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, Saskatchewan, 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!

6 Wheels North: Parting Ways

 

We arose at 5:30 to light precipitation.  According to Dan's weather app, it was supposed to stop by 7:00 or 8:00.  I've always said that I don't mind riding in the rain.  It can even be fun, in fact.  But having to pack up and start a day in the wet stuff is a bit of a downer.

But this time, we had one thing in our favor--a large, covered loading area!  We rolled the trikes underneath the roof, dried off the seats, and got to work.

We stretched out the prep time all the way to 7:30--but it was still raining.  Donning all our inclement weather gear, we hit the road.

For nearly 100 miles (most of the way to this gas station), the rain was fairly steady and at times quite heavy.  We might have pulled over for shelter at one point in particular--but there was none to be had.  Highway 2's junction with 264 was a good place to shake dry, fill up, and prepare for our side trip through Prince Albert National Park, less than ten miles away.

Finding a parking spot to share near the shore of Waskesiu Lake, we dismounted to take a short walk.

The lakeside resort was not packed, but the restaurant was busy enough that we opted not to take the time for a meal.  See our trikes near the end of the line?

We strolled out to the water instead, where the beach had recently been raked smooth.  This is far from the only lake in the park, but it's the one nearest the paved road.

The mosquitoes were out in force, however, so we soon returned to the cycles, replaced our helmets, and sped away.

Attempting to head south, I mistakenly led us northwest for a while--before I realized the lake was on the wrong side.  Correcting my mistake, we returned to the first place we'd parked and tried again.  That took us to the single-lane section you see above, where the lake is on the right-hand side, as it should be--to the west.

If memory serves, between the previous photo and this one, we came across a huge bull elk--right near the yellow line!  Its antlers rose well above the level of my head, so I gave him the widest berth possible and didn't stop.

Looks like Dan made it past him too.  Soon the lanes merged together again, and we continued on toward the southern exit--maybe 20 miles farther.

Just past the guard station, we removed what was left of our rain gear.  Normally, entrance to the park is $10, but for some reason, it was a free day, and we hadn't had to pay!  And no, we weren't reentering.  There was just no good place to park on the other side. 

Once back on Highway 2, we were only 20 minutes from Prince Albert, a small city of around 40,000.  While getting gas, I asked if there was a place nearby where we might get a slice of pie.  The previous year, Dan and I had done that before parting ways after a short ride together in the Columbia Gorge.  It seemed like a good thing to turn into a tradition!  Shananigan's Coffee & Dessert Bar was highly recommended--and we were there within minutes.  

Unfortunately, they didn't have pie.  But my blueberry cheesecake and Dan's huge cinnamon roll were more than worthy substitutes!

After saying our goodbyes, we rode together for five more miles--to the junction with Highway 11.  Dan took that southwest toward Saskatoon and Alberta--and his home in Oregon.  I continued on 2 (more directly south) toward Moose Jaw and North Dakota--and my home in South Dakota.

Somewhere in the proverbial middle of nowhere, I stopped again for fuel.  It sure seemed odd to have the only Ryker at the pump.  After a week of riding north on six wheels, I was riding south on only three.  But the adventure hadn't ended when we'd parted.  For hours, I'd been fighting bad broken-up pavement and a succession of construction zones.  I looked forward to getting nearer to Regina, where conditions would surely be better.

And they were.  I skirted around the southwest edge of the city on a pristine beltway, then took 6, then 39 southeast to the much smaller town of Weyburn, Saskatchewan.

Arriving at 7:30, I got a surprisingly well-priced room at the first motel I tried (no reservation).  After unloading, I walked next door to McDonald's.  Never my first choice (even for fast food), the convenient location was impossible to resist.  But this time, the food was stunningly impressive.  I had a limited-time-only Creamy Parmesan & Bacon Quarter Pounder--delicious!

Back in my room, I checked in with Dan.  He'd made it to Kindersley, SK--about half an hour shy of the Alberta border.  I'd ridden nearly 500 miles that day--and had only 450 more to go on my final one.

As I talked with my father and then my wife on the phone, multiple cargo trains rumbled by.  Dad and I had discussed border crossing options, and I'd decided to go for the one directly south--into Fortuna, North Dakota.  Unbelievably, there are six within 100 miles of Weyburn!

I turned off the light at 10:30.  I like trains, but it was a good thing I had my earplugs.

6 Wheels North: Stanley Mission

When we pulled into the parking lot of our motel in La Ronge, SK, there was only one other vehicle there.  We knew we were early for checking in but entered the office to assess the situation.

"If you can give me 30 minutes," a kind and accommodating woman replied to our inquiry, "I'll have your room ready."

"Not a problem at all," I responded, "especially if we can just hang out here in your air-conditioned lobby.  It's hot out there!"

Our request was granted, and the woman's time estimate was right on.  Within the hour, we'd partially moved in and had a mid-day snack.  Deciding it might be best to keep most of our gear on the trikes (for rear wheel traction and emergency supplies), we were soon riding through Lac La Ronge Provincial Park just north of town.

The pavement for the first 20 miles or so was brand new and pristine!  Views consisted primarily of water, small islands, and shoreline vegetation--though much of that had recently burned.

At the pavement's edge, the surface turned to hard-packed, chemically treated gravel--with a scattering of loose stuff on top in places.  It was quite ideal for the Rykers and their riders!  But it only lasted for eight miles.

