bicyclebeekThe final days have been a gentle unwinding, free of rude motorists, maniacal visitors, red ants, transvestites, precarious passages, or any grotesque or outlandish phenomena of any sort. For the most part I’ve been avoiding people in general, enjoying my final days of cycling and nights of fresh air and solitude before I’m enveloped by the rush and flurry of the city.
My route has taken me from Golden through Roger’s Pass to Revelstoke, where I camped in the bushes on the edge of town. From Revelstoke I cycled along winding lakeside roads to Vernon. There I stopped to enjoy three days of R &R with my Dad. I scouted out the city and surrounding area by bicycle and on foot. I appreciated the relax time to allow my overworked legs to recover before setting my sights south to higway three. My Dad escorted me on beautiful back roads to Kelowna, then left me to dice it up with highway traffic on my own. I powered through a 180 kilometer stretch, past Keremeos to a small town called Hedley, where I pitched my tent on a ridge above the highway. I was visited by a couple deer shortly before dark, and enjoyed a quiet night free of interuption. Another long day west from Hedley, over Allison Pass, and I was back in the Fraser Valley!
I camped in Hope and celebrated with the winning combination of pizza and beer, a real meal. In the world of food, there are limitless possibilites, medleys and mixes, mishmashes and minglings on measureless menus, but pizza and beer will never betray. I pledge allegiance to the pleasure of pizza, saucy and substantial.
The following day, fully satisfied, I blasted in to Chilliwack to visit my grandparents. We passed the evening catching up, and I was treated to a fantastic dinner at a nearby restaurant. As well I enjoyed a comfortable night’s sleep in a proper bed, and a great breakfast to start my day and grant me the energy to pedal my way into Langley. And here I am.
I’m now back in Greater Vancouver, visiting family while slowly working my way back into Burnaby. Thanks to all the family that have graciously provided food, shelter, and company on this final stretch of my trip!
I’ve been having a bit of trouble trying to post photos lately, but I hope to figure this out soon. I’ll post some pictures on this site as soon as possible for all those who wish to view them.
A half day west of North Battleford Saskatchewan, and I was back in somewhat familiar territory. I crossed into Alberta through treacherous Lloydminster in a frogger-like manner, and furtively celebrated my victory over Saskatchewan. Through anticipative eyes I imagined the dramatic spires of the rocky mountains looming in the distance like ravenous wolf fangs. But for now I remained in farm country.
My first stop was in Vermilion Alberta, another home of my past travels with the Katimavik program three years ago. Here I planned to enjoy my first day off since Thessalon, near Sault Ste. Marie. My first order of business was to seek out shelter for a couple of nights. The town’s campground would be the most obvious choice, but it seemed far too conventional. And I’m not one to dish out thirty dollars for a seven foot patch of dirt for the night. I cruised the streets, examining all possibilities. Vermilion proved to be the most difficult town to find free camp spots, surprising, since I had already spent three months there and knew where to look. I settled for a rather dodgy site on the town baseball field, behind the storage shed. A spot in the heart of suburban Vermilion, and nearly surrounded by houses. But the tent was out of sight, so on to my second order of business, I needed a beer.
Back downtown, The Zoo was a tavern that lived up to its name. I was immediately greeted by a man who had seen me cycling around town earlier, and what started as a brief stop for a drink, turned into an all night affair. The booze appeared magically before me, and all I did was talk, for hours, to the group of people gathered around me. I made some friends that night, and had a great time reminiscing about the good ol’ days of Katimavik.
The following day my plans to visit the public pool and hot tub were foiled due to the labor day long weekend.
I set out west the next day, bush camping near Vegreville, and arriving in Edmonton the following afternoon where I met up with my cousin for yet another day off. Wahoo! I accomplished a few menial chores, relaxed, and did some catching up with my cousin. We took a trip to a public pool as well, but alas! The hot tub was closed. All the same, we enjoyed a few laps and cooked in the sauna until refreshed.
Again, westward. I bush camped in Erwistle…? I found an excellent spot near the train tracks. I’ve noticed that I have a nonsensical issue with sleeping near train tracks. It seems that whenever a train passes by during the night, usually two or three times, I awake in a state of panic, fearing that I’ve absent mindedly pitched my tent directly on the tracks. Splat! This happens repeatedly, with every passing train.
