biking to b.c.

Chapter 1

Sunday, September 3rd 2000

Day 1

I leave Ipperwash at ten o’clock, about three hours behind schedule. I was delayed in getting to bed because of a late night of guitar playing around the fire. I loaded up the bike yesterday evening and was astonished at how soon it became fully packed, yet I still had more things to add. My luggage compartments consist of a Canadian Tire rear pannier that hangs over both sides of a rack at the back of the bike and a small bag that hangs over the front handle bars. My tent, sleeping bag, and sleeping pad are roped together and then roped to the rear of the bike. Additional gear is stuffed under ropes, between gaps, and finally in two plastic bags tied to the top of the heap. It all leaves an impression of a messy room on wheels.
But I am off and the first thing that strikes me, is despite the weight and the bike’s lack of a streamlined profile, it glided along just fine. For the first 10 km I am immersed in the pleasure of starting a journey. Finally being under way. This ends quickly, however, as I start to sense a combined numbness and chaffing around my privates. Soon it becomes unbearable and before long I have to pull over and take a look down my shorts to make sure everything is still there. Expecting severe colouration and possibly blood I am relieved to see that everything appears well. And after the short rest, all sensitivity subsides, at least temporarily, after which the process is repeated. This pattern lasts the day, but I find that regular stops give me a chance to take a look around, have a drink of water, and loosen the pain in my neck.
From my cottage at Ipperwash, I ride along the highway heading almost due north following the shoreline of Lake Huron, though I rarely see the lake as it is always a few kilometres away. The first town I come to is Grand Bend, summer party headquarters for the teenagers of London, Ontario. This Sunday, the last long weekend of the summer, the streets are crowded with pick-up trucks and jeeps sporting teenagers with hang-overs. It is a motivating experience.
I stop for lunch twice today: once at noon and again at two in the afternoon. I even enjoy a tea at an outdoor café in Goderich. Initially I was shooting for a river north of Goderich to stop for the day, but I reach this by four and am still feeling good, so I continue. It is at kilometre ninety, among fields of corn that I run out of gas. Ahead I spot a church spire and enjoy a rest at its front steps.
I would be lying if I say that riding today is all happy. My pains alternate between my neck and my butt, and for periods it is simply hard going. But most of the time the wind is blowing my way, from the south. This is the only time that the wind stops whistling past my ears, and allows me to hear the hum of the tires on the pavement. The sense of speed becomes very apparent and the overall sensation can make spirits soar. When the wind isn’t so optimal and I begin to feel lousy I know that I could stop this feeling instantly by pulling over and walking away from the bike.
While sitting on the church steps I watch a spider weave a web within the bars of the metal banister. To be reincarnated as a spider would surely be an engineer’s dream. Realising that it is Sunday and mass ended only a few hours ago, I wonder if this spider makes a web here every week only to be wiped away by people entering the church the next Sunday. In the cemetery behind the church, nearly every name is Irish, with some markers dating to the eighteen seventies. Two sisters died a year apart at ages twenty four and thirteen.
Hunger and a lack of energy direct me to find a place to stay the night shortly beyond the church. I turn off the highway onto the first gravel road I come upon and follow it to some woods. I find a grassy patch in the forest and make my first camp amongst a healthy population of furry black and yellow caterpillars.
I’m stretched out inside my tent with a good amount of daylight passing through its yellow walls. On top of feeling tired and content after a good days work I’m glad my tent makes me feel so comfortable in a strange place. And I’m glad that after pulling out my pen and a pad of paper I still have energy to put down the thoughts for the day, before they drift away.





