6 Wheels North: 5 Wheels South

 

I was up at 5:00 for my ninth and last day on the road.  After a hotel breakfast (pretty good) and the final loading of the trike, Weyburn, Saskeatchewan, was still covered in heavy fog.

I'd gotten off at 6:45 for the 50-mile run to the U.S. border.  But up until this point, it had been more of a crawl.  The fog was so thick that I'd had to keep well below the posted speed limit.  Continually checking my mirrors, I'd pulled over onto the shoulder each time I saw headlights behind me.  Evidently, I'd left town just before all the oilfield workers--and all the fields they were working in were to the south.  The big 4x4s weren't going much faster than I was, but I didn't want to hold them up--or end up as a hood ornament.

Here, the road had climbed onto a series of rolling hills--just high enough to see a little blue sky!

The sun that was poking through in spots really lit up the green grass.  It was quite the scene!

And up ahead it was looking much better.

I pulled up to the border post just 15 minutes before they opened--right behind a lone tanker truck.  But as you can see, conditions on the other side now looked as bad or worse than they'd ever been!

I dismounted and went for a stroll to pass the time and stretch my legs.  To my right was the only non-official building in sight.  The Port of Oungre, SK, certainly had a remote, frontier-like feel.

And it didn't look like it would be a terribly busy Friday morning.

But wait!  Traffic was picking up.  My little trike was about to be sandwiched between two 18-wheelers.  It really is small, isn't it?  But I had the maneuverability advantage.

The Customs and Border Protection agent occupied his station right on time, and after the usual questions, I was permitted to reenter my own country with very little inconvenience.  Of course, there was very little fanfare as well.  To me, it always seems like there should be cheering after I successfully ride to the hinterlands and back.  But I normally have to provide that myself--and do.

I did get an official welcoming into North Dakota, however, by way of this snazzy photo-realistic sign!  The subscript says, "Be Legendary."  I try.

Turning east onto Highway 5, I rolled through tiny Fortuna, then (eight miles later) rejoined 85 South for the 50-mile run to Williston.  There, I couldn't resist stopping at this Love's station--founded and headquartered in my native Oklahoma.

The fog had persisted to various degrees, and the sky was still far from clear.  In addition, there was the smell of smoke in the air, but the fog made it impossible to tell where the fire was.

By the time I reached the overlook above Theodore Roosevelt National Park's North Unit (south of Watford City), visibility had improved dramatically!  I pulled over just as a sport biker was strapping up his helmet to depart.  We waved, and he was off--but not before I'd noticed his Saskatchewan plate.  Perhaps we'd meet again.

These are North Dakota's badlands.  Not as famous (or as bad) as South Dakota's, they're still worth a visit.  This is the same route that Dan and I had taken north from Rapid City, but I hadn't gotten any photos then.

Perhaps 60 miles later (not far south of Belfield), I caught up with and passed the SK biker.  He'd stopped on the shoulder and was donning his rain gear.  There was a menacing cloud ahead, but I knew we were about to turn west for a few miles.  I thought we just might skirt around it, so I merely zipped up my jacket vents on the fly.

And for the most part, we did (skirt around it).  I stopped here in Amidon to unzip those same vents, shortly after the storm had passed through, and temps were on the rise again.  The photo above is looking back the way I'd just come.

This one shows the view ahead--no more rain on the horizon.  I was about to twist around and check for oncoming traffic (before pulling out) when a now familiar sportbike zipped past me.  We were playing leapfrog--and I'd just been overtaken.

Twenty minutes later, I rolled up to the pumps at a gas station in Bowman--just as the Saskatchewanian was leaving.  But as I dismounted, I noticed that he'd pulled over to the edge of the parking area and was taking off his rain gear.  When I finished refueling, I rode over and joined him.

We talked for several minutes.  A nice younger guy, he was taking advantage of a 3-day break from work for his first foray into the Black Hills of South Dakota.  In addition to good roads, he was particularly interested in good places to eat.  I gave him a few recommendations in each category.  Wishing each other well, I took my turn in the lead--and we were off again.

Fifteen miles later, I pulled over to get a shot of South Dakota's welcome sign.  My newest riding buddy waved as he leapt over me for the last time.  I never saw him again.

Somewhat farther on, I stopped again to capture this stunning panorama on "film."  It's pretty cool to return to your home state after thousands of miles and still find it impossible to resist pulling over for yet another photo!  As my old buddy Dave loves to quote from the Psalms, "The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places!"

I jumped from 85 onto 79 at Castle Rock, then continued dropping south into Sturgis--120 miles from the North Dakota border.  The 7,000-population town is a pleasant place to visit--outside of the 10-day Rally each August.  On this particular day, though, the best thing about it was that it's only 30 minutes from home!

After 450 miles that day, I rolled to a stop inside my garage at 4:30 and set the parking brake.  Yes, Ryker's got one of those.  Via the magic of GPS tracking, Kim had known precisely when to expect me--and had a hot dinner of red beans and rice and cornbread ready to serve up as soon as I'd taken off my boots.  It was delicious!

Originally an unrealized secondary goal on a Far North moto excursion from Oregon in 2015, the quest to reach Reindeer Lake had taken 11 years to complete.  Two other cycles had come and gone since then, but Ryker had proven itself a capable mount for the 3,118-mile journey (from South Dakota, this time).  Even 425 miles of oft-horrendous unpaved road had not been able to stop it! 

I can't wrap this up without a final nod to my good friend and riding partner.  After nearly two decades of regularly cycling into Canada alone, it was an honor and a pleasure to share the adventure with you, Dan--not to mention all the accolades for piloting the first (unofficial) Can-Am Rykers to Kinoosao and Stanley Mission, Saskatchewan!