My path to Humboldt has been an unlikely one. I never expected to be working in a small town. It's not that I've never spent time in small places - my parents are both from tiny Stewiacke, Nova Scotia and my grandmother still lives there. It's just that, at least in my imagination, journalism existed in big cities with big stories. I didn't give working in a rural area much thought until I got the offer to work at the Journal, just as I was finishing up my master's in journalism at Carleton University, in Ottawa. As I watched my classmates compete for unpaid internships at major dailies, the security of an actual job became more and more intriguing. Why go through all that stress and uncertainty when I could be gaining valuable experience and, lo and behold, actually getting paid?
The decision was made, and I was off.
I arrived in Humboldt tired and sore after the 35-hour drive from Ottawa. People always talk about how big Canada is, but you don't truly understand that until it takes you 20 hours just to drive through Ontario. I never thought I'd be so happy to leave a place behind.
There were trials and tribulations along the way. Dragging a trailer up steep hills in Lake Superior Provincial Park was an exercise in hope - hope that the engine wouldn't blow out and leave my little Chevy Cobalt tumbling down a hillside and crashing into one of the many frozen lakes I passed by. I nearly ran out of gas outside of White River, Ont., and wondered how long it would take to walk to the gas station.
Once I crossed the Manitoba border, I got my first glimpse at the prairie landscape. It was just a bit different from the ocean views I grew up with outside of Halifax, but it was beautiful all the same. I'm a bit of an amateur bird watcher, so I kept my eyes open and wasn't disappointed by the bald eagle perched in a tree on the side of the highway or the owl that swooped in front of my windshield and nearly caused an accident.
After a final overnight stay in Yorkton and the last of far too many fast food meals, I pulled up to my new place. A sense of relief was quickly replaced by the horrendous prospect of unpacking, one of life's greatest cruelties.
At least I made it, ready for whatever is to come.
When I was a kid I would sometimes sit in the back of my parents' car and tell everyone who would listen what I would be when I grew up. Prime minister, astronaut, NBA player - if I could dream it, I could do it, right? My height (5'8") doomed my hoop dreams. My butchering of the French language would make me the laughingstock of Parliament Hill. I'm scared of roller coasters and don't like flying, so blasting off into space seems like a non-starter.
In case you're wondering, no, small town reporter didn't come up during those conversations from the back seat. My eight-year-old self didn't know any better.