Day 2

I wake to the sound of a strong wind. I step out of the tent and see from the blowing treetops that it is coming from the north. A cold front came through during the night and swept away the warm and humid summer air that had been lingering for a week. This could be described as a stiff wind. Caterpillars trying to cross the road are blown about by this wind. My theme for the day is ‘slow but steady’ and I am surprised to find that distances can still be made. From the little riding I’ve done previously I know there will be days like this, so in a way I am prepared and don’t let it get me down.
Something that becomes plainly obvious to anyone cycling through the country is that animals love bikes. It is a pastime of mine, when driving in a car, to honk at passing cattle or even moo loudly out the window. For one cow to turn it’s head is a great accomplishment as farm animals seem indifferent to cars. On a bike, however, it is not unusual to find every animal in a field stop in their tracks and stare at me with utmost concentration. And this without any hand waving or shouting on my part! Just pedaling. Passing one field I catch the interest of about one hundred and fifty head of cattle. On another, fifty elk sit quietly and observe me go by. On yet another, I have the attention of a whole field of sheep.
I stop on the gravel alongside the road for a drink in the afternoon. Shortly after, I realise that I am in front of a horse ranch. One horse has a large pen to itself, and it appears to be going berserk. It sprints in wide circles while bucking and jerking its head to the sky. Then it runs back and forth along a fence, on the other side of which are three horses paying no attention. Occasionally, it skids to a halt and faces me, being entirely still for a moment. Then it continues with its performance.
I like the attention that the gazing animals give. It always brings a little joy. The streets and towns that I pass through aren’t lined with people applauding me on my bike ride, but I get my share of followers in the country.
The only attention that is not appreciated is from dogs. Unlike the other animals, they are not passive in their observations. Many become quite irate and are not afraid to show it. Most just bark violently, held back by fence or rope. But in my two days of biking, so far, I’ve been chased by three dogs. Sometimes I can’t see the dog, but if the barking starts to get louder and louder I know it is loose and on the chase. It is no use trying to out-pedal a dog as this is impossible, and as with a bear, it only makes them more interested in the hunt. Some time ago I heard that if you are aggressive with a dog, it will likely cower. Not knowing or having any other forms of defence I give this a try.
The first dog sneaks up on me without a sound. The surprise of seeing a big dark dog beside me nearly sends me flying off the bike. At once, and mostly by instinct I belt out “Hey”! And with that the dog looks to be overcome with embarrassment. It immediately veers to the right, off the road, and circles back to the farm house. The second dog isn’t so co-operative and persists to follow after two ‘HEY’s but it too eventually veers back on its own accord without ever getting too close. The third dog is a German shepherd from the opposite side of the street. It instantly stops and shies away after my verbal assault.
Another unfortunate encounter with animals while biking is road kill. I know of no other sport or past time subjects the participant to more dead animals. Racoons and snakes are the most popular, but within every few kilometres are representative birds, cats, frogs, toads, skunks, possums, and rodents. I hate to think of the larger carcasses I might come across once I leave the farmland of Southern Ontario.
Despite a good steady morning pedal into the wind the day turns nearly disastrous. Early in the afternoon I begin to feel soreness under my right knee cap. For a long period after noticing the pain, there is a great silence in my mind, like the silence between people when the situation is grave. I do not want to think about the implications. Not after only one day of riding.
Last summer I tree-planted for my first time near Metatchewan in North-eastern Ontario. I did it for the money, but I must admit that I didn’t want to grow old without experiencing this Canadian tradition. Simply put, though, tree planting is a hell ride.
As the two months of planting progressed I found myself lagging behind the performance of others in my crew. Sometimes I thought it was because I was the oldest guy in camp, but mostly I figured it was due to my outstanding daydreaming abilities along with my lazy work ethic. At the end of planting, it was obvious that my body was not the same as when I started. The continuous step up and down with the weight of trees around my waist, the kicking of ground cover and the stomping of the seedling gave my knees a beating.
Immediately after my return to civilization I painfully realised that I couldn’t jog without feeling pain. My sense of indestructibility was lost.
Although I still couldn’t run, the daily annoyance that occurred in my knee finally subsided this winter. So, theoretically, the smooth motion of biking, as compared with the jarring of running, would not bring back the ghost of tree planting. Today I find the theory to be flawed.
From the moment I detect something isn’t normal, the pain steadily gets worse, until I am limping on the bike (pushing down on my left foot hard enough so the pedal comes back around without any assistance from the right). I reach the town of Port Elgin and can go no further. I head off the highway and down to the beaches and marina. Sitting in a hopeless state, with a plate of french fries on my lap I look out onto the glorious chopping water, crisp sky, and white sailboats glistening in the afternoon sun. “What am I going to do now”? I think.
I decide to head for the nearby provincial park and take the next day off.

The idea for this bout of travel was conceived two weeks ago and since then it reached a remarkable brilliance, outshining all my other thoughts. I had been walking along a street overlooking the Saguenay Fjord in Tadoussac, Quebec. While looking at the spectacular setting my thoughts turned to how little travelling I had done in the past couple of years.
I often have what you might call nightmares. While sleeping, my eyes are open and I can see while still dreaming. But I can never make sense of the objects I’m looking at. Everything is confusing and leaves me feeling lost or trapped (or both). After a seeming eternity, some connection is made and I realise that the patterns that my eyes are picking up are the same as objects stored in my memory, like a ceiling, and a window, and pictures. It is always a peaceful enlightenment, but it comes after much anxiety.
Walking along the ocean in Tadoussac I could suddenly see my life from a whole new perspective. I realized that I wasn’t tied down to anything, and therefore, anything was possible. It seemed as though some part of me had been in darkness for many years. I felt like my future was limitless and my possibilities were infinite, making me dizzy with potential. It was here I decided to go west.
Silly dreams are to me what staples are to a stapler. It is very hard to tell, however, which dreams might actually work and which are pipe dreams.
But over the years I’ve discovered a technique that often works in differentiating between the two types of dreams. What I do is I think about them as soon as I wake up. In the morning I’m a different sort of chap. I’m cranky. I’d rather eat my socks for breakfast than strike up a conversation with someone. So if a dream still seems reasistic come morning, than hey, it just might work.
Seven mornings after Tadoussac I was back at my cottage and swimming with my friend Paul. The late August water of Lake Huron was as warm as it gets and we were out there for much of the afternoon. We were standing chest deep in the water when I asked him, “What are you up to next weekend?”
“Nothing.”
“Would you give me a drive to Goderich?” I asked.
“What for?”
“I’m thinking of hitchhiking out west and I think it would be a good place to start from.” I had no particular destination. I thought maybe I would go out west and then north or south.
With a look of scepticism he questioned, “What do your folks think about this?”
“I haven’t told anyone.”
“I don’t think that’s a good Idea,” he concluded.
I continued diving in the water and floating on my back looking up at the sky. About 15 minutes later I said to him “Don’t worry about it. I don’t think I’m going to hitchhike.”
I think he was relieved that I wasn’t going to do anything silly, but I decided right there to bike west rather than hitchhike. My friend Lien lent me his bike a month ago. I’ve ridden it to Ravenswood and back, maybe three times (about six kilometres) when the waves were low and canoeing out on the lake wasn’t much fun. Besides that I hadn’t been on a bike for two years but I didn’t see this as an obstacle.
Until Lien pulled the bike out of his parent’s garage it hadn’t been touched in a few years. Despite its two flat tires it was in good (rust free) shape. When I borrowed it I told him I might take it on a long trip, and he said no problem.
And this brings me to yesterday morning when I gathered up some of my camping stuff and borrowed a bike jersey from my brother. I told my mom I was biking up the lake for the long weekend and would be back Monday.
Though I am hoping to go further I honestly don’t know how far I can get.




