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Beyond the edge and over the brink

From This Corner

Sometimes we’re a bit too dedicated. In our quest to make our newspapers the best we can, we occasionally go beyond the edge and tumble right over the brink.

Such was the case last week. Keith Anderson had submitted a column on Black Knot Disease in chokecherry bushes for his Roots, Shoots and Suckers slot. He submitted a photo too, but it was found to be copyright protected.

Jayne Foster wondered where we could get a photo and I piped right up. Sure, I said, there’s a big patch of infested bushes right at the trailhead of the Battleford Trans Canada Trail on Riverbend Crescent. I volunteered to get the shot.

Unfortunately I let a couple of balmy days slip by without remembering to do so. Finally, Wednesday, when there was a nasty nip in the air, I decided I’d better fulfill my promise.

Wednesdays start at 7 a.m. in the newsroom, and that morning I was even more disorganized and confused than usual. I had been wearing my snicky rubber boots during the warm weather and, not noticing the dip in the mercury, I slipped those on as I went out the door. I had also misplaced my gloves, and again counted on the warm temperature to make that oversight a slight inconvenience.

By afternoon, when I set out on my quest, there was a brisk breeze and my truck thermometer read -7C.

I parked across from the trail and sure enough, dead ahead was a huge patch of Black Knot Disease infected chokecherries. This was going to be easy.

As any former farm girls knows, rubber boots are not known for their traction, but as I carefully walked across the street onto the trail, I seemed to be overcoming that shortcoming.

This part of the trail drops quickly and steeply into the river valley. There are two large metal posts at the top of the trail to prevent ATVS and other vehicles from accessing it. Those posts quickly proved to be my salvation, as 10 steps in I suddenly realized I was on sheer ice and I was virtually paralyzed by my very attractive, but useless rubber boots.

I made a quick grab for the post and inevitably went down in a slow motion sprawl. I sat there for a moment assessing my situation. Sliding all the way to the bottom was a real danger if I let go of my trusty post, so my poor aching bare fingers hung on tight. I eventually pulled myself to a sitting position, and with an arm hooked around the pole, snapped the photo. Hey, I wasn’t going to go through all this and not get the shot!

What to do? I finally surmised that my socks, or if necessary my bare feet with those nasty mid-winter calluses that catch on your socks and give you the heebiejebbies, would have better traction than the boots. So, still hanging onto the post, I slipped off the boots and tossed them in the general direction of my truck. Carefully using the post to pull myself upright I found the socks were going to do the job and was able to get back to safety.

My fingers spent some time transferring cold into my armpit, but I really was none the worse for wear. While I was still trapped on that ice berg I couldn’t help but remember how John Cairns fell on ice outside our building a couple of years ago, breaking his arm and keeping him off work for six weeks. “Don’t fall,” is now a frequent admonishment sent his way when he goes out. I should have been listening, too.

It’s what my wise old dad would have called a fool’s errand, but hey, I got the photo! It’s not a close up, but it will have to do.