What followed (after a junction where we'd turned east) were the worst washboards of our entire trip!  It was better in a few places, but most of the remaining 22 miles was slow-going and/or excruciating.

Pictured above is probably the best stretch, but you had to watch out for potholes.

Our goal was a First Nations village only 50 miles from La Ronge.  At the end of the road and the edge of the water, it was an easily justifiable destination.  But getting there would be a little tougher than I'd expected.  Shouldn't have been a surprise, right?

But we did make it to Stanley Mission!  Founded in 1851, the community was named for the English manor house of an Anglican missionary's wife.

I'd known there was some kind of lodging here (building on the left), but since I could find very little about it, I'd arranged to stay in La Ronge instead.

Neither of us needed fuel, but we pulled over at the "Gas Bar" so Dan could empty one of his jerrycans into his tank.  Its mount had become loose on the extremely rough road, and he wanted to take the weight out of it.

Soon we were descending the final bit to the water's edge.  Notice the white structure on the far side of the Churchill River--to the left of the smaller island.  It will appear in the next three photos as well.

Down at the boat launch, we encountered a group who'd just returned from the opposite shore.  A woman holding a covered plate of food said it was for her 90-year-old relative.  She was bringing it home from "the festival," which she said we were welcome to attend.

We walked out to the end of the pier and considered it briefly.  

It would be cool to visit the Holy Trinity Anglican Church.  Completed in 1860, it's the oldest building in Saskatchewan.  One of the water taxis would take us.

But we decided against it--probably our loss.  Hard to leave our loaded machines unattended in unfamiliar territory, I suppose.  And it was hard to say how long the excursion might take.

The weather looked like it might be turning as well.  And there were still 50 miles of mostly unpaved road between us and shelter.

We rode up from the riverbank and parked in a large gravel lot between another church (above) and a grocery store (behind me).  Dan went in and found himself a snack, while I zipped up the vents in my jacket.  Looked like our return trip was going to be cooler (and maybe wetter) than our outbound one had been.

While there, an official of the town drove up and began to chat about our Can-Am trikes.  He'd never seen their kind before.  Oh, and I neglected to mention that the woman at the boat dock had said the same thing.  Like up in Kinoosao, we may have accomplished another Ryker first ascent!

As is usually the case, we rode a little faster back to the "barn."  But I still stopped for a few photo ops that I'd missed the first time.

And the clouds held onto their moisture.

Dan passed me while I was stopped here...

But I caught him again and recaptured the lead before the end of the gravel.  It wasn't a race, of course--but a race might have looked quite similar.

Despite the washboards, it had been my most enjoyable stretch of the trip.  Guess I just ignored the pain.  Hopefully, Ryker had been able to do the same.  I hadn't heard any complaints.

When Dan arrived (not much later), we did a quick inspection for dragging parts (there were none) and rolled back onto the pavement.

Twenty-some minutes later and after a short cruise through town, we dismounted in front of the Subway sandwich shop.  I know.  Fast food?

But this one has a waterfront view!  After ordering our subs, we grabbed a table at one of the unobstructed picture windows and began reviewing the day's events.  Had all that really happened in only 300 miles?!

After leaving the Subway, we cruised through a lakeside park, then stopped for gas near our motel.  While there, an upper middle-aged man on a scooter rode up to me and introduced himself as "Barefoot Mike."  He'd been living in La Ronge since the 70s, he said, and had never seen a Ryker.  Of course, Rykers have only been in existence since 2019--though their larger siblings (Spyders) have been around since 2007.  Still, the fact that ours were the first he'd encountered was somehow gratifying to know.  I gave him my card, so he might be reading this account now.  Hope you had a great summer, Barefoot Mike!

Oh, and he was wearing flip flops.

Turning off at the motel, there was a man having trouble with his SUV.  If I haven't stated it yet, Dan's handy with just about everything--and is always willing to help a stranger.  I believe the issue here was engine coolant related.  A few minutes of tinkering yielded positive results--at least positive enough so the guy could make it to a location that was more suitable for mechanic work.

When we pulled up to the Drifters Motel this time, there was much more activity.  Dan is backing into the spot in front of our room, just to the right of the office.  It was obviously an older building but had recently come under new management and received significant updates.  It made a perfect cyclers' stop-over, in fact.

After unloading, we walked to the store next door for dessert.  I had a Klondike Bar--seemed appropriate for a trip to the frozen north (even though it wasn't so frozen then).

Back at the room, we performed some light trike maintenance--tightened luggage rack bolts, checked oil levels, cleaned air intake screens and radiator grills.  I replaced my engine air filter with a new one I'd brought from home.  We weren't planning to take any more dusty roads, so I thought Ryker would enjoy the chance to breathe freely again.  The old filter wasn't terrible, but it was far from clean.

We each called home to update family on our progress, then turned out the light at 11:00.  The rains that had threatened earlier had never caught us, and wildfire smoke hadn't been an issue either--unbelievable, really.  Incredibly, the entire trip had unfolded largely as planned.  We'd made it to each of the seven lodgings I'd reserved months in advance.  At some point the next day, Dan and I would part ways and head for our respective homes.  But for me, home was still 900 miles away.  Dan had several hundred more.  Guess the adventure wasn't over yet!