Day 3
A Day Off

I have returned to the same boulder by the cove where I sat during a walk earlier this morning. It looks out onto a rocky bay lined by cedars on the Lake Huron shore. It’s nicely protected from the wind, and I bask in the glow of the dying day. There are no clouds in the dark blue sky; only the sun, half moon, and a jet contrail. This is what people on a weekend hike are hoping to arrive at; some sheltered place in the sun overlooking wildness. A place indifferent to our busy world. Soon, though, the sun will touch the treetops and this mirage of comfort will be replaced by a chill.
This is McGregor Provincial Park, and it has been home for the day. I staggered here yesterday in a miserable state, and although it is only 5km from Port Elgin, the distance and its two hills at the end of a long day nearly killed me. When I arrived at the camp office I found it closed, with a note left by the staff instructing campers to find their own sites and register in the morning. The cost for a site is $20 regardless if you have two cars and four tents, or a bike and one tent.
I decided to find my own camping spot in the woods and continued into the park to a far cluster of campsites and from there I headed into the forest to find a small open area for my tent.
Today is the first day of school across Canada, and the unofficial end of summer. The end of this season is rarely a good thing, but as I start to think about it perhaps there are a few advantages for me. For one, thousands of cars carrying families of vacationers and RVs will be off the highways and the parks that I pass will be nearly vacant. Also, the cold front that came through yesterday took any signs of mosquitoes with it. It isn’t likely they are gone for good, but they shouldn’t be back with any great force. And the cold temperatures at night will soon turn trees yellow and red, and falling leaves may shower me much of the way across my travels.
My knee seems to be feeling better after walking and resting for the day, but it is far from fixed. I decide that I would rather do this trip at half the speed than not at all. Time is on my side as I have no other plans. This bike trip is my only plan. The only pressing circumstance related to time is the coming of winter, and winter comes early in many parts of Canada.
I think I have picked a destination today. Two days ago, I thought I could bike anywhere. I wanted to head westward, and then would be forced south by the coming winter. California or Mexico or beyond was possible. My first day of riding was such a great day that the possibilities seemed limitless. But after yesterday, I think I have to pick somewhere realistic, or else I might quit after some hard days. So I’ve chosen Kokanee Glacier Provincial Park as my destination.
Three years ago, I lived in the town of Nelson, BC. From town I could see the glacier atop Battleship Mountain. I did plenty of hiking and biking when I was out there, but never made it to the Kokanee, which I’ve regretted. So I think that’s what I’ll do. Bike to BC and hike up to the Kokanee.
Because I told my family I was only going to be gone for a few days I call my mother. I tell her that I’m now trying to bike to Sault. Ste. Marie. She is a bit confused but is happy I’m doing fine. I wish I could tell her my true hopes, but I want to make sure they are realistic.
I climb into the tent and hope for a successful day tomorrow.
In the middle of the night I wake to the sound of hundreds of geese landing and socializing not far through the woods. In the silence of a windless night their noise was something awful. At the same time, I begin to hear racoons fighting near by. I guess none of the animals read the ‘no excessive noise at any time’ sign posted in the park.
Later, at three in the morning I suddenly wake to the sound of scratching coming from the direction of my bike. I jump up and open the tent zipper. Standing on two feet and scratching at my saddle bag with its two front paws (as if trying to dig a hole through the nylon) is a small racoon. I kick the side of the tent and yell ‘HEY’, as this has been working on dogs. In response the racoon merely glances at me with a look it would give to a passing moth. In disbelief I lay in my sleeping bag, leaning out the side of the tent, and watch it continue scratching. He is not further than two meters from my face. I look around on the forest floor and pick up the biggest sticks within reach. Throwing with my left hand, the first pieces of wood completely miss him, but after a couple glances off his side he gets the idea and saunters off into the darkness. I figure that this battle might last the rest of the night so I get up to make sure everything is secure.




Day 4

At noon I arrive at Sauble Beach and leave the paved highway for hard packed sand. I ride the length of beach, which stretches for a good ten kilometres along Lake Huron. The sand is perfect, like Ipperwash sand. Grade “A” sand castle-building sand. I set out my towel and lie in the sun for a while. The water on Lake Huron remains at record low levels, which makes for an incredibly wide beach.
Past Port Elgin the land changes character as I ride onto the Bruce Peninsula. The farmland gives way to rocky soil and forests of pine and cedar. The Bruce Peninsula is a finger that stretches out into the water 100km separating Georgian Bay from Lake Huron. On the other side of the peninsula are 100m high cliffs, part of the Niagara Escarpment that, if followed, would lead to Niagara Falls to the south. On the west side of the peninsula, however, the rocky land slips tamely into the water.
I stop riding early in the evening, which allows me time to search for a quality camp site along the shore. I find a small bay lined with cottages. The water is so low, and the slope of land so shallow, that vast areas of new ground have emerged, giving me numerous choices for a home. Although I’ve set the tent up a good distance from the shore, I will be flooded out if the water level goes up four centimetres. This is a bit freaky as it looks as though the tide is out, and having spent some time recently at the ocean, I can probably expect a couple of bad dreams tonight.
The shore consists of a mix between sand and muck. It is broken by rising blocks of limestone, dune grass, and bleached tree trunks. The sky has been clear all day, with little wind, yet the sunset is not as colourful as it has been.
My knee is feeling good right now, but I couldn’t have gone more than 50km today. I think tomorrow will be a better indicator of things to come.




