Trails and tales

Margie and I ventured into Manitoba’s compelling but little-known municipality of Rosedale. We’re back on speaking terms.

Provincial Road 265 north of Neepawa gradually rises over eight kilometres up to Riding Mountain. Our destination: Rosedale Farm. Before a final incline, this road tricks you into believing you’re not climbing high above Manitoba’s prairies. As I’ve heard, don’t trust gentle slopes — they’re always up to something.

Although some land remains cultivated to fund the Whitemud Watershed District that maintains this landscape, a government-funded project bought hillside farms here in the 1960s to stop massive erosion. Folks planted about 200,000 trees — for purely sedimental reasons.

Almost five kilometres of two mowed, circular paths now usher visitors through a wonderland of caragana, roses and ferns under tamarack, red, jack and even ponderosa pines. Ahh, forest fragrance. Margie exclaimed, “Smell that!” I romanticized, “Is that a candle? Shampoo? Your deodorant?”

At dawn, a short walk to Trail 1’s lookout bestows stunning vistas of coral skies turning hues of blue as Canada lies east and south. Glittering lights reveal far-off farms. At daylight, distant dust trails divulge vehicles travelling roads among shades and shapes of green.

We relished airshows of geese, plus friendly chickadees and flitting sparrows amid 35 bird species here. Seeing them swoop with endless views, I contemplated, “I’d do well as a bird.”

Bovine blather

At sunrise, cows make their presence known below. I suspect the loudest is encouraged by its echo against the escarpment. I told Margie, “They don’t actually moo. They ‘ooo’ and ‘mmm.’” I did a good impression while exciting the beasts. I’d do well as a cow, too.

Entering dark forest, Margie sang, “Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!” Suddenly, something loudly struck a tree three times, like with an axe. We thought we were alone. A six-foot woodpecker? I blurted to Margie, “How about you going in there to scare it out of the bush for a photo?” She replied, “You go!”

I stoically sauntered toward more hacking sounds. Yikes. The striking stopped. We stood, awaiting more. But nothing. It’s, ooo… the Mystery of Rosedale Farm.

We drove further up PR 265 to pretty Polonia. Hand-drawn wooden mileage signs for Poland, Slovakia and Hungary recall that, over 7,000 kilometres from homelands, this was a vibrant Slavic colony. Among about a dozen Lourdes grottoes across Manitoba, Polonia features a rock and geranium-framed shrine behind the 1902 church. And on a mowed hill overlooking Stoney Creek Valley, Polonia Cemetery is exceptionally picturesque. We noted pioneer surnames like Kasprzykowa, Umieszkiewicz, Smith.

Returning eastward, a tiny vintage firehall with fire wagons survives in Eden. A road sign says “Watch For Children.” I told Margie, “What if the children already have a watch and prefer candy?” She responded, “Don’t even talk to me.”

Ever-changing cheesecake

We lodged at Neepawa’s Best Western. Moreover, Neepawa houses Brews Brothers’ “famous” ever-changing cheesecakes. Its sign says, “Cheesecake is the answer no matter what the question is.” I presented Margie with their orange Creamsicle creation, plus a softball-sized pine cone from Rosedale Farm. She let me talk to her ever since.

With websites noting Rosedale’s trail is “open year-round,” and “all-season,” I convinced Margie that we return this January to, ooo, solve the mystery by looking for tracks in the snow. En route, we snagged the second-last room at the Best Western during a youth hockey tournament. Ah yes, the eccentricities of hotels in winter — let alone hallway hockey. And overhead track and field.

Rosedale Farm’s parking area wasn’t plowed, but snow-filled footprints beckoned us onto 2.5-kilometre-long Trail 1. We marvelled at a pink Pine Grosbeak. Rosedale Farm would again be magical.

Footprints ended. Trails were henceforth maintained by deer — although we never saw one. Walking nonetheless remained easy under the forest canopy.

Deerstalking

As for solving the mystery, although a sudden snow storm hampered sleuthing, superabundant deer tracks suggest we had heard a furtive buck marking territory or otherwise communicating. Mystery solved? Apologies to Bigfooters. Where’s a deerstalker hat?

We entered a field, trudging with heavy boots across an expanse of knee-deep snow. Venturing further seemed shorter than turning back. Duh. The effort became gruelling. I heard mumbles about some “heart attack.” And I wondered, “Why are the snowshoes decorating our basement wall?”

I called to sweating trailblazer Margie, “Get a photo of me in this snowbank!” She retorted, “No. That’s not funny. Nothing’s funny about this,” and added, “I won’t ever speak to you again, for one year.” Smart!

Driving back onto PR 265 with great relief — and Margie speaking to me again so early in the year — a deer bounded in front. A yearling was poised to follow. Braking made no difference. Resigned to fate, we miraculously skidded between them.

As recompense, before an onrush of hockey families we submerged in Best Western’s hot tub and saltwater pool. Licking my lips, I told a dad at the door, “Don’t drink the water!” Margie chided, “Gord!” I explained, “Just trying to help.”

Margie also frowned on taking any further snowy strolls with me. She said, “We’re driving to Boston Pizza.” I answered, “It’s right across the road.” She insisted, “We’re driving.” Smart!

Mind you, back at home three days later, Margie solemnly asked, “How ’bout doing that hike again?” I replied, “Cheesecake!”

gordmackintosh9@gmail.com