Still in one piece, I blasted into Hinton, where I camped in a patch of trees directly beside a Days Inn. And from Hinton I crossed into Jasper National Park. I made it back to the mountains! I cycled the Icefields Parkway from Jasper to Lake Louise. Upon entering the Rockies, I suddenly felt very small. But what a spectacular ride! I even scored an amazing camp spot , lakefront across from the Bow Glacier. The past few mornings have been extremely cold, below freezing, and I’ve had to knock ice off my tent before packing it up. But in the afternoon, the temperature climbs to thirty degrees!
I’m now back in B.C.! hanging out in Golden for the night. Now it’s just a matter of days.
I was fervent to escape the shield following over one month of cycling alongside the same scenery. Lakes, trees, and rocks were bountiful in Ontario, and while nearing the end of my trip through this oversized province (Ontario needs to go on a diet), I found myself motivated by the new opportunities the praries would have to offer.
The transfer from shield to farmland was more abrupt than I had imagined. After a long day of cycling, I crossed into Manitoba and stopped in at the information center to inquire about the best cycling routes through the plains. The woman behind the counter couldn’t seem to figure out why I was so excited about wheat fields, but assured me that I would begin seeing the flat land within fifty kilometers. And so I pressed on. It was nearly 8:00 when I turned a corner to behold a big sky, uniform crop fields, silos, combine harvesters, pickups trucks (they’re everywhere I know), grain elevators, and a flat, straight road. The look was new, the feel was new, the smell was new. It wasn’t until this point that I realized it would be much more difficult to find hidden tent space. But after a couple minutes of searching I found an abandoned and unkempt house, perfect for tent pitching.
The past few days have been a dusty blur of blue sky and buckwheat, as I leap frog from small town to small town, hiding behind Ukranian churches at the closing of each day. I’ve been sticking to the side routes to avoid the traffic, although it’s not the most direct, I’ve been happy with my decision.
The wind has been making an effort to drive me back to Ontario, but the big sky has opened up and I’ve been treated to a week of sunshine, with many days reaching thirty degrees! And with that I opted to treat myself to a haircut. In Canora Saskatchewan, I cruised down Main Street and found the local Barber. George, the elderly man in charge, and the only person there was glad to give me a trim. George has lived in Canora his entire life, and has been barbering in that very same shop for sixty years! For five dollars I got a haircut that belongs in the fifties, and my first ever shave with a razor knife. There was something unsettling about letting this stranger scrape a razor knife on the sides of my face, so near to the jugular vein. But after sixty years I trusted that George knew his way around faces. I cycled off with a shave as even as the plains I’m riding on.
The next morning, in Wadena Saskatchewan, I stopped at the Wadena Bakery for a coffee and a muffin to get me going. One of the owners took notice of my loaded bicycle locked outside and conversation ensued. Before I departed the bakery donated a bag of baked goodies to my ride. Fresh muffins, cinnamon buns, a loaf of bread, a sub sandwich, and a near lethally luscious chocolate éclair. It was am outstanding start to the day.
I’m moving quickly in an attempt to beat the cold, and so far so good. I’ve crossed through Saskatoon, just one day from the Alberta border, and expecting to hit the mountains in about a week. To all those in or around Vancouver, I hope to see you all in less than a month!
Following a farewell to Frank and Terry, we departed from Little Current northward under the sunshine. We cycled up to the Trans-Canada Highway and began our journey along the only road west.
We took a break in the town of Thessalon, my old Katimavik habitat. We relaxed for a day, exploring the town, enjoying the beach, and visiting my co-workers from a volunteer job I worked three years ago at the town office. It was strange to be back in Thessalon, and I would have liked to hang out for a few days, but there is ground to cover, so we continued into Sault Ste. Marie.
