Fred around ten last
night. He explained that the door to the saloon would be locked, but the lobby
was open all night so that we could get in and out. “I live right over there”,
he said, pointing out the front window to a house nearby. “... if you need help”,
seemed to be the silent implication – though maybe it was only the
strange sensation of being in another time, the remoteness of the place that made me hear that.
I heard him lock up
some time later, but if anything happened during the night we did not notice it.
In fact, I slept like a baby, my sleep undisturbed by dreams of dark men
engaged in fist fights, the kind of activity that gave the Last Chance Saloon
the nickname “Bucket of Blood”. It could hardly have been any quieter.
That, I’m sure, will
be much different tonight. A group of about 50 motor bikers is expected to roll
in, which is nothing unusual: about 4000 of them visit the Last Chance Saloon
during the season, plus many other adventure seekers like us.
We, however, will be on our way
shortly to explore a few more sights of the area, and hopefully go for a hike
in one of the canyons.
