Sibbald…One building, 10 people and a Cow
The Middle of Nowhere: Sibbald Session
I had a week off when my agent called with a proposal that sounded like a punchline.
“Do you want to go to Sibbald?” he asked.
“Where?”
He started laughing. “It’s a speck on the map right on the Alberta-Saskatchewan border. Population: ten people and maybe a cow.”
He explained that because there wasn’t another town for three hours in any direction, that this tiny outpost was a goldmine. The local pub brought in dancers as a rare treat for the farmers in the surrounding area. My adventurous spirit—the same one that landed me on a yacht in St. Maarten—didn’t hesitate. I packed my bags and said, “Bring on the cow.”
Prairie Magic
He wasn’t exaggerating. Sibbald was a skeletal collection of a few houses and a single, weathered building that served as the community’s heartbeat and literally, one cow. But what the town lacked in infrastructure, the people made up for in soul. The owner and his girlfriend greeted me with that immediate, unpretentious warmth you only find in the deep country. I even made a four-legged friend—a black lab cross who became my shadow for the weekend.
Word of a “Feature” coming to town moved through the farmhouse telegraph faster than a summer storm. It was Easter weekend, usually a quiet time for the industry, but the pub was banging. Farmers and ranch hands rolled in from across the plains, their dusty trucks lining the gravel road.
I’ve said it before: I love country boys. They aren’t looking for a “monkey dance.” They are generous, genuine, and they appreciate the female form. I went through so much promotional material in two days that it felt like I’d worked a marathon week in a big-city club.
The Law of the Land
The trip wasn’t without its “contributions” to the province, however. On the long, flat stretch of highway leading out of town, I let my foot get a little too heavy. The road was a grey ribbon disappearing into an infinite horizon—the kind of “boring” that practically begs you to fly. They say it’s so flat that you can still see your dog running three days later if it ran away.
When the cherries and blues flashed in my rearview, I tried the classic move—a little eyelash-batting and a winning smile.
Result: Zero. The officer was a true professional. “I know what driving these roads are like,” he said, handing me the ticket. “But there are a lot of deer out here, and we wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
I looked at him, thinking about the packed house waiting for me back at the pub. “Of course not,” I thought. “I’m the entertainment!”
I didn’t get out of the fine, but I couldn’t resist a parting shot. “You should stop by the pub for a beer later,” I told him with a wink. He didn’t promise he would, but I’m fairly certain he knew exactly where the party was going to be.
Reflecting on the Contrast
There is something so grounded about going from the biggest high caliber venue in the big city to a gravel-road pub. It keeps the “sparkle” real.
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