The SCA offered two supported tours in  2008 - a three day tour for the roadies and an eight day back road tour.

Spring/Summer/Fall 2008 Freewheelin’

GASP 2008 – the back road tour

By Don Wilson

I don’t know how one could begin to recount the highlights of this year’s GASP without thanking the Great (fill in your preference here) that no one was killed, although I’m sure that some are asking “Why?” Yes; I’m talking about the bolt of lightening that lit up handlebars, tingled extremities and blasted the b’Judas out of every eardrum within a half-mile radius. And it started out such a nice day, too!

We - Amund Otterson, Arleene Arnold, Barbara Shourounis,Colleen Noakes, Curtis Wilson, Dale Cochrane, Darrell Noakes, Don Wilson, Jim McGrane, Kathy Stedwill, Lloyd Widenmaier, Marion Perry, Ron Keall, Velda Back, Wayne Mews - had gathered at the Fort Qu’ Appelle Campground on the evening of Friday, July 18th, pitched our tents on the beach-front group camp site and, naturally, repaired to the nearest eatery, the famous Off Broadway Bistro, for a wedge of Tourtière St. Jacques and other delectables.

That bright Saturday morning after a country breakfast atthe Bakery, we spilled back out onto Main, reviewed the day’s directions with our leader and designer of this year’s Great Annual Saskatchewan Pedal (GASP), Dale. This day, a mere 25 K, was a warm-up, to alert the ol’ butt muscles thatlonger days were in the offing. For four days we were to ride down the Qu’Appelle Valley, on trails and gravel roads,and a bit of pavement, to Fort Espérance, and then hook back to Fort Qu’Appelle via Esterhazy and Melville.

Clear on the day’s objective, off we set, the sun warm, the sky Saskatchewan blue with just a few rags of puffy cloud to lend texture. Out of town on Sioux Avenue we rolled,past the Treaty Four Reserve Grounds, and eastward along the foot of the Valley’s southern escarpment: a beautiful summer’s morn.

Climbing up onto the Prairie via a long coulee, happily anticipating our rough ride through Dale’s bull pasture, a few of the riders noticed a scarf of clouds reaching to entangle itself with a darker bank in the west. “Ehh! It’s blowin’ the other way” was the common sentiment. We entered Dale’s pasture in a pack, Arleene practicing her admirable gate-handling skills, Dale re-assuring us that most of the bulls had been moved to another pasture, that the danger was minimal but, keeping in mind the bulls can’t run down hill, advised us that if we found ourselves hotly pursued, just ride off the edge of the escarpment to avoid getting gored and trampled. Gee, Dale. Thanks. And by the way, we all noticed that U weren’t wearing anything too red that day, so, like, don’t pretend, or anything.What am I saying!? The ride thru the pasture was magic.

Bumping along the brow of Mission Ridge over-looking the Lake, following the main trail which, I must remain adamant, really did look like the secondary path at many a fork in the road, and it is not our fault if some of us followed the main trail and got lost in the bushes with psycho-killer bulls skulking in every shadow. Collected, we stopped to examine the shot-out wreck of a, say, ’37 Chev sedan, and someone discovered saskatoons!!

Those poor bushes. Darrell, who was making notes for an upcoming article in Canada West and filing reports with the CBC, photographed the entire frenzy with his hi-tech Canon. Sated, we jounced on, abandoned in the wilds by Ron who was keeping to the high roads, unwilling to risk miring the Sag Wagon ‘way in the rain-softened back of beyond where we were cycling.

Coming out of the over-arching trees we noticed that the southern sky had become distinctly less optimistic. As we neared the far side of the pasture and spotted the Sag, we began to adjust to the notion that we might see a little wet air. Some costume adjustments were effected, a quick snack downed and off we set due eastward on Township Road 204, heading back towards the lip of the Valley, here overlooking Katepwa Lake.