Day 5

I wake this morning before the sun rises, break camp and start riding an hour later. It takes some time to get going before the start of the day, not because I’m sitting around, but because everything just takes time. I dress, eat breakfast, roll up my sleeping bag and pad, fold up the tent, and then pack everything and string up the bike (something which I’ve not yet perfected). For breakfast I eat granola with powdered milk and water. This is basically what I eat at home. My only fussy part about powdered milk is that it doesn’t taste good warm, but this isn’t a problem as it is usually cool at night (which chills my water).
The wind is very light to start off, but favourable, from the south. Again today I am riding almost due north. Although my destination is Western Canada, I’m actually slightly more east from where I started this trip, despite three days of riding.
My knee starts feeling funny right from the start today which I am not happy about because I had nursed it for the whole day yesterday. So I change tactics and decide to cycle through the injury, or die.
While I can, I stick to the roads closer to the shore where the traffic is virtually non-existent. The forests on these side-roads wrap closely around me and are quiet. I am rewarded with a deer that jumps across the road and vanishes into the woods. The trouble with side roads, though, is you never know where they are going. The highways are well laid out on the road map, but many of the minor roads and their twists and turns just aren’t there. The one I am on ends at a four way stop, with three ways being gravel. I choose the one to the right that heads back to the highway. The ride is not as bumpy as I thought it would be as the road is more sand than gravel, but it begins to meander through the forest and after a few unsigned junctions I become pensive. There’s no definite boundary between being lost, and not lost. Just a slippery slope between optimism and pessimism.
And there really is nothing like a sign for the weary. This one stands at a ‘Y’ in the road and is small with an arrow, below which says ‘Hwy. 6’. Once back to the highway I can capitalise on the strengthening wind.
I stop at a restaurant for water and ask how often the ferry leaves Tobermory for Manitoulin Island. The older woman behind the register points to a schedule on the wall. There are only two crossings per day and the last one leaves at 1:30. I look at my watch and it is 10 o’clock.
I ask how long it is to Tobermory and the woman replies “A forty-five minute drive. It’s not like it’s over the hill.”
With that I get back on my bike and fly with the wind. I have a ferry to catch!
After an hour of riding I come to a sign indicating Tobermory is still forty-seven kilometres away, inspiring me to keep up the pace as there is much work to do.
I don’t have to make the ferry today, of course. I could spend the night at the tip of the peninsula, perhaps at Bruce Peninsula National Park. But to be on Manitoulin Island this evening would be a great psychological boost.
The road to Tobermory is the most hilly I have biked. I am starting to get tired. I look at my watch and it is past one o’clock. The road ahead continues to meander with no sign of habitation. I pause at the side of the highway for a drink break with thoughts of missing the boat when I hear the toot of the ferry whistle from over the woods. I jump back on Lien’s bike with renewed enthusiasm. In minutes, a line of cars is travelling towards me, which I assume came off the ferry. At fifteen minutes after one I am heading down the hill into the town. At the dock I stop at a booth to buy a ticket and join the already moving line of cars onto the ship.
The ship is the famous Chi-chi-maun and I love every second of the ride. I buy some chips to celebrate making the ferry and stroll the decks sitting here and there. What must be the regular ferry goers are reading news papers and sleeping. I was hoping someone would say “I’m surprised you made it,” but no one does.
The waves are large and when the boat starts rocking an announcement comes over the P.A. telling people to hold onto a hand rail. I spend much time looking over the side watching the waves crash against the hull. Occasionally, when a big wave hits, the entire ship shudders. As the waves approach, the white crests grow up and break with enough force to vaporize the water beneath the surface, producing a brilliant emerald colour.
Reaching Manitoulin Island means the first small leg of this trip is complete. The ferry lands at a place called South Baymouth, which is more a handful of cottages than a town. From the ferry terminal I ride only a few kilometres to a nice clearing in the cedar woods between the highway and the water. The shore looks out to the east over South Bay. The rock here is very flat and layered. It has been broken and laid in large piles, from wave action, I suppose, near the waters edge.
As I walk down to the water I scare off a handful of mergansers, and what I think to be their young. But as they take flight they immediately break off into two groups and I see that the small birds were swallows. In the confusion, though, one merganser mistakenly follows the smaller birds for a few seconds, discovers its error, and veers back to join its kind. There are white crayfish claws and various other parts scattered along the shore. This prompts a more cautious entry into the water than usual. The water is pleasantly warm.
The wind remains swift from the south, yet it feels cold. I wonder what is behind all this wind. A great high pressure system somewhere over Quebec? Maybe it’s just the onshore effect. Studying weather has always been my great love, but for all my observations I’ve learned that there is very little, if anything, that can be predicted from one view point.




