Steel Horse Rover

Edmonton(ish), AB
5,064 km

As I rode from Maidstone to my current location, just outside Edmonton, the land began to transition from straight, flat, empty prairie to more curvy, undulating countryside resembling a flowing, patchwork quilt with patches alternating between golden brown and varying hues of green all stitched together with clumps of trees and hedges.

I have also become aware of an intoxicating, sweet scent eminating from the fields as I rumble along the highway. Is it clover? Lavender? Ah — I’ve got it: You know when you take your car through an automatic carwash; and you select the “Tri-Colour Shampoo” option; and you forget to close the car’s air vents (if you haven’t, and want to get full effect of this post, run out and do this now, before continuing… still reading? Come on, get going… back now? Great; let’s continue)? THAT’s what it smells like!

What’s this got to do with Eskimos?

Weeelllll, the hotel I am staying at just so happens to be the hotel The Edmonton Eskimos are staying at during spring training. So, there are Eskimos everywhere: Eskimos on the sofas in the lounge; Eskimos on the computers; Eskimos in the elevators; Eskimos in the lobby…

Now, this week is the last week of draft before the real training starts; and it’s a critical week because some career-altering decisions will be made as to which of the recruits make the cut and join the team. Up to now, they’ve been practising and training hard; but they are also being assessed. This is the big league (well, the Canadian big league), baby; and this is the last sprint to make an impression.

The guys are nervous; and rightly so. To be sure, there’s a lot of bravado and testosterone here; but there’s definitely concern.

Riding up in the elevator with one prospect, I ask, “So how’s it going over there?” (they’re training at the stadium next door). The kid looks at me, surprised at first, that I’ve asked (who am I?). His expression eases a bit; and he smiles; but the angst is obvious.

“I don’t know,” he says, looking at the bottom of the elevator door as it opens at his floor. “We’ll see. I hope I make it.”

Then, he’s gone.

Another source of anxiety is rental housing; and much of the banter in the lounge revolves around who has found a place to live in the area. I’m a bit puzzled by this–these are the Edmonton Eskimos; I would have thought finding an apartment would be the least of their worries. I asked Tory, one of the scouts, about this. He said it’s because there isn’t a lot of time available for apartment hunting. Ahhh… Now I get it. As any renter knows, finding a decent place can easily consume a few hours per day. Between the meetings and the training, these guys are working all day.

What about after they get back to the hotel, after practising? Eh, I’ve seen them when they get in; and I can tell they’re tired. If I were in their cleats, would I want to go into town to meet with a prospective landlord after training all day? Not bloody likely. That said, I give them full marks for using the technology. That’s why they’re using the computers (and tablets and mobiles) — they’re on kijiji! (in addition to keeping in touch with their families)

I have to say, having spent a couple of days with this football club — not that we were paling around; but one can’t help to get to know them just a bit because they were everywhere –, they are a respectable bunch of guys — friendly; courteous; respectful; tough; big (really big). I told them so when I left this morning; wished them all the best this season. No group hug, though.

Today, I’m heading to Calgary where I will meet with some bikers who have been to The North Country and connect with relatives I haven’t seen since I was a kid.

Oh, yeah; and The Blackhawks won The Stanley Cup and Donald Trump is running for president. Yawn.

Saskatoon, SK – Maidstone, SK
4,592 km

Short ride today given rain and high winds blowing across the prairies — and the fact that there’s a campground here.

Look up prairie town in dictionary, and I’m sure you’ll find a reference that says something like, “See Maidstone.” It’s a dusty place (the dozen or so streets are mostly paved with dirt) with an RCMP outpost and two restaurants to choose from: Sue and Lou’s; or Cindy’s (I had dinner at Sue + Lou’s and brunch (ginormous omlettes!) the next day at Cindy’s; and can vouch for the great tasting food and excellent service in both).

Jonie Mitchell live here for a bit as a kid. There’s a railway museum. Ummm… that’s about it.

I’d be remiss is I didn’t comment on the campground. Carole, who maintains the facility keeps it impecable. In fact, the “campground” is a manicured park; and I felt badly about having to stick tent pegs into it. Carole is cool. When I tell her I’m on my way to Alaska, she’s unimpressed. “Alaska! Alaska!” she laughs. “Everyone who comes through here is going to Alaska. What is it with you guys? What’s up there?” I don’t know, Carole. But I’m going to find out.

Manipogo Provincial Park, MB – Saskatoon, SK

4,342 km

Having fulfulled the quest to find Manipogo, it was back down South to pick up the Trans Canada where I’d left it.

But first, a splash-and-dash (fuel and coffee) in Rorkton, about 25 km from the park. I had used most of my fuel on the way to the park, yesterday — pretty remote location (as one would expect for a sea monster’s habitat); no gas stations. Rorkton was, I was told, the closest; and I was able to make it there before Gunther switched to reserve. I’m carrying two, 1-L cannisters of fuel

Detour through Rorkton for fuel — gas for Gunther and coffe for me

for these situations, which would give me an additional 30 km should I run out — enough for a situation like this; but I’m thinking of investing in a 5-L jerry can for The Alaska Highway as an additional 30 km may not make a difference there.

