Amanda: The Canadian Finals

My departure from Kingston was more hectic than ever. The Croppers were in Kingston until Thursday. The week after Kingston is always difficult. I am tired. There is lots of catching up at the farm to do–things neglected for two weeks. I slogged at the vegetable garden, going for a fall crop of frost hardy things.

Uncle Kevin Gallagher continued as the blessing he is, coming a couple of days early to get the hang of the farm before I left. There is no problem he can’t handle. That absence of anxiety for the home front, is heaven sent.

I puttered around on Sunday morning, fixing things up in my camper for the long haul. And finally took off at noon, with a plan to put in eight or nine hours on the thirty four hour drive to Shaunovan, Saskatchewan. I have to be there on Thursday morning.

Tierney Graham and Michael Gallagher are traveling separately. But tagging. We are following a route that takes us across the border at Sarnia, to Chicago, Minneapolis, Fargo, Estavan an finally the Canadian Championships at Shaunovan.



I overnighted south of St Paul, Minnesota. I like to cross the Mississippi memorably. The last time I took this northern route, I went through the middle of Minneapolis/St Paul, ill advised, with my gigantic rig. This time, I joined a massive number oaf commuters on the the circle around the outside, big latte in hand. This was more than a usual tourist experience of St Paul–native. I watched carefully for the bluffs that would show me the locale of the Mississsippi and found it handily on Riverside Drive, on the northern side of the city. What followed was a bigger surprise. The St Paulians had honoured the great river of lore with a long gorgeous park–walkways, water access, views everywhere, and scarcely another there, at six thirty in the morning. It was ours, my six dogs and I, for an hour of watching the great river flow, of Huck Finn, paddle boats, of the great expanse from which it drew its water, the landmark. We saw it swirl by, on its way to washing St Paul. The dogs stepped in, I dipped a toe and we went on our way, up river to cross the great divide.



North Dakota was too hot for a stop–about 100 degrees– so I dove on. Those that believe me to be living the dream on a trip like this, ought to try the driving more than once. Not a dreamy as you might imagine. I carried on up through eastern North Dakota to Weyburn, Saskatchewan.

My soft spot for the prairie landscape was handsomely rewarded this year–an abundant one for the prairies. There had been tons of rain and the crops have hardly ever been so bountiful with whopping fields of canola, some cut, some not, being the most popular. The wheat was rolling around in the wind–so tall and fat. What a view. I followed a route that took me south of Regina, through Moose Jaw.

The Canadian Championships began on Thursday with the Nursery. The sheep were Columbians from the flock of Dale Montgomery, an hour or so up Highway 1, from the trial. The judge was Jack Knox, a Scot, now resident in Missouri. The field was beautiful–an alfalfa field, freshly mowed for the trial, and provided by our hostess, Jamie MIchele Van Ryn. It had lost of room on each side and the outrun was about three hundred yards. The drive was several hundred yards–a nice test. the four sheep were spotted on horseback, but that did not seem to throw many dogs. I expected my own to run well, but they ran better than expected. Feist, Champion, Howell, reserve champion.