We rolled into town in search of a bicycle shop. I had been working around a broken rear rack since I was riding on the Baja, and it was finally time to get a bracket replaced. As it turns out, here in Sault I found the first bike shop that had and extra of the exact bracket I was on the hunt for. We made a few purchases and made to set out to find a place to sleep. This turned out easier than expected. The mechanics at the shop directed us north to another bike shop in town, where they was a backyard campground free for traveling cyclists! There we enjoyed a hot shower, and a few drinks with two other cross-country riders.
North of Sault Ste. Marie, the country becomes very desolate. Trees, lakes, and ourselves were all we had for company. This region is beautiful, and we were pleasantly surprised by the number of sandy beaches on the shores of Lake Superior. One secluded beach in particular made for a perfect campsite at the end of a long day.
North past Wawa we were into the trees. We rolled through White River, the origin of Winnie the Pooh, and were hit by a rain storm. Strong headwinds and low temperatures made for some dispirited cycling, and since all our clothes were drenched, we opted to put out a bit of cash for a hunting cabin for the night. This allowed us to hang out our gear and relax. Up early the next morning, we were back out into the cold rain and continuing west. To our delight, the rain calmed down later in the afternoon, and reports of upcoming “wall to wall sunshine” blessed our icy ears. At the end of another long day, we enjoyed some heaping plates of Chinese food in Terrace Bay before rolling off into the bushes for a restful night.
Terrace Bay to Nipigon, against the wind, again. This was, supposedly, the final day of mountain climbing. We were told that the road flattens out after Nipigon. And so to celebrate our victory, we hunted down a motel for the night, we were just one day from Thunder Bay.
We carried on into the wind, towards Thunder Bay the next morning, 111 kilometers, and here, Erika’s planned point of departure. With little time left in the cycling season, I expect to be covering over 120 kilometers a day, against the prevailing winds across the praries, and over the mountains across B.C. likely in below freezing cold. And so, with some unfinished business back in New York, Erika opted to save herself the torture and catch a bus home. We’ll reconnect for another ride soon, when time is less stressed and conditions more relaxing.
As we entered Thunder Bay, our first concern was to find the Greyhound station to purchase a ticket and find a box for her bike. Outside the station, next to the dumpster, we found a box. And so with one step down, we entered the station to inquire about tickets. Within minutes, Erika had a ticket in her hand, her bus was due to leave in… AN HOUR!?! We scrambled furiously to dismantle her bike and stuff it in the box. Nearly an entire roll of duct tape was used to keep everything in place, and before we could prepare, we were saying a very sudden and difficult goodbye. I’m looking forward to our next adventure, but for now, I’m once again on my own, now very lonely in the far out reaches of northern Ontario.
The past couple days have seen rain, headwinds, and long, long days. I’m keeping my fingers crossed for a weather improvement, and I’m eager to get home.
Huntsville's welcome sign
DEREK
Following our last post in Huntsville Ontario, we were unfortunately overcome by the unbearable stench of cycle touring and committed to spending the money to stay at a nearby campground for the night. The Deer Lake RV Resort and Campground was just a few kilometers outside of town, and conveniently in the direction we were headed. Around 7:30 p.m. we rolled up to the office to inquire about available tent sites, and by 7:45 we were on our way back out, with the owner of the campground behind us, threatening to call the police. How did this happen you ask? Well, were not quite sure, but we figure he just carried a hatred for cyclists. I guess the best thing to do would be to put it into dialogue…
“Hi there, we have a small tent and two bicycles, how much for the night?” was our opening line.
“Wow, look, bicycles, that doesn’t impress me at all. That really doesn’t impress me. Thirty-two dollars plus GST.”
“Oh wow, ok just a moment,” I looked over at Erika to see what she thought of the price.
“Thirty-two dollars! Thirty-two dollars! If you can’t afford thirty-two dollars I suggest you go home right now and get a job, or, go live in the bush where you belong.” He was talking serious. Baffled, we began to leave.
“Hey, if you don’t want us here just say so, there’s no need to be rude.”
An explosion of foul words and pointing fingers quickly ensued, he then threatened to call the police and we were back on the road in need of a place to sleep before sunset.
ERIKA
Feeling dismayed and bewildered at once, we set out to do our usual stealth campness. We ended the evening hidden in a patch of trees inside a skate park/ball field complete with bathrooms and clean water; likely a better setup than we would have found at the less-than-welcoming Deer Lake Campground.
