Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
armed myself with enough spray-on DEET to poison a whole village. That is to say, I was
happy, and ready to bypass all this man-made nature and find my scenic mine-overlook.
Making my way over a small wooden footbridge that spanned a swampy inlet, I was
steered southward along the east shore of the lake by a thick forest of young trees on the
left. A wooden bench, with grass growing up between the boards of its seat, faced the wa-
ter. Silence reigned, except for the gentle rustle of the breeze and the constant sound of
cannons. I had the place to myself.
But the farther I went down the path, the more the Crane Lake experience started to
chafe. All this had been put here on purpose—
sculpted,
as Don had said. It was too neat.
Too self-contained. Halfway down the east side of the lake, I turned to face the dense
thicket of young trees that hemmed in the path. From a conspiracy-theory point of view, I
reasoned, the very impenetrability of the forest here made it all the more likely that there
was something interesting on the other side, perhaps something spectacular, or even hellish.
Ten seconds in, I had lost sight of the lake and the path, crashing through the trees,
pushing branches out of the way, plowing through thick spiderwebs that collected on my
face-tent. After a few more minutes of bushwhacking, I began to doubt that this was such a
good idea. Everywhere I looked, the world looked the same: crowded stands of tall young
trees closing in. I wasn't even sure which direction I had come from. I concentrated on the
fantasy of breaking through the trees at the top of a magnificent cliff, looking out over the
mine, trucks rumbling to and fro.
I saw light in the distance, through the trees, and went toward it, crossing a small clear-
ing, then plunging back into thick overgrowth and more trees. I jumped a small ditch or
stream, heading toward what seemed like a large, open area. It was close. I climbed a small
rise of high ground, and it gave way like mud, my foot sinking down into it. I hopped for-
ward, pulling my foot out, and saw sky ahead. Readying a mental fanfare, I broke through
the tree line.
There was no vista. No overlook. No oil sands. Instead, I found myself standing on the
edge of a cozy little wetland, swampy water winking in the sun.
Crap!
The way was utterly blocked by this revolting picture of nature in repose. I turned back
in disgust. It was the sinister hand of Suncor at work, several moves ahead of me, drawing
me in with the siren song of bird-deterrent cannons—and the drone of distant machinery, if
I wasn't imagining it—only to throw wetlands in my path.
And now I was lost. Half-blind and overheating inside the face-tent, I walked in what I
hoped was the direction of the lake, branches tearing at me. The mosquitoes circled, crack-