It began to drizzle. Nothing bad, really, just that the steady rumble of thunder wasn’t offering much hope of relief; rather; the opposite, the closer our strung-out convoy got to the Lip, the louder the thunder clapped and the more determined the tempest became to wash us off the road. Towards us out of the veils of rain came car after mud-splattered car, much to Dale’s surprise until we later realized that it was an exodus from the church camps, the faithful abandoning the ark before the angry, lead-black mass of low cloud that was kicking its way up the valley turned the dirt access roads to greased gumbo, trapping them for untold days of rapture.

To a background melody of wet road grit grinding its way into my new chain, I was pondering the odds of Thor noticing and resenting my progress enough that he would hammer me flat, when an explosion of thunder caused myfundament to contract so athletically that I launched myself about a cubit and a half from my saddle as a rip of lightning tore across the bottom edge of a cloud on the brink of the Valley maybe a quarter mile ahead. As my retinas struggled to recover and it began to rain really hard, I thought to myself “Gorsh. Ain’t I glad I wasn’t 500 yards ahead.” Well, there were folks 500 yards ahead. That evening under the awnings that the Katepwa Beach Golf Club so kindly left up for us, many were the accounts of glowing handle-bars and tingled fingers, ear-drums ringing so loudly that everything was silent. Curtis described the event as an Armageddonic flash accompanied by the sound of heavy canvas shredding and a skull-stinging blast. Water-logged and be-grimed we arrived at the Golf Club. After coining the Club’s clothes driers and melting away the day’s chills in hot showers, we left off our golf games and bicycle maintenance to repair to the Katepwa Beach Hotel for a fine repast. Back at camp, Robert Stedwill had arrived with a special delivery of brake pads for Kathy’s mount which had failed her utterly as she had been descending a steep grade above Taylor Beach or Lakeview, the road surface a treachery of rough, hard-edged surface-seal and saturated, gullied gravel. As Ron teased the pads into place by lamp light, preserving the worn-out pads for an incredulous Fred , we allowed that it was likely a good thing that everything had been obscured by driven sheets of rain, so Kathy was hardly scared at all until she had regained control and stopped and realized how incredibly fortunate she was not to have been wrecked.

Sunday dawned mostly clear and full of promise. It had rained a bit during the night, so we had to let the sun burn off the moisture as we packed up our gear, munching our picnic breakfasts, sipping cups of clubhouse coffee, giving the roads ahead a few extra minutes to dry. While the previous day’s ride had only been 25, albeit miserable, kilometres, Sunday’s stage was going to start with that many joyous klicks along the Fort Ellice Trail, following the meandering Qu’ Appelle down its beautiful mis-fit valley to Ellisboro to meet Ron for picnic lunches. Good plan. Wrong day. Ron, driving the big 15 passenger rented van judged that he’d better come down on Ellisboro from Lemberg on a road that was actually marked on the map, as the Trail was not! Darrell on his recumbent believed the “Impassable when Wet” sign and regretfully turned his Bike-E ‘bent around and headed up Highway 56 to Lebret to go over to Neudorf on the 22. I, like the rest of us, looked at the Trail and thought “Ehh. It’ll dry out soon under this sun: give it a shot.”

And, for as long as it took to get really resistant to the idea of turning back and following the alternative, hard-surfaced road to Neudorf, the Trail was really nice. Nice scenery, friendly folks who were only too happy to stop and tell us in amazed voices that they had had 3½ INCHES, for cryin’ out loud - not Tenths, Inches - of rain in their nearby farmyard gauge over the previous 24 hours, and looked like they couldn’t believe their own words, reporting that a neighbouring place had recorded FOUR and a half. In a land where 4½ tenths is a generous gift.