Feeding Gunther, he had a thing for peanut butter
Two days later we were off to Magnetawan, where Derek planned to meet his two friends Tony and Elaine. At a lunch stop shortly before we reached the town, a young squirrel named Gunther decided to make our acquaintance. He was a charming little fellow with whom we had much in common. Like us, he was the curious, traveling type. He’d ventured over from a big maple tree to see about some bread and peanut butter. Oh, and he was into bikes as well. He was a bit tied down with work and family, so although he would have liked to join our bicycle tour, he had to stay behind and take care of business.
When we rolled into charming little Magnetawan, we didn’t know where we would stay for the night. We decided to shop in the General Store for dinner eats, and figure it out afterward. We hadn’t been in the General Store for ten minutes before Cary approached us.
“Are you the bikers?” he asked excitedly.
Yep, that’s us, we said. We got to talking and before we knew it, we were being invited to his stay on his lakefront property for as long as we needed. This was great news because we needed to stay in town for a few days before we could meet up with Tony and Elaine.
DEREK
Cary's place
Artist, actor, and postman, Cary was a colorful character. He lead us to his lakefront property three kilometers out of town. He visits his property only twice a year on the weekends, so naturally, the place was unkempt and overgrown, but charming nonetheless. He offered his musty trailer for sleeping quarters but we decided to pitch the tent instead. We enjoyed Cary’s company for three days of fun, including swimming, paddle boating, sunset gazing, and several fantastical conversations around a campfire. We chatted about music, movies, traveling, and how to go about building an enormous and excessive tourist resort in Magnetawan, a scheme to become filthy rich. The Shim Sham Shoo Resort may be opening soon. Northern Ontario’s first all-inclusive resort including golf course, spa, boat-in movie theatre, nightly live music and dance floor, underwater tunnel, airline excursions, ATV and snowmobile tours and its very own cruise line on Whalley Lake, all endorsed by Tiger Woods himself!
At the waterfall
Aside from the delusional conversations, we enjoyed a canoe trip up a canal to a nearby waterfall where we soaked in the current and enjoyed a snack.
As peculiar as he was, we were sad to see Cary leave. He offered his property for as long as we needed and took off, back to his stomping grounds in Toronto.
ERIKA
We were sad to see Cary go. Who would enthrall us with tales of foreign imprisonment after backpacking around Europe, and the joys and woes of life as a postie?
Luckily, Tony and Elaine filled the void. Derek first met them in Bacalar, a small town in the southernmost tip of Mexico.
DEREK
Following four months of cycling through three countries I was reunited with my friends from Mexico. Tony and Elaine were my hosts, swimming partners, and a source of entertainment during the two weeks I rested my legs in Bacalar. They had traveled to Magnetawan to attend a wedding. We met up for a schnitzel dinner to catch up on each others’ adventures, spent the night in a local motel, and enjoyed breakfast the next morning. We had an amazing time Tony and Elaine, thank you, thank you, thank you for everything and I know I’ll see you again soon!
ERIKA
Thanks from me too, Tony and Elaine!
We got a late start on the day out of Magnetawan, 2 PM. Looking at the map, it appeared that our best way to get to our next stop was to take a series of back roads in the direction of Sudbury, until we reached the highway. Judging from previous patterns, we were fairly certain the roads would be dirt or gravel. Neither of us were thrilled about this, especially me.
So far on this trip, the most intolerable nuisance has not been mosquitoes or deer flies or headwinds or rain…but dirt roads, especially under-maintained ones. They can be especially frustrating when using a lot of energy/strategy to climb a hill (with a load of stuff on the back of the bike, keep in mind), and just when you think you are making progress, the rear wheel spins in place because it cannot grip the dirt…in effect causing some of your exertion to be for nothing. This, as well as the uncomfortable bumpiness and the inability to enjoy downhills properly for fear of taking a spill from sand, loose gravel, or unexpected potholes, is the reason I despise dirt roads.
I was not looking forward to it, to say the least. Derek guessed we would have to deal with dirt roads for about fifteen kilometers. After that, he said, we’d be home free, no more dirt roads all the way to Vancouver. Okay I thought, I can handle that.
