Too hot, I thought to myself.The sun brought it’s dry wrath upon the desert sands of the Valley the day I left for Quesnel. For eight hours, the sky gleamed an azure hue above the massive craggy mountains, bringing life to the seemingly dead landscape. Sage bushes dotted the dusty hills and rocky mountainsides, but I never saw a single tumbleweed. Wasn’t hot enough, I figured. I really didn’t understand how that was possible.
The heat was sweltering. I heard people from all age groups sigh and pant as the sun heated up the Greyhound bus, cooking us. As people shed their layers to reveal sweat-stained underclothing, all I could think of were onions, as the smell that marinated us and stuck to our clothes was suspiciously similar. The air around me was thick from the heat, and just looking at the other passengers made me feel sticky and in desperate need of a shower. The overworked wheels made a constant whirring sound, never really allowing me to sleep, and bringing up large amounts of dust that dirtied the sun that came through the tinted windows. Any attempt to sleep by using my arm as a pillow was shot down, and I didn’t wish to lean my seat back, either. People were behind me, and they were sleeping peacefully. My legs were fully exposed to the rough, itchy fabric that was the seat cushion, making me seethe with anger.
I wanted to change my clothing, but I couldn’t with my perfumed, sweater-clad, elderly sitting-partner having the freedom of turning her head from the wonders of the desert outside to the uncomfortable, itchy teenager beside her. I resorted to putting my coat under my legs. Not ten minutes later, however, the azure of the desert hid itself behind a thick curtain of gray, freezing all below it. The sweat on my body cooled down, freezing the ever-living hell out of me, but I had to chose between itchy legs or frozen arms. Goosebumps covered my flesh for an extra five hours before I stepped off the bus to cover my shoes in the dust of the sleepy town of Quesnel.