So. Rolling along, enjoying my day, watching for birds and photographic opportunities, keeping one wary eye on the track, I was roused from my reverie by a group of my friends yelling at me from the top of a rise in the road, and waving, too, bless their hearts. Eager to see what the fun was about, I put my head down and charged up the rise. And charged to an absolute standstill, both wheels instantly jammed solid with the gooiest mud this side of Hell. I’m talking about that kind of old-timey Regina-type puddlebottom gumbo mud that could glue a Ford Fairlane to the Earth until cranes and jackhammers could be brought into play. Seeing others approaching the grade, I waved and shouted with the rest, to no avail. Inevitably the subject of our warnings waved back and hurried smilingly to their doom. Like quick-drying mortar this stuff began immediately to set itself into a substance that could be used to cut carborundum. Hacking desperately and stabbing with sagebrush sticks, we were able to dislodge enough of the horror to enable us to press on to the next patch of mud a few furlongs away. Ah, what a morning. From the depths of the crystal sky Spragues pipits laughed at our predicament, cattle stared uncomprehendingly, crows outright mocked our inability to just fly over the stuff. Now I know what the smilodons felt like when they blundered into the La Brea tar pits. Slowly, doggedly, the last of us heaved into Ellisboro, famished, eyes hungry for the sight of the big white van and our lunch caches. And Water. Say what? No Ron. No Ron? Ron’s not here? Where’s Ron?No Ron. Problem. Unprecedented occurrence. Never had Ron, in the club’s collective memory, not been where he said he’d be. Worry wrinkled Marion’s brow as repeated cell phone calls went unanswered. Now, Ellisboro was a community of some former import, but now not much more than a couple of farmyards and a pair of ancient wooden churches. No store, no vending machine in a community centre. Nuthin.’ A kind lady in one of the farmhouses supplied filtered water by the gallon and refused adamantly to accept payment, simply expecting us to pass the favour on when we were able. Kathy, after a brief repose with the rest of us in the shade of the buggy shelter in what is now the community’s park, rode up to the cemetery on the valley slopes to the south to remember a friend; Wayne went with her to climb hills, Curtis went to see the view.

Eventually we concluded that we may as well just ride on, so we did, hoping that a signal broadcast from a higher elevation would reach Ron’s phone. In threes and fours and ones and twos we dribbled out of Ellisboro, leaving Velda to examine the keyboarded instruments in the churches. Colleen, with unshakeable faith that Ron would arrive in Ellisboro, decided that she would not risk soiling her bike (did anyone but me notice that Colleen did not get any mud on her bike that morning. Even her tires were clean. How? Did she float it over the road? Not one smudge of dirt. How?), and would enjoy the bucolic beauties of Ellisboro. A few miles and metres of mud later, on the road that would lead us out of the valley, there was Ron, having employed the skills of the Schaefer Brothers of Balcarres not once, but twice, to rescue the nose-heavy van on a slick country road. Climbing out of the valley, we straggled into Neudorf to pitch our tents on the Lions’ campground and make our way down to the sportsplex to shower. Most of us supped at Cooper’s, though Curtis was able to buy a buffet down on Main street.

Our objective on Day 3 was Bird’s Point on Round Lake, some 54 K away. Most of us managed to gather for a foto op on a natural view-point on the Hyde Hill road over-looking a sweeping view of the Qu’Appelle valley. Darrell scrambled up to a vantage point to kodak our moment. Having gazed the incredible view, we gingerly feathered our brakes on the packed dirt and gravel road threading its way down a brushy ravine to the Valley’s floor. Most of us went to the River to read the commemorative marker at the Village of Hyde and enjoy the swallows under the “rainbow” bridge. Our way eastward from Hyde led us a few miles down a Saskatoon berry bush-shaded lane running along the River’s left bank. Sadly, this road gave way to busier hwy 247 leading along the northern shore of Crooked Lake. Tantallon is 47 K from Bird’s Point, the first few K on the 247, then a jog up the No.9 to the Tantallon Road. It was a beautiful blue morning, July 22nd, the fourth day of The Ride, and Wayne was in his glory, cranking up both sides of the Valley on the No. 9, including the double-dip on the south side. Down a long, straight stretch of gravelled surface, past vast fields of canola and a few of flax, then the prairie poplars in the ravines and on the lower slopes of the Valley gave way to woodland Burr oaks. During the course of the fiery afternoon we straggled into Tantallon, its main street still bearing the wounds of ancient fires. The CP rail line was torn up a few years ago after a hundred years of service. The elevators are gone, and the station. A general store provided an air-conditioned refuge for those of us inclined to wilt in the heat. The campground at the south end of town is a beauty: pretty good facilities and shower house set in an expanse of thick, trimmed grass. And it didn’t look like rain. Tantallon was the setting for the enactment of a bit of history the day we were there. Until we met Helen Solmes of the Esterhazy Miner that evening, we had no idea that we had arrived in town on the same day that a small troupe of Manitoba Métis had waggoned in from downriver and camped on the old Tantallon fair grounds where there was forage for their horses, a stop on their commemorative trek up to Fort Qu’Appelle.