Day 6

I am amazed at how many abandoned farm houses I see today. They always present a sort of beauty, unless they have vinyl or fake brick siding. One decaying log home is particularly stunning and it perplexes me that no one can find a use for it.
Biking today is slower because the wind is from the west, but I can’t expect a tail wind every day. Yesterday evening the sky was clear so I didn’t put the fly over the tent. Sure enough, sprinkles of water coming through the skylight woke me in the night. I had to jump out of bed and rush in the dark to get things covered up. The night was warm and humid and I slept on top of the sleeping bag.
I’m afraid to say it, but I’ve turned into a certified stretch freak, someone that I would have laughed at a week ago. I’ve never liked stretching. Never had the time for it. This isn’t entirely true as I like to say that I stretch every morning. But it only lasts a couple seconds and consists of simultaneously extending my arms upwards, bending my upper body back and yawning at the same time (like a cat). So now I’m paying the price. Every time I stop I pull one foot behind my butt and hold it. Then I do the old touch the toes (point towards the toes in my case). Then I hold the back of my head and pull it forward to stretch my neck. While cycling, I stop about every fifteen minutes, which seems like a lot, and is, but I need it to alleviate my pains.
The highway to Little Current winds mostly along farms, but great tracts of forests are always near. Many fields are abandoned, and the remaining appears to be on marginal soil. The land gives a feeling of stepping back in time. This is a world away from the economic bustle of Toronto.
Before Little Current the road comes down an escarpment at the top of which is a great lookout. I can see the white quartz hills of Killarney to the east across Manitowaning Bay. To the north are the Cloche Mountains. Numerous islands dot the bay, making the waters look like a kayaking or sailing paradise.
In Little Current I park my bike on the main street beside a war memorial which overlooks the short channel separating the island from the mainland. I buy some groceries (Kraft Dinner, crackers, and cookies) and return to the bike.
Two grade sevenish kids cycle up, look at the bike and ask me where I’m from. I say “Toronto”, assuming they didn’t know where Ipperwash, Sarnia, or London are. I saddle the bike and the larger kid asks, “Where are you headed?”
“To look for a place to camp.”
He suggests I head down the street to the city park along the water.
“If you get bored,” he says with a straight face, “you can play on the swings.” Before leaving, he asks, “What do you think of Manitoulin Island?”
“It’s very beautiful.”
After a pause he replies, “After 13 years you wouldn’t find it very beautiful.”
I pick a spot in the grass along the water’s edge to camp. I set up my tent and then open my sleeping pad on the grass and kneel on it to stretch my legs. The sun is bright with only a few wisps of high clouds in the deep blue sky.
As I kneel I look around and study the tall natural grasses and wild flowers, and the open water infront of me.
Warm feelings flood me as I think about where I came today and where I am now and how nice it is out here.
This all combines to make an elusive perfect moment.





