Driving on the secondary highways in Alberta, I am finding that time and distance lose their relativity. The roads just go on and on and on, never ending. And I have found serenity in the continuity.

In Vancouver, a 45 minute drive often means I can cross over a couple bridges, drive around several hills and through countless neighbourhoods, but only travel about 50 kilometres. Out here, I see nothing but the fields and fences zipping by. Maybe some cows or bales of hay to break up the landscape.

Traffic is non-exsistant. Other commuters and travellers a rarity. Tumble weeds are my only companions, until they roll in my path and shatter against the windshield.

There are derelict homesteads, signs that the road was once more than a thoroughfare from one point to another typically a hundred or more kilometres away. Now the leaning and windowless abodes are signs for me to move on my way and continue down the highway.