to St. Walburg, SK

Jy. 23: I'm up at 5:30 and gone by 7am as I promised Farmer Claus Young, whose barn I camped beside last night. It starts to rain but then changes it's mind and goes north, instead, but the tent gets sprinkled before I leave. Never have I seen such an impressive vegetable and flower garden. His wife is away at a cottage but he says she is the creator of this masterpiece. Great water in a tap by shed, clear and cold, so I fill up before leaving as he suggested last night.

The birdsong this morning was absolutely wonderful. In Alberta, there was almost none in the morning except for a couple of peeps here and there. Maybe because there they cut grass on all highway roadsides right up to where the farmer's crops start. Not much nature in AB, it seems. Probably against the law. They've succeeded in creating huge sterile green deserts at the sides of the road, and eliminated birdsong.
Not here in SK. First thing I noticed cycling down from Onion Lake yesterday was the wild array of wonderful wildflowers at the sides of the highway and I rejoiced. Why are we brainwashed to call wildflowers weeds? Acres and acrea of wildflowers and now I can once again hear hundreds of birds singing and calling across the fields and woods and ponds. What a joy!

About an hour later, I stop to take a picture of this very unusual deserted barn (the biggest building) and abandoned house (the small one) - (Ontario yuppies would make a great home out of this one as has been done to a 3-story barn on Cty Rd.13 here in Prince Edw. Cty.).
A pickup truck pulls up and a older couple stops to chat with me. They tell me that the farm had belonged to a bachelor. They suggest I use the tea room when I get to Frenchman's Butte. It is at the museum run by volunteers of which they are two who had their turn yesterday.

Frenchman's Butte is in a deep ravine, going down to the North Sask. River, which has been my nemisis since leaving Edmonton, heading, as it does, for Hudson or James Bay. Always the formidable hills near and around it. Population 75.
Frenchman's Butte Museum:
The Frenchman's Butte Museum is EXTRA special, and its tearoom is exquisite!!! Everyone who can should visit it. The museum exhibits include the old train station, caboose, a gold mining exhibit and much more.
The big, roomy log chalet/teahouse is behind the railway station, and only HALFWAY down the valley hill to the N. Sask. River which means an easier climb back out of here for me. The gardens are very beautiful.
I arrive before it opens and sit beside the playground, take pictures, and just wander around. The lens of the camera will no longer retract - I have to push it in manually when I close it, and have to use my fingernail to open the shutter.

When I come into the tea-room at l0 am, I'm greeted warmly by Eugene, the mayor, and the museum co-ordinator, Gary, who call out that I'm an earlybird. I respond with 'Don't know if I'm ahead of you or not. Was up by 5:30. Mind if I sit with you?'
There are several lovely wood tables with tablecloths and a very pretty assortment of china teapots and cups with saucers, and trays of treats. The guys are at a table that might seat 8 - 10 people. A delicious looking tray of treats tempts me. Everyone is a friend, old or new. Gary's wife is doing her turn in the open kitchen in the southwest corner of this huge room. Because the tearoom seems so big and empty, I ask the guys, (as Leo Bascalia suggested in his PBS lectures), if they'd mind my sitting with them and they welcome me.
As the townsfolk come in, everyone joins us at this huge 'communal table', and we all get introduced accordingly.
One lady, about my age, lives way down at the bottom of the 'ravine' by the river. Might be fun in winter, eh, going for supplies?!
Another woman from Seattle is visiting her friend here.
Eugene knows Claus Young, whose barn I slept near last night, and even knows Dorothy and Stan who own the rotweiller that chased me 30 miles back yesterday, between Onion Lake and Crooked Creek Ranch.
It's all so friendly here...Questions/answers/stories. Chatchatchat.
I didn't ask for green tea in case they didn't have it, and black was a wonderful change. It's the perfect morning get-together. I try to make people laugh in the telling of some of my experiences.
The tearoom, open concept, is roomy and has a superb kitchen in one corner. The walls show the golden logs, and there is a massive fireplace. It's all maintained with such quality. Smaller tables fill the room.

Before the mayor leaves, he asks if I want to put my bike in the back of his truck and he'll drive me back up to the top of the road, but that would be 'cheating - even if it is only to myself' - so I decline, wishing I was accepting instead.
Treats are baked locally for the tearoom, and this is all run by volunteers. When I discover that they make and serve lunch, too, after having been there for an hour and a half by now, chatting with all the folks, I order an egg sandwich.
You pay by donation! That was a surprise, and I don't see how I could pay enough for that wonderful experience.