Day 7

It’s partly cloudy for the first time since I left Ipperwash. The winds are very light from the east and south.
A swing bridge connects Manitoulin Island to the rest of Canada. Every half hour it slowly rotates ninety degrees, allowing ships to pass, before returning to a bridge. It actually connects not to the mainland but Great La Cloche Island, which is surprisingly flat and unpopulated. Continuing north, the highway crosses another channel. This one has a historic plaque, which is always a welcome sight as it gives me reason to take a break. It reads “Through this channel at Swift Current passed canoes of explorers, missionaries, and fur traders… with the Ottawa River, the Mattawa River, Lake Nipissing, the French River, Georgina Bay, and the North Channel to Lakes Michigan and Superior, this waterway was a link in the great canoe route into the continent.”
I look down the narrow waterway cut into the rock and wish that I could follow the voyageur route. Perhaps some day. What keeps me from leaving the road is the fact that my canoe is far away. My enthusiasm to bike on is saved by the lure of the granite hills ahead.
At Birch Island, rocks blasted to make way for the highway change from light layered brittle rock to massive orange blocks. I’m now riding on the Canadian Shield. Throughout the day I see blasted rock representing many shades and colours; White, black, red, yellow, blue-grey, and purple.
Before reaching Espanola I cross La Cloche Mountains. This is truly Gods country. A land of bleached rock with scattered white pine, numerous lakes and moving water. Unfortunately, the hills run east-west, which means I cut across them all too quickly.
Approaching from the south into Espanola I descend a large hill, which pushes me beyond the speed limit as I pass the Canadian Tire at the edge of town. I need some groceries so I head downtown, but find no stores there. In the centre of town looms a giant Domtar plant and the largest pile of sawdust I’ve ever seen! I backtrack to the new grocery megaplex that I passed coming into town, and settle for lunch at a picnic table overlooking the parking lot.
Just as I finish my lunch, an older native man walks up, with a fishing pole in hand, and tells me I have picked the best table to eat at as it doesn’t squeak or rock like the others. He is very dark with long black hair that rises above his head and then falls down his back, as if he is facing a stiff breeze. He wears oversized glasses, a wool sweater, and plaid jacket. A large crucifix hangs half way down his ample belly.
I ask him where he has been fishing.
“Just through those bushes,” he says, motioning up the highway and out of town. “Yesterday, me and my friend were fishing and a large pike broke my buddy’s reel. He had to pull it in by hand, and when the fish got up to him the lure came loose, and he grasped the fish with one hand. But the fish realised it had a chance and got away. He should have grabbed the fish with two hands. Two hands, and just scoop it to shore. Yeah, that’s where we mainly go fishing but sometimes we go three miles up the road. About an hour walk. Two hours if we’re kicking the rocks and not paying attention. If we see moose or deer tracks or partridge then we tell some of the guys in town so they know where to go hunting. There have been bear a couple times, too. But I’ve only been back in town for five… no, six years. I was in T.O. Met-tro-pol-lit-tan Toronto.”
He chuckles after saying this, but continues, “But I’m from here originally, and I came back. I was actually born in Chapleau but grew up here. I went to school here. I lasted a month. First I went to a Catholic school but our teacher was from Germany and he tried to tell us how our country should be. He tried to teach us all these things, like science…”
He takes a long pause and finishes, “geology, and history. I told him we only had 200 years of history here, and some people I knew were 100 years old and they told us the stories. All the stories we needed to know. I told him that what he should be teaching us was reading, writing, spelling, and arithmetic. That’s it. That’s all you need to get along in the world. And if you learn these you can go places. You can communicate. Reading and spelling. Not history. And because of that I got expelled. I didn’t cause injury to nobody and I got expelled. We tried to talk with them but they told us that was the way it was to be. So I went to a public school. I did no school work there. Nothing. And then one day I put my foot up on the wall like this and they expelled me.” He lifts out his leg and slowly touches it against the seat of the picnic table. “How come when we grew up, and there were fifteen of us, we all got along? But at school they couldn’t make us get along. Well, my brother sometimes threw tantrums. You know how some kids throw tantrums like this,” he begins to slowly stomp on the ground, turning slowly until he makes one revolution. When he faces me again he continues, “Well my brother went like this,” he says as he rocks his upper body forward and back. “He really threw bad fits,” he says while laughing. Then he gets serious again, leans forward to let his arms dangle and then begins shaking them as he continues, “My other brother used to do this. We would have to take a paper bag, blow it up, and pop it beside his head to make him stop. And some people get smart from watching TV and some people take school through the mail. Correspondence. My sister did that. Now she has her own shop. She learned business stuff. And she has a new house. She gave her other house to her daughter, who really loved that house. My brothers work with the logs. Then there’s religion. Some people choose religion for the fringe benefits and retirement package: eternal salvation. The other way is to have your soul burn down there. I don’t want any of that. I’m going with Gee-Oh-Dee. I met a couple prophets when I was in Toronto. Prophets from overseas. They’ve seen the image of Mary. They told me how it was going to be if we don’t get things shipshape. Last time he flooded the earth and saved us and some of the animals. This time he’s gonna skip them and just come for us ‘cause he’s mad.”
He takes the cigarettes out of his breast pocket and places them beside his fishing pole leaning against the table. He looks around and says, “Did you see the ladies sitting out here? They’re usually always here. And you know how they are; always [brings his hand up beside his mouth to mimic a talking puppet]. I’m going to get a coffee,” he says and heads into the grocery store.
While he is gone I start gathering up my things. He returns and asks where I am off to today. I say I am trying to reach Massey, and I ask if it will be hilly.
He describes every hill and turn from Espanola to Massey. “You should be there between three and four o’clock.”
As I stand the bike up I ask him his name, and he says Joseph. I thank him for talking and say so long. Halfway across the parking lot I hear a shout and look back to see him give a wave with a big smile on his face.
The last part of today’s cycle marks my first leg on Highway 17 and my first thrust west. Although I’ve been on the road for six days I’m still more east than where I began. But now that I’ve reached the north shore of Lake Huron, I can make progress towards the very distant mountains.
The highway is newly paved, and despite being busy, there is always half a metre of good pavement to the right of the white line. Along the new highway I come upon a raven waddling on the other side of the road. As I pass I yell a ‘squawk’ to which he gives a hop. Maybe I should have yelled, “stay out of my dreams, trickster!” I woke twice last night, certain that someone was calling my name. I even unzipped the tent to look over the starlit land in search of the caller. I haven’t had a completely restful night yet.
I arrive at Massey by four, as Joseph had predicted, and head off onto a side street to find camp. The town backs onto both the River Aux Sauble and the Spanish River. I am taking longer than usual to find a half decent place to put up my tent, when I come to a sign that leads me to the Mouth of the Sauble Park. From the camping spot I make I can look out the door of my tent across the sand bar to where the smaller river flows into the Spanish.




Day 8

I’m not in good spirits. It is overcast. The clouds hang low to the ground. A white shroud lies over the hills and forest. Although it is sombre, it’s not a bad ride as there has been no wind. After lunch, though, it rains for the afternoon making all my pains more nagging.
With my head down to avoid the rain, I stare at what I imagine to be a conveyer belt of asphalt slipping beneath my front tire. I could be riding on any highway.
On an empty stomach, I arrive at Blind River by three and cook supper on a picnic table in a park overlooking the water. By this time the rain has finished and the grey sky is brightening, but I see no blue. After supper I go to Tim Horton’s for a tea as a little reward for the rain, and read almost every word of the Sunday Star. Still feeling low and hungry I buy a forty-nine cent cone at Macdonald’s.
On my way through town, while looking for a place to camp, I pause at a stop sign and lose hold of Lien’s bike. The bike has fallen over a few times on this trip, usually due to high winds, but never with me standing over it. It’s so unevenly weighted, that when it starts to go, there is little that can be done, save help it down gently. A kilometre later, one of the securing ropes breaks, dumping my tent and sleeping bag onto the road. Finally, when I do get out of town, large ‘No Camping’ and ‘No Trespassing’ signs await me.
I head back towards the edge of town and shove the bike through some damp, chest high grass and bushes of an abandoned industrial site. My sleeping bag continuously falls off the back of the bike, and a couple mosquitoes hover around my ears.
It is here that everything reaches a breaking point! I push the bike down into the weeds and stand looking at it in disdain. I want either to throw every item on the bike as far as possible, or cry.
With a tremendous amount of patience I put up the tent, crawl into my sleeping bag and pray for a fresh start tomorrow.
When everything is going well it is fine to be alone and rejoice in the world. But when it isn’t, it’s a heavy burden for one person to shoulder.




