First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
It was supposed to be a quick weekend getaway in mid-August. Just me, some friends, and three days of live music, denim and questionable dance moves at the Country Thunder music festival in Calgary. A little escape from real life. Boots on, brain off.
Naturally I bought a cowboy hat. Not just any hat – a perfectly broken-in beauty from Lammle’s Western Wear in the city. It made me feel like I truly belonged. I wore it all weekend, sun-soaked and beaming, channelling my inner rancher even though I’m a 28-year-old business owner from a tiny town about two hours north of Toronto – the kind of place where I actually do live with goats, though they’re more likely to eat my car manual than help me herd cattle.
By Monday, I should’ve been back home, earbuds in, sipping ginger ale on a flight, hat tucked carefully under the seat in front of me. But Air Canada had other plans. My return flight was cancelled. Rebooking options were laughably bad. The remaining seats cost more than a used horse, and were considerably less comfortable.
Canadian tourism saw stronger summer bookings as travellers boycott the U.S.
My sister and our friends, who all live in Golden, B.C., had the luxury of driving west together after the festival. A scenic, shared road trip through the mountains. Me? I did what any mildly desperate but resourceful person would do: I rented a cargo van. Not an SUV. Not even a normal car. A full-sized, contractor-grade, boxy white cargo van. It rattled, it groaned, it had the aerodynamics of a toaster, but it was cheap(ish), available and had four tires. I tossed my bag in the back, placed the cowboy hat carefully on the passenger seat like a co-pilot, climbed in and pointed myself east.
Leaving Calgary, the Rockies faded into the rearview like a movie backdrop and the Prairies opened up before me – a golden sprawl of wheat under a sky so huge it felt like the world had no ceiling. I rolled the windows down, turned up the country playlist and tried not to think about the fact that I was voluntarily driving across an entire country … in a glorified delivery truck.
Saskatchewan tested me. It was all long, flat roads, cows, grain elevators and the creeping realization that I was very much alone. I started talking out loud just to hear a voice. I began to understand why truckers have CB radios and emotional support snacks. By Regina, I was laughing at my own jokes and arguing with the GPS like we were in a toxic relationship.
This summer, I finally explored the most remote parts of my own province
One night, completely exhausted, I pulled into a truck stop and set up a “bed” in the back – which, in cargo van terms, means a Walmart air mattress and one regretfully thin blanket. Just as I started to doze off, I realized the truck next to me was full of cattle. Mooing. Relentlessly. All. Night. Long. Around 3 a.m., somewhere between consciousness and madness, I started laughing out loud. No, this wasn’t how I wanted to get home but it was definitely memorable.
Manitoba greeted me with windshield-drenching rain and gas station coffee that somehow tasted like both cardboard and hope. Ontario stretched on forever. Forests. Lakes. More forests. Every curve in the road felt like it had to be the one that revealed Toronto – but instead, I found another bend, another pine tree, another existential crisis.
And then, somewhere near Thunder Bay, something strange happened: I stopped for a snack and ran into a vendor I recognized from the festival. One of those cheerful people who sell kettle corn or cowboy hats in 30-degree heat. We stared at each other for a second, that weird out-of-context recognition kicking in. They were heading back to Toronto, too. In a real vehicle. With extra seats. Could I have hitched a ride? Maybe. Did I ask? Of course not. I was too deep into this cargo van odyssey. I had a cowboy hat and something to prove.
Life’s a beach in Gimli, Manitoba’s ‘Pearl of the Prairies’
Finally, three days later, Toronto’s skyline appeared like the answer to a riddle I didn’t know I was solving.
This wasn’t just a backup plan. It was a weird, loud, dusty, cow-filled, rain-soaked, slightly deranged reminder that when things fall apart – when flights vanish and plans crumble – I can still find my way home. Even if it means crossing five provinces, solo, in a cargo van. With festival dust in my boots and a cowboy hat riding shotgun.
Emily Roberts lives in Sebright, Ont.