We’d only been pedaling for a few kilometers before the road diverged. Straight ahead, a goat path. To the right, a road similar in quality to the one we’d been on. I thought briefly about the stretch ahead, sure that it couldn’t possibly be the road we had to take. We were following a road map that was meant for cars. I would have been impressed to watch a four-door sedan surmount the hill ahead. And yet, forward we went.
Derek was a bit ahead of me, as usual. At the crest of the hill, I was coming up over a large and bumpy rock, at least three feet in diameter. I didn’t maneuver the wheel correctly, and my knee and came up and mashed into the end of my handlebar. Yowie!! A shockwave of pain came over me, and I fell over onto the ground.
Five minutes later, I caught up with Derek and we continued on. The “road” had started out a little wider than a regular car. Kilometer after painstaking kilometer, it narrowed and became increasingly rough, mixed with random intervals of sand, which were hard to spot without paying close attention, and were more hazardous than riding on stones. It was also relentlessly hilly.
Crossing beaver ponds north of Magnetawan, ON
To spice things up all the more, we occasionally came across large puddles of overflowed swamp water that required the removal of shoes and the carrying of bikes across. This was the highlight of the excursion.
We started to question whether we were actually on a mapped road. If we were, then according to the map, the ATV trail we were maneuvering was no different than other well-paved, well-shouldered roads we had cycled on. We had no choice but to continue on, and hope that we wouldn’t have to back-track. I was incredibly frustrated by the extremely poor condition of the “road.” My only consolation was that it was almost over. Only a few kilometers to go until we reached an intersection-I could handle it.
At the hopeful intersection, what do you know, another dirt road. Granted, it was in better condition, and meant for cars. Hold out just a little bit longer, I told myself.
Half an hour later, we came to another intersection. Dirt road. Derek had come to it first. His body language told me something was wrong. “We have to turn around,” he said.
Disappointed was not the word. More like devastated. We had already gone more than fifteen kilometers. My patience was already worn dangerously thin. Nonetheless, we set off back in the opposite direction. It seemed unimaginable that we would encounter any more roads like the first rough one. And yet, at the next intersection, we were diverted onto one much like the rocky mess we’d struggled through.
I should mention here that Derek did not seem to mind these roads. He even asserted that they were “fun.” Hm, well, if by “fun” you mean insanely challenging, unpredictable, and injury causing, then yes, loads of fun. I give Derek at lot of credit for getting through it without any visible signs of aggravation. Me? I nearly lost my mind.
About five kilometers from the end (by “end” I mean the haven of pavement we so often take for granted), a man named Dave in a pickup truck descended from heaven and stopped to ask us if we wanted a place to stay, offering to drive us out to the pavement in the morning. Soon we were bouncing along with bikes in the back, toward showers, food, and a comfy bed.
Later, I calculated how far we had come on the dirt roads that day. Nearly fifty kilometers. Wow. I’m holding you to your word, Derek. No more dirt roads…ever!
DEREK
All right, all right… I promise… I guess. But you can’t say that wasn’t an adventure, and any adventure is a good one if you escape with all digits intact. I too was glad when Dave rolled up in his truck.
Dave is a cyclist as well, hence the immediate offer for food and shelter for the night. He’s spent most of his life in the bush in northern Ontario, living for the endless list of outdoor activities that this rural, lake-abundant region offers, all the while timber framing for money. His wife, Linda, lives the same way.
We were given the grand tour, fed a delicious dinner, exchanged stories, and fell into a deep sleep on a proper mattress for the night. The following morning we were given a ride out to the pavement and we were on our way. Thanks Dave and Linda!
We slept on Killarney's curling rink.
Westward we cycled on paved highway towards Lake Huron and Highway 69. Following advice from Dave and Linda, we opted to take a seventy kilometer detour to the town of Killarney, which sits on the shores of Georgian Bay on the Great Lake. This area offers some remarkable scenery, “world famous” fish and chips, and all with a relaxing small town feel. Since the only access to Killarney is a single road, and we weren’t keen on backtracking, we rolled into town with a plan to hitch a ride on a boat to Manitoulin Island. On our second day we had some luck.