We were in the big old Valley View Hotel to grill steaks and Helen was there to get the low-down on the Métis. She saw a story in the contrasts and similarities between two such disparate modes of travel, and the co-incidence of our arrival in Tantallon. After our feast, many of us wandered over to the fair grounds to witness a gift exchange ceremony between the Village, as represented by Mayor Swanton, and the Métis, and to listen to Armond Jerome, the Métis’ trail boss, talk about the history of the Métis and the reasons for their trek. After patting a fuzzy horse nose, we retired to our camp. Well, it did rain that evening. Not hard, but steady. A much cooler morning had us talking hot breakfast in the Valley View as we packed up wet. Dale expressed some reservation about the condition of the trail to Fort Espérance: it was soft at the best of times and the four or five hours of drizzle would likely not have dried it out much. Regretfully, we decided to ride down the valley past the site of the failed Hamona Settlement of the late 1890s to Cutarm Creek and follow the grid road north to Hwy 16 and the Village of Spy Hill.

It was an overcast morning, the sky grey and unhappy, throwing a little rain around here and there. The good news was the tailwinds. For the first, and only, time that trip, our progress was encouraged by the Airs. And we enjoyed them. Nice and cool, the Saskatchewan Grid 600 reliably hardsurfaced beneath our tires encouraged most riders to shift up onto “the big wheel” and fly. To the left the old Grand Trunk Pacific’s “alphabet line,” now the CNR’s mainline, was satisfyingly busy with container traffic; to the right a panorama of yellow canola fields patching their way beyond the distant horizon. Spy Hill seems a substantial community, though the modern school building on the highway had been sold into private hands, Moe’s bakery and café there-in enticing us to dismount for a snack at the expense of the Double “D” Bar and Grill over on main street. After taking a short tour of the enterprises located in the former school, many of us adjourned to the museums on main street, especially opeed for us by the Village. Towards mid-afternoon the last of us straggled out of Spy Hill, electing to keep to the pavement straight north on Hwy 8 and then due west on the 22 past the Kalium plant and on into Esterhazy. We gathered on our reserved sites a t the municipal golf course campground and tried to dry our equipment between showers. We used the shower rooms of the near-by pool to clean up, and then considered dinner. The majority opted for Mei’s on main for a fine meal. Others, who had lunched at Mei’s immediately upon arriving in Esterhazy and weren’t really hungry yet, toured the flour mill and then headed over to the Greek place for supper. Finally reconstituted at the campground, the group beat off the voracious mosquitoes long enough to commemorate the 60th birthday of one of the riders with a cake so loaded with candles that the low, dripping clouds were in danger of catching fire. The morning of our sixth day of riding dawned hopeful. We broke camp, packed damp and repaired to the golf course snack bar where the hostess tried heroically to get everyone coffee’d and muffin’d while frantically scouring the town for help to p r e p a r e o u r breakfast orders. Satisfied, we saddled up and set off on Hwy 9/22 deep into Arleene country. Yes, this rolling country north-west of Esterhazy is “home” to Arleene, and is still littered with her relatives, some of whom her fellow riders were privileged to meet. First was sister Karen and her husband, Dale, on the Atwater Access Road. After helpings of coffee and fruit braced by pies and tarts, a quick rub on Jacko’s head and perhaps a “dee-eff,” we were off to tiny Atwater where Arleene went to a two room school for grades 1, 2 and 3.