Good coffee at the Rorkton Hotel. On leaving, I met two local patrons, Terry & Paul, who were curious about Gunther. One

thing they asked me was why I hadn’t chosen a Harley, which seems to be the motorcycle of choice in these parts. I get this one a lot. I have nothing against Harleys; and one of them might have been my choice if the BMW R1150GS had never been invented. That’s the cliché, isn’t it–riding a Harley across the continent.

Ghost rider (idea credit goes to Neil Peart)

Back on Hwy 276, it’s as predicted by they guy at the BMW dealership back in Toronto: “A whole lot of nothing.” Yep. A whole lot of straight, flat, beautiful nothing; full of beautiful people. For those of you in Trinidad, imagine The Valencia Stretch. Now imagine The Stetch for hundreds of kilometers. Anyone need to clean their carbs?

***

Back on The Trans Canada, now; and I can see some seriously dark clouds right about where I’m headed. Time for a stop at McDonalds to get some lunch and use the wi-fi to upload some photos until the storm passes.

As I am locking my helmet to the bike, a black SUV that’s just come from the drive-thru slows and rolls down the passenger window. Another curious person. I’m beginning to like this. This time it’s Jim. Jim is from the Barrie areaJim has ridden his Harley all over the continent; and asks me where I’m headed. When he hears I’m headed for the Alaska Highway, and I’m going to change to knobby tires in Kelowna, he comments, “You know The Alaska Highway is paved, now, right?” D’oh! Now what am I going to do for adventure?

Turns out Jim is in law inforcement; and is working in the area. That kind-of fits–the short hair; the dark sun glasses. Interestingly, I judged him as a decent sort (still do) before knowing he was The Law. I wonder, if I had seen him in a marked car/bike if I would have felt the same way. I think it’s easy to misjudge people enforcing the law just as it’s easy to misjudge a “biker”; we form ideas of what people fitting a known pattern are “like” based on our past experiences. Jim was actually a really nice guy; human just like the rest of us; and doing his job. To be sure there are bad asses out there — bad-ass officers; bad-ass bikers; bad-ass investment advisors… — just as there are good people. It’s not what they do or ride that makes them good or bad; they were probably that way to begin with. Ride safely, Jim.

***

Leaving, the storm had, for the most part, passed; but the sky was still dark and ominous. What’s more, the wind had picked up. Big time. As I left the shelter of the buildings and trees in town, and hit the open plain, a gust of wind suddenly almost knocked me off my bike — POW! Welcome to the prairies. I managed to regain control of Gunther by ducking in behind the windscreen, to lower my centre of gravity and leaning the bike 20 degrees into the wind. Even so, when the gusts hit, the bike would slide to the outside of the lane, uncomfortably close to the gravel shoulder. More disconcerting, though, was that the gusts were blowing the on-coming traffic into my lane.

Saskatchewan!

The Prairies — a whole lot of beautiful nothing

The tracks — home is somewhere back there

Ukrainian church

It was like this for the most of the ride to Saskatoon, my stop for today. That said, I was kind-of getting used to it toward the end: Lean; lean; swerve; lean; lean…

Neepawa, MB – Manipogo Provincial Park, MB

3,685 km

After checking out from The Neepawa Motel and a fuel and air (tires) top up for Gunther, I headed to Neepawa’s main drag. I wanted to

The Stone Angel

visit the home where Margaret Laurence lived from age 9-18, and see The Stone Angel live, so to speak, that was the focus of her classic novel of the same name. I also needed to find a library with a PC I could use to upload some photos.

By the time, I got to the heart of town, it was after 11; and the sun was beating down something fierce, making the inside of my riding jacket into a sauna. I had to find a place to ditch my jacket for a few hours while I walked around town. I also needed to find out where the library was.

Now, it just so happened that the parking spot I had found was just outside the offices of The Neepawa Press Newspaper. Who would know better where the library was than someone in there? So, I traipsed up the steps to the Admin offices; and whom should I find but noneother than Chase Ruttig, the editor (I recognized him from his photo in the copy of The Press I had been reading the night before). Chase was more than happy to direct me to the libray. Furthermore, he was fine with me leaving my jacket there while I went about my business in town. Then — get this — he asks me if I’d have time for an interview for his paper after I’m through at the library. What’s that about good luck coming in threes?

So, after returning from the library, Chase and I chatted about Gunther and me and the prep for this trip and Neepawa. The article should be in print in a couple of weeks. Stay tuned.

Maraget Laurence’s home was interesting; and provided insight into the person behind the words. The walk to the graveyard where The Stone Angel resided was exhausting (glad I had left my jacket at The Press) but worth it — see the photo above.

Feeling a bit parched on the way back downtown, I stopped off at The Brews Brothers Bistro — a family-run restaurant that specializes in, well bistro food: specialty soups and salads and, of particular interest to me at the time, iced coffee. I must admit I was feeling a bit as if I’d gone down the rabbit hole, for it was odd sitting in a trendy place (old, Victorian building converted into a cafe) in the middle of a small town in Manitoba. The coffee soup and a special request fruit salad concocted on-the-fly were just what what was needed before hitting the hot tarmac again. If you ever find yourself in Neepawa, do yourself a favour and stop by The Brews Brothers.