Two men came in later, closer to when I was leaving, but I had a short chat with them, too. The native elder is from Thunderchild also knows Pocahontas from Onion Lake. He affirms that she hitch-hikes to all the native villages and areas to help her people. 'A good woman, Pokahontas', he says. 'She volunteers in many communities'. I wonder if anyone has likened her to being a native Mother Teresa? By I don't say that, because the similie may not be appropriate.
They all walk me outside, and chat there, too, as I loaded up the bike again. It was so much fun and has such a friendly atmosphere that I have told people miles and miles up the highways afterward all about it.
Gary made me a map that showed where the TransCanadaTrail is further up the road, and then the bike and me walk back up hill to the road to Paradise Hill.

Missed the TransCanTrail, even though Gary drew a map for me. I was looking at the map and picturing a right-hand turn, when I should have taken the first left turn after Frenchman's Butte. My slight dyslexia! Bonus in that the way I go is much faster, I'm sure.
That is, until I turned left onto Hwy. #3. There is a hill there, so high, so steep, that I am terrified to even ride down it. Even walking is scary and the dropoff is immediate and steep. If I have a flat tire cycling down, I will hurtle almost straight down into a gully, at least a hundred feet. Long, long walk up and steep - hard to push with heavy bike so had to stop for many rests.

Paradise Hill - giant man-made ox and cart, and giant teepee. Actual tree trunks for teepee frame. The natives would have needed a logging truck for that one.
Trail still inpassable, even in the village but enjoy a lemon pie here and then chat with a lady on the street.
There is a TransCanadaTrail sign out on the highway so I was hoping the trail would be navigable from here. Not!

Josie: 'Mom was at Paradise Hill, SK at lunch today, so must have crossed the border some time this morning! Looks like the trail might get better now.'
My reply: 'I wish! TCTrail at and past Paradise Hill not usable either.''

Click on map for better view of route map:


Down the road, junction of #21 & #3, there's a TCT sign, and a good looking trail so I start following it, and cycle quietly, happily, and softly along a dirt path, and then down, down, coasting to a marsh in a valley at the bottom of hill.
Nice trail but being so worried about bears, I ring my bike bell every minute or so. That's because I haven't been on real trails for so long I feel very nervous. Bears? It rained here earlier in the day. The bike and I plough through thick and heavy mud until the bike is completely bogged down.
Out west here, the soil is like a clay, or as my Mom used to say, 'gumbo which sucks the boots right off your feet'. Well, it sticks to the tires and gets so thick that the tires will no longer go through the fenders. I had fenders installed so that mud wouldn't splash up onto my back. Well, the mud sure won't splash now. There is a big enough sharp stone nearby so I'm able to scrape off chunks of the clay. By now, it's all uphill again for a couple of miles, and with the added weight of the mud, I soon lose strength. Finally, I have to walk it because the pedals are so hard to turn. Walk it! I think that's what I say. The first word does have four letters, I remember that.
I do finally find a cross road, (the road isn't cross but I sure am) and I take it north to #3. It's hard-packed dirt and quite a nice road that goes towards where I figure the highway has to be; it's well treed, quiet, and very smooth cycling. A lot of the mud pounds off the wheels, and I pray that the highway will be where I think it must be. Finally, after about another 2 miles, and lots of praying, I do find the highway and now pray that I can get to the campsite in St. Walburg before dark. I figure I shouldn't have to go to church now for at least 3 years.

Not only did I get to St. Walburg before dark, but a really nice restaurant was still open - 8:30 pm - fine dining with an excellent menu and table cloths and classical music playing very softly. Not having a radio or an MP3 player, I have missed music terribly.
I always have to go straight to the ladies room after cycling just to wash the layers of dust, or, in this case, mud, off my face. It gets caked on. I can't stand to touch it. I use the cold tap and the coolness refreshes me greatly. Supper was very good and the campground is right beside the inn. How lucky is that!!!
A friendly couple in there came over to my table as I finish up dessert to say they saw me on the road earlier in the day. Lots of people even honk and wave. It's quite fun. We chatted, and I told them about Frenchman's Butte, which had already been suggested to them, so I elaborate on the incident to peek their interest, rightly deserved. I highly recommend that they visit.

There's another TCT sign near town so I'm really hopeful. I try to take a shower but I have no loonies so I sponge bath in the sink. And have a very good night's sleep, as the coyotes sing me to sleep again. They must be following me.