ERIKA
It wasn’t looking good. Our plan was a bit sketchy. In fact, we didn’t actually have a plan, but our lack of plan seemed to be doing something for us. We were sitting on a bench near the dock where frolicking tourists were coming to and fro with their fish and chips. We sat there with our bikes, debating about how we were going to manage to convince a stranger to take us to Little Current, assuming we found a stranger who was going to Little Current.
We sat there conspicuously (I think this was part of the plan), and before we knew it, groups of people and couples and singles were approaching us, each in turn, asking us what we were doing, where we were going, and commenting in their predictable way like, “You rode on this from where?!” With each encounter, we made a point of asserting our angle:
“We’re trying to get to Little Current. We were hoping to find a boat going there that would take us along.” Try after try, either they weren’t going or they didn’t have a boat. Arg. We weren’t getting anywhere.
I was feeling a tad hopeless about the situation and decided to distract myself by going to retrieve our clothes from the laundromat. I deserted Derek, hoping somehow he’d have better luck without me.
I took my time getting there, pulling the clothes out, folding. Stewing about how it was probably not going to work and we’d have to ride sixty-seven kilometers back out to the westward highway. A woman standing by the washer began talking to me, and I was answering her absently. My ears perked up when she mentioned she had a boat. Bingo. I gave my speech, and ten minutes later I was trotting triumphantly back the dock, fresh laundry in hand, to tell Derek the good news.
DEREK
Where was Erika? She had been gone for over a half-hour, and just to retrieve our laundry that was a few doors down. Meanwhile, I had a myriad of visitors bombarding me with questions, and none of them were piloting a boat to Little Current. There were moments during this half-hour that I had an audience gathered around me, listening to the facts of my journey, and asking the same questions repeatedly. Not long before my vocal chords withdrew from the conversation and left me to act out my story, I glimpsed Erika gleefully skipping back with the bag of clean clothes. “Did you have any luck?” she asked?
“No, but I think the whole town knows we’re here and looking for a ride”
“Well, I have one definite ride” was her reply.
“Oh… what?… Fantastic!”
Frank and Terry from the boat “Frankly Terryfic” were offering a ride to Little Current if we were willing to join them on a one day excursion into Baie Fine, a long narrow bay on the north end of Lake Huron, not far from Manitoulin Island.
"Frankly Terryfic" with our bicycles on Baie Fine
We loaded our bikes onto Frankly Terryfic and were on our way, weaving through the coastal islands and inlets of northern Lake Huron.
By the end of the day, we had arrived at the northern tip of Baie Fine, where we dropped anchor and jumped in for a swim.
Frank and Terry have been living on their boat for three years, and have been traveling “The Great Loop” for the past year. The route takes them from the southern tip of Florida, up the coast, inland via a series of locks to the great lakes, through Lake Michigan, down the Mississippi and the Tennessee Rivers to Mobile, Alabama, and back along the Gulf of Mexico to Florida.
We chatted about our travels as we enjoyed dinner while anchored in Baie Fine, a finer experience I could not imagine. It was shortly after dinner that we were visited by a lake monster so horrifying that Erika vowed never to swim in a lake again…EVER!
ERIKA
I’d like to take this moment to remind you, Derek, of all the times you’ve assured me about the safety of lakes. All the times you’ve watched me with a puzzled expression as I floated with quiet apprehension, stealing nervous glances at the darkness below. Not even an hour after our swim, we were paid a visit by exactly the kind of creature that I imagine lurks just inches beneath my pinky toe:
AHHH 3 FOOT TURTLE!
After two days of fabulous boating, we have arrived in Little Current, ON, at the tip of Manitoulin Island. From here we plan to pick up our pace considerably, as we now have no other people to meet or wait for, and we are psyching ourselves up to tackle the rest of northern Ontario, and then through Manitoba, Saskatchewan, Alberta, and finally British Columbia. (Am I a total fool for giggling at the name Saskatchewan?) We’ve got a lot of ground to cover, and not much time to cover it before snow starts falling on the Rockies, possibly in late September or early October.
One more of the cute squirrel.