Day 9

It’s still raining! So I sleep in, and after a restful night, the world looks a bit brighter than it had before bed. Except for the fact that the foot of my sleeping bag is swimming in water. Again I left the fly off the tent, more out of defiance than common sense, and again I had to get up and throw it over the tent mid-night. As I was not too concerned about things, though, I just draped it over, without securing the corners. I didn’t realise until the morning that I hadn’t covered one whole corner! Hence, a lot of water came inside.
Finally the rain stops. I quickly pack up camp and return to the road. The highway follows the bank of the Mississagi River. Large but gentle, like the lower Spanish River. The rain soon returns and is accompanied by some bursts of lightning, causing me to wonder if being on the road during an electrical storm is the safest place to be. But I keep on.
I pass a freshly killed baby snake on the road and circle back to look at it more closely. It has a dark green back and yellow belly, with a perfect yellow striped collar. It isn’t half a centimetre wide.
At Thessalon I stop for lunch at a brand new public marina. I walk the bike across a floating walkway onto a granite island less than 50 metres wide. It is perfect. Although the sun is obscured by cloud, its warming power can still be felt so I lay out my sleeping bag and boots to dry.
After lunch I go to the small marina office, at which I saw a sign for showers. A nice hot shower would hit the spot. The only other person I see is an extremely tanned and weathered man, who I thought to be just drifting around. But when I go into the office, he is sitting behind the desk. I ask about the showers, and he says they are for boaters only. “Even if I pay?” I ask.
“Sorry, those are the rules,” he replies.
I return to the island and lie down for a rest. I may have even dozed off when suddenly I hear someone say, “If you want a shower, you should get it quick. I’m only here till 4.” He has changed his mind. I jump up, thank him, quickly grab my toiletries and towel and follow the man.
“Watch it! The water is very hot,” he advises me, as he unlocks the door. He wasn’t kidding either. Once the hot water started flowing, the pipe and handle became almost too hot to turn off.
I finish in five minutes and thank him again. He tells me to take care.
While sitting on the island earlier I was in awe at the size of this lake. I’ve been on the road for many days and I haven’t even left the Lake Huron shore.
After leaving Thessalon, I feel the wind strong at my back, and it seems as if nothing can stop me. The asphalt passing beneath me is a blur and at times I think that I can take flight if I only had wings. I feel like I am in a great road race. It is exhilarating.
There are more views of the water now than over the past few days. The road passes alternatively through forested granite hills, flats, and pastures. I decide to camp in the woods immediately beside the highway tonight. It is remote here and the tent sits nicely on the moss beneath Red and White Pines. I’ve had enough of heading off on side roads near towns.
I am near the top of the largest hill I’ve come across today. Although the road is not far below my camp, I feel like I’m surrounded by wilderness. The rock around my tent is dressed in lichen. Some are green flakes that occasionally form brown cups. Other patches are more soft and moist. There is also the tiny blue-grey lichen that is almost painted on the rock.
For supper I try a new flavour of Presidents Choice macaroni dinner called ‘Deluxe Cheddar’. The instructions (always read to pass the time) say to stir the cheddar bursts until they dissolve thoroughly. Cheddar bursts? Curious, I prematurely open the cheese packet, expecting to find… something life altering. I am disappointed to see the same old cheese powder that I have seen too many times before. After vigorous stirring, there is much cheese paste stuck to the spoon, regardless of how much I wang it against the rim of the pot. As a last resort I scrape the clumped powder off with my teeth and spit it into my dinner. And my opinion on the meal? I am not disappointed. It is delicious. For my dinners I’ve been alternating between my own pasta creations, made from garlic powder, romano cheese, oil, and black pepper, and Kraft Dinner look-a-likes. Any pasta is good with me and for about 1$ a supper, I can’t go wrong.
Now in my tent I hear two red squirrels running through the trees. One stops on one side of me and the other on the other side. They both bark and make the biggest racket their little bodies can. Lying on my back, I poke my head out of the tent and look up at the one and try my best to mimic it. They’re not impressed and soon run off together.
I have yet to surpass the distance I made on the first day of this trip, but at ninety kilometres, today was close. Before leaving Ipperwash, when this trip existed only in my head, I figured I should be able to average at least 100 km a day, therefore, making it to BC in a month. In reality, either because my knee or because I’m not used to putting in a full day of physical work, it looks like it might take two months to reach my destination. Regardless of my pace, I am overflowing with pride at the fact that I’m still here and still pushing.





