They marched down Saskatchewan Avenue, past Elgin Street and the evangelical church, past the people on the sidewalks who stood in silence.
They marched, in rows of four, past the sign welcoming travelers to Quill Lake: "The goose capital of Saskatchewan", it proclaimed in big blue letters.
They marched, in their red berets and wide-brimmed hats, past empty streets and under skies that threatened rain.
They marched, conservation officers and Mounties and police, to the funeral of Justin Knackstedt, one of their own.
Justin Knackstedt, 23 year-old conservation officer, killed by an alleged drunk driver while directing traffic at the scene of an accident. The facts are as blunt as they are raw. Knackstedt was the first conservation officer killed in the line of duty in Saskatchewan since 1997. Maybe that's what drew all those Mounties and police officers to Quill Lake, marching to the community hall and an overflow crowd at the funeral. They came from Newfoundland and British Columbia and of course Saskatchewan, drawn to this tiny village by a shared sense of loss.
They were called to a halt just before the entrance to the hall, where a large tent had been erected outside to shelter the dozens of people who simply couldn't fit inside. As they stopped, a complete and total silence fell over the street, if not the whole village. The wind rustling through the trees and the cries of blackbirds were all that broke the heavy stillness.
"This town hasn't seen anything like this in years," one woman whispered as she watched the procession march by.
There were many reasons to grieve, not the least of which was the perfect match between Knackstedt and the job he loved.
"Sometimes conservation officers get into this line of work by accident," said Kerry Wrishko, a compliance manager for conservation officers in the Saskatoon area. "Not Justin. He was in it for the right reasons. He knew what he wanted to do, to be a part of protecting Saskatchewan's fish and wildlife."
That dedication was obvious on May 31, the night Knackstedt died. Before stopping to help the RCMP direct traffic, Knackstedt had been on his way to check fishing licences at Blackstrap Provincial Park. It was a regular task on a regular day.
Just eight days later, Knackstedt was laid to rest, a victim of cruel circumstance. It was the worst kind of death - one without obvious answers or explanations.
The funeral began at one in the afternoon, as private an event as it could be. At least 20 officers from the procession, unable to find room inside, lined the entrance to the hall, ramrod straight and at attention. Other people stood under trees and listened as the service was broadcast from speakers set up outside.
As the service continued, onlookers began to drift away, in ones and twos. They slipped off quietly, careful not to break the silence of the day. Even as the rare car rumbled by on gravel roads, the streets of Quill Lake seemed frozen in time. It was as if the village itself had stopped.
A town-wide garage sale had been scheduled for that day, but it seemed as though no purchases would be made in that early afternoon. Open garage doors beckoned, but no one was there to sift through the piles of books and clothes.
To travel the streets of Quill Lake that afternoon was to experience a town seemingly engulfed in silence. Main Street was packed with cars, parked diagonally in the small-town fashion, but no one was in sight.
A walk down Saskatchewan Avenue, past the curling rink and the closed streets, brought one further and further away from what seemed to be the only sound, the soft words of the funeral coming through the speakers. To the left was the highway. Cars sped by, passing this quiet place in mere seconds. Most of the drivers would have been oblivious to the pall cast over this dot on the map. The village had become an island of grief, lost in an ocean of pain.
At the end of the street it's a quick right and into the Co-op parking lot, where the officers had massed together only an hour before. For the traffic whirring by on the highway, the big red sign of the Co-op is a welcome one, a place where you can get gas for $1.34 a litre. Not on that day, though, or at least not then.
Taped to the glass of the front door was a handwritten sign. Its message was simple and plastered on the front doors of businesses all over town.
"Closed for funeral."
