Alberta’s Centennial Ride

The Last of the Native Prairie

By Terri Mason

There was no doubt you were entering a military zone. Arrivals were ushered into the registration tent for the orientation speech rapped out by a no-nonsense soldier.

We could hear the wind, yet the tight canvas didn’t move. The participants didn’t move either, perhaps a little stunned with the potential dangers that were being described; unexploded armoury, rattlesnakes, unexploded bombs, cactus, unexploded bullets, dehydration and disorientation, don’t pick anything up -Welcome to Suffield, folks. Have a good time.

Two years in the planning, the five-day, 100-km Alberta Centennial Trail Ride saw over 800 riders and 100 wagons begin the journey over a fraction of the last large block of unaltered Dry Mixed-Grass Prairie left in the world.

Pie shaped camps were marked by coloured flags and at each location, tied horses noisily settled their pecking order over taut picket lines.

The next day in front of the Black camp, we witnessed the first morning, bronc-to-breakfast rodeo. Normally sedate horses firecrackered across the prairie. A paint, still tied to a trailer, spun completely out of control. He was loaded into the trailer. I don’t think he ever came out. By the first watering stop the majority had buddied up and settled down.

Dr. Warren Webber, DVM, said the dramatic behavior change had nothing to do with the feed. “Compared to grain,” Warren explained, “there’s not enough energy in those cubes to get them wound up. It was just overwhelming to suddenly be in a herd of 800,” he concluded.

I traveled in a wagon pulled by a snappy four-up of black percherons with Fred and Jan McDiarmid and Tom Wraight. Leigh (Good Looking Young Guy) McDiarmid rode alongside. Soon Tom bailed off the wagon and onto his saddle horse, gone visiting. Sometimes Fred would pass me the lines.

Crest a hill and you could see forever; dip below the horizon and you disappear-with potentially dire consequences. Famed outfitter Chuck Hayward took a slight detour and ended up in range of a live fire exercise. “I thought those booms were getting loud,” he commented dryly.

Every night had a show. Ben Crane, cowboy poets, range-riding women who could belt out a tune and a great Johnny Cash impersonator.

The day we spent in camp Lorne Cole guided an interpretive walk and the sea of grass became individual plants; bunch grass, spear grass, winter fat, blue gramma. Native grasses that sustained a billion buffalo; the last of the native prairie.

The camp was a constant hub of activity. Bareback, haltered horses carried kids to the water trough, to the showers and as close to the camp kitchen as they dared. It was a mobile town of old friends, new friends and like-minded people. Each day was a new adventure, and each night the crimson sun was chased down by the harvest moon.

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