Back at The Press, I thanked Chase for babysitting my jacket; and prepared for the next part of my journey. Before leaving, I asked him to sum up Neepawa in one word.

“Welcoming,” he said. See, Chase moved to Neepawa last October; and was living in one of several apartments over a store on the main street. Then tragedy occurred: There was a fire and the store burnt to the ground consuming with it the aprtments over top. Chase lost everything. Shortly afterward the people of Neepawa got together and raised $20,000 — a lot of money given the size of the community — to help Chase  and the other tenants get back on their feet. I don’t hear stories like this much these days; and I have to wonder whether it’s a community thing or a “West” thing or a Manitoba thing or a Neepawa thing or…

***

Next was a 264 ride North to The Crane Narrows at the South end of Lake Winnipegosis to search for the mythical serpent they call Manipogo.

After setting up camp in Manipogo Provincial Park and consuming a bison burger (tastes like chicken) by the beach, I began scanning thee horizon for the creature which, they say, rarely makes an appearance; and, when it does, does so in the later afternoon, when the sun is not as high.

Look! It’s Manipogo!

Friends, I tell you this: I walked up and down that beach for one-and-a-half hours with nary a sighting. Then I remembered the Manipogo Call I’d packed; blew into it; and The Manipogo appeared-sse the photo.

West Hawk Lake, MB – Neepawa MB

3,421 km

A bit of breakfast at the West Hawk Lake Inn restaurant to a country and western soundtrack before hitting the road. Today, I’m headed for Neepawa. Not sure what the plan is after that. There’s a provincial park North of there where there’s allegedly a sea monster similar to The Loch Ness Monster.

Country and Western. Over the years, I have tried to understand this genre; but I just can’t get my head around it. Don’t get me wrong; I like Hank Williams and Jonny Cash. But,  I can only hear about yer cheatin heart an’ leavin’ with my dawg an’ the Chevy so many times. This morning it’s “Deh-oh; roll that barrel out; twist that tap and pass it around.” Ugh. Okay; maybe I’m exagerating just a bit. For those C&W lovers out there, please don’t take offense; I feel the same way about cricket too.

It’s humid today… hot… hazy… can’t wait to get out on the road and, once again, drink in the highway breeze with all its scents… freshly-cut grass, hot tar from the crack patches in the road, black sooty diesel smoke from the semi rigs…

Terry is driving his 1970. Chevelle from Peterborough to Edmonton

But first, a fuel top-off at the local gas pump / corner store. It’s here that I met Terry who was doing the same thing. Terry is on his way to Edmonton from just East of Peterborough, driving a 1970 Chevy Chevelle. Gas statations are few and far between in these parts; and he rolled into this one on fumes. He’s filling up the car as well as a jerry can, just in case. Wise idea–I’m carrying two, 1-L cannisters of spare fuel in my side cases. Terry recently sold the Chevelle to a buyer in Edmonton; and is driving it there. I tell him how I used to go cruising with my uncle, who owned blue one, when I was a kid. Then he’s off; and soon, so am I.

***

Crossed over the longitudinal centre of Canada on my way from West Hawk Lake to Neepawa. It’s amazing what a change I experienced when I crossed over this line. To see what I mean, click here.

***

Neepawa Motel

Neepawa, MB

Today’s stop is Neepawa. I’ll be staying in the Neepawa motel: 65 bucks a night and all that goes with it: 2-1/2 x 2-1/2 shower stall; furniture nailed to the floor; and a notice itemizing the room’s contents and the penalty for stealing anything. But, I’m tired and it’s a room for the night. Then, Mr. Lee, the proprietor is one of the friendliest and most-hospitipal guys your likely to meet on the road (that’s where the motel is — on the side of the Trans Canada on the edge of town); and so are the guests I met.

Charlie and Wilma, for example, who have come to Neepawa from Regina to shop for a new motorhome (they love to travel): Charlie heard me pull in on Gunther, and is eager to swap stories about bikes and biking. Older and retired now, he’s been riding since he was in his teens as well; and tells me about the time he took off on his father’s BMW without permission as a kid. Charlie rides a Vespa these days; and in his Hungarian accent explains, “I can’t swing my leg over a motorcycle to get on.”

Charlie emmigrated to Canada from Hungary in ’57 to start a new life as so many did (and continue to do). His background was in starting up and engineering farming facilities–setting up farms with everything they would need to be successful. So, they come to Canada. He doesn’t speak a word of English. Then, the farming here is very different from Hungary — different soil; different crops (it’s mainly wheat over here); differnt political structure (in Hungary, the government supplied the infrastructure; over here, it was the farmer). Like so many did, he overcame these challenges. Overcoming challenges. This keeps coming up as I speak to people as a travel West. No wonder. This is a tough part of the world to live in. All the moreso if you’ve had to uproot yourself from another part of the world and adapt to it. I think Canadians are generally a pretty-hardy bunch. We just don’t toot our horns about it.