The next community on the Alphabet Line is Bangor where more of Arleene’s relatives, sister Sheryle and brother-inlaw Brian, keep a spread. More welcome treats and words of encouragement as the day began to loose it’s lustre, the contrary Airs dragging a curtain of sombre clouds across the sun. Some of the riders met Arleene’s nephew Leon and family down where Bangor Access Road crosses the rail line as the former heads due west for Highway 9. There-on, in ones and twos and small clumps, we rode north to Highway 15 west-bound into the heart of Saskatchewan’s Smallest City, Melville. For those riders tardy on the road, highway 15 was possibly not the most pleasant ride of the Tour. The breeze cooled in the mid-afternoon hours and the threatened rain materialized from bank after scowling bank of cloud. Continuing on through south Melville to the suburb of Westview, the riders gathered at the acreage of Dale and Nora Cochrane where we discovered that Robert Stedwill had cycled up from Fort Qu’ Appelle pulling the family “bob” to join Kathy and the troupe for the last two days. We repaired to the Flamingo Restaurant for a fine feed and a bit of ceremony, acknowledging especially Ron’s talent for keeping all the wheels turning smoothly and the gears enmeshed properly, and thanking him for his attentions during the trip. A lovely evening was passed by the riders in various parts of the Cochrane ponderosa. A fine morning found us unbelievably famished and gathered in the Cochranes’ kitchen and adjacent rooms, feasting on bacon, and pancakes; guzzling coffee and juice by the acrefoot.

If we forgot to express our thanks at the time, we could do it now: Thanks Nora and Dale, for the generous hospitality.

Packed, the riders and VanRonaldo headed west on Township Road 225, the old No. 10 highway. Cooled by a bit of a head wind, we jounced along, curving south-bound to join the real No. 10 near Duff. Wide, smooth shoulders carried us past Lorlie and nearly to Balcarres when we turned south and pedaled into Abernethy and the 106th(?) consecutive Summer Fair.

The fair grounds were just a jumpin’ with tractor pulls, mud racing, gymkhana events, a sit-down-neighbour roast pork dinner, and I don’t know what all. The lovely little camping place was right near the fair grounds, so after dinner, while we awaited dark and fireworks, we studied euchre, read some, presented and accepted prizes, and helped Arleene make a chocolate fondue (I tell a lie: some of us helped out on the end part of the project, where we jabbed bits of whatever snacky comestibles we had handy into the pot. The morning of July 26th, the last day of the tour, was another “keeper.” We gathered at the only restaurant in Abernethy and ate a leisurely, anticipating a short day’s ride. We straggled out of town and detoured past the “old stone church,” a ruin-in-the-making south and west of town, dating from the 1890s. We hooked north and then west on the “powerline road” to join old No. 10 for the descent into the Qu’ Appelle’s valley at Lebret. Some of us climbed the stations of the cross, others visited the old church and poked through the antique store on Main. Then it was off to Fort Qu’ Appelle to wind up our tour shopping for treats and lunch at the “farmers’ market” in the park downtown.

All up, it was a great trip, thanks mainly to Dr. Dale. If some of us ever get any closer to Lightening, the costs of cremation after our memorial service will be significantly reduced. Many of us, formerly perhaps a little nervous riding a gravel road, have gained confidence. And many of us saw a part of Saskatchewan that we never suspected existed.

Thanks Dale.

2008 Great Annual Saskatchewan Pedal

The SCA is offering two supported tours for 2008 - a three day tour for the roadies and an eight day back road tour.

GASP 2008, Qu'Appelle Trails

Saturday, July 19 to Saturday, July 26

Join GASP this year from July 19th through July 26^th and drift for eight days across the Qu'Appelle Valley. 

The route for this year's tour is:

·         Day 1 - July 19th - Fort Qu'Appelle to Katepwa
·         Day 2 - July 20th - Katepwa to Neudorf
·         Day 3 - July 21st - Neudorf to Westend
·         Day 4 - July 22nd - Westend to Tantallon
·         Day 5 - July 23rd - Tantallon to Esterhazy
·         Day 6 - July 24th - Esterhazy to Melville
·         Day 7 - Friday, July 25 - Melville to Abernathy
·         Day 8 - July 26 - Abernathy to Fort Qu'Appelle

GASP 2008, Road Tour
Friday, August 15 to Sunday, August 17

The route is now set for Saskatoon to Rosthern; Rosthern to Wakaw; Wakaw home to Saskatoon.