The Mean Towing Machine, as the Dude likes to refer to the truck, shrieked and whistled its way across the prairies, its high, attention-demanding pitch warning wayward gophers out of its path. Its need for attention coupled with our eastern trajectory brought us to Yorkton, Sask. where the diesel truck whisperer attends to wounded machines in blue coveralls.

“Help us, we pleaded, this incessant whistling sound is driving us mad.”

“No need to beg,” replied the Truck Whisperer politely after noting our B.C. plates. “We accept B.C. money at par and I am here to help. Come back at four, my work will be done”.

Set up at the City Campground on the edge of town, we explored on two wheels, (four, actually, if you count both bikes), Dexter in tow on leash. Yorkton exemplifies the changing Saskatchewan. Farming still rules. Huge machines of unknowable purpose, driven by John Deere-hatted men, lumber down the potholed highways sharing space with SUV’s and expensive trucks, fueled by potash and energy money.

The town’s wide, treed streets and neat homes give off a Mayberry aura and one half expects to see young Opie or Beaver Cleaver two-wheeling out of a yard hell-bent on adventure, Yorkton-style, with Aunt Bea or June Cleaver clucking at them motherly from a front porch. The linear park around the city beckons.

Like many small prairie towns, Yorkton has its landmark, and this one is big. It looms above the trees and rooftops like a scaled down concrete version of the CN tower with “Yorkton” in 20 foot letters across its face. It might hold water. During the dirty thirties, Al Capone funneled bootleg whiskey through Saskatchewan. Draw your own conclusions about what the “water” tower actually contains.

“You’re from B.C., what are you doin’ in Saskatchewan?”

We’ve been asked this question numerous times when people learn we’re from God’s country. We stare back at them blankly for a moment before pointing out the obvious blessings we see through new eyes.

Big sky, prairie winds, rolling wheat fields, mournful train whistles in the night, flat biking trails, wetlands dotted with reeds and filled with birdsong, kindly people who offer to park your RV for you, a Diesel shop owner who fits in a needy traveler on short notice. These are a few of our favourite Saskatchewan things.

Oh, and by the way, the high-pitched whistling sound (kaching, kaching) was nothing more than air being forced through the vents of Mean Machine’s new fifth wheel tailgate…

Let me know if you spot a tree

              Do I need a passport?

It now feels real. This traveling thing. So far we’ve been taking baby steps. A few days camping in Osoyoos, the idea of home so close. Then off to Edmonton – friends, family, home-cooked meals by Mom, a few golf games, hey we can do this.

As we cross the border into Saskatchewan, the whistling starts. This weird high-pitched sound that makes the dog cock his head in confusion. We continuously open and close the back truck window to confirm the sound is still there and secretly hope it will just go away. To calm our nerves and give the truck a chance to smarten up, we stop to eat and see The Egg. You know the egg or more correctly “Pysanka”, it’s what put Vegreville Alberta on the map (that and really great French toast at the Albert’s restaurant but that could just be me).

Stomach’s full, Egg viewed and photographed we stop at a mechanic’s shop in town. We need the mechanic, between the two of us we can barely fill the vehicle with gas and get the trailer hitched up. The mechanic advises something will indeed have to be done, something about pistons, air flow, yada, yada, yada, but the whistling does not pose imminent danger. Get it checked in Saskatoon, the city of bridges and apparently mechanical whistling guru’s.

Getting to the Gordon Howe RV park in the centre of Saskatoon in rush hour traffic. Now that poses imminent danger.

Carved Miranda enjoys the world’s largest Pysanka

The Dog asks if the Egg is as big as his head