Day 10

Some time in the middle of the night a violent lightning storm sweeps over the area, sending at least one bolt down onto my hill. I could see the flashes get brighter and brighter through my closed eyes as the thunder increased in quickness and in anger. When it was on my doorstep I waited in an agonising silence for the next strike. This summer at my cottage I realised that my fear of thunder storms is no less than when I was a kid. Being struck by lightning is a small part of that fear. Most of my fear comes from the unpredictable blasts of thunder that are so close they come at the same time as the flash. We often look at the natural world as tending towards good or evil. Snakes are bad. Rabbits are good. In the middle of the night, when it’s sparking down on top of the hill where you sleep, lightning comes straight from the depths of hell.
The storm brings more rain that lasts, on and off, until morning. When it breaks I rush to pack and get on my way. Within no time, the low clouds part and show the blue up above. In an hour clear sky dominates. Although the past three days have been cloudy with rain, the wind has been consistently from the east. Today, it has spun around from the west, and although it is against me I enjoy the crisp air and sunshine that it brings.
After passing along a straight stretch of road through ploughed fields, and then a reserve, I arrive at Sault Ste. Marie, Soo-Saint-Marie, or the Soo. As reaching Lake Superior means this is a special day, I buy myself a carton of milk, a croissant, some salted corn things, a banana, and an orange for lunch.
There are a couple of institutions that a city of this size provides. The first is a YMCA or recreation complex. I head here next and at the desk I ask if there is a place inside where I can leave my bike. This is the first time it would leave my sight for more than five minutes. The two women greet me very warmly and let me keep it in an unused room, and on hearing where I was from and going, they waive the $5 guest fee, and treat me as a small celebrity.
In order, I jump into the pool, lie in the whirlpool, jump back into the pool, and sit in the sauna. I repeat this three times over the next two hours. Words to describe my overall sensation are hard to come by. I find it hard to turn off the shower nozzle at the end. If it were possible to live the rest of my life under a stream of warm water, I surely would.
The second important institution I visit is the public library. Here I check and send email for the first time since leaving. I write my friends a message reading “Just biked to the Soo. I’m on my way to Thunder Bay, and possibly BC unless I throw the bike in the woods and thumb a ride back.”
After emailing from the library, which is down by the rapids that separate the two Great Lakes, I take over a couple benches in the park overlooking the water. I lay out my sleeping bag, shorts and towel to dry in the late but strong afternoon sun. The Michigan city of Sault Ste. Marie is a kilometre across the fast moving water. The bridge locks, and rapids are all visible.
While I’m refilling my fuel bottle, a bearded, short, fortyish, Irish-looking street fellow come walking across the park grass in my direction. He walks right past me to the water’s edge, stops, turns around and asks, “How’s it going, bud?”
“Just fine,” I reply.
As I pour the can of camp fuel into my bottle he asks, “What’s that? Booze?”
“No, its fuel for my stove.” My camping stuff is scattered all over the bench, but he is not deterred and takes a seat on my drying towel!
Looking out over the water he asks, “So where are you coming from?”
“Sarnia.”
He doesn’t respond. He looks over his shoulder and yells at another man walking in the shade of some trees across the park, “Hey! Stu!” He turns to me, “The guy’s as deaf as a bat … Stu!”
Then he whistles, which is deafening, and Stu saunters over. Stu is wearing a shiny blue jacket. He is much darker, and a bit older than the other guy on the bench. His hair is short and kept.
“So, did you get the booze?” The bearded man asks as Stu sits down.
“What booze?” Stu asks.
“From those guys over there.”
“I didn’t see any guys.”
“Jesus Christ. What do you mean you didn’t see any guys? They’re right over there!” The bearded one says pointing back over to where Stu had just come from.
With that Stu is off and his friend confides in me, “Nice guy but dumb as a runt.” He asks where I am heading and I say B.C.
“Holy f@#$! That will take you … like, a month!”
“I’m thinking maybe two.”
“What are you doing that for?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “To see the country I guess.”
Stu comes back with six cans of beer in a plastic bag. His friend offers me a beer, and when I decline, he quickly says OK. The three of us sit quietly facing the water.
I ask what the big building is directly across the water on the American side.
“That’s the power house.” Stu quickly responds. After a pause he continues, “And they call that tower over there the Tower of the Missionaries. Just in case you wanted to know.”
Before long I am packing my things and the bearded one starts to get a laugh at how the bike is piling up.
“Holy f@#$!” He coughs when he catches his breath. “Look at that thing! It’s a f@#$in’ transport. You got a god damned moving van. Hey!” he says as he elbows Stu “If you want your stuff moved, call this guy. Holy f@#$!” The bearded one is bent over laughing a very hoarse laugh.
But then he becomes quite serious. “You know,” he says, looking directly at me, “I know this place, but the directions are really hard. Anyway, I know this priest, he’s a good guy, and he will give you forty bucks if you want.”
“I’m not the richest person in the world, but I’m all right for money.”
There is a long pause. “Do you want a place to stay in town? There’s this place that you can stay for free and you get a free breakfast. It’s a white building just two blocks from here. It used to be a hotel but now it’s run by the Baptist. Go there now and you’ll get some good supper and breakfast in the morning. Just ask for Reverend Harry. If he’s not there some of the others will take care of you.” I tell him I will check it out. They both wish me well as I walk the bike back across the park.
I did leave the option open for staying in some place with a roof over my head, even if just for the experience of staying at a shelter. But because it is a nice evening, and because I fear my freedom will be restricted, I pass on it.
I head north out of town at 7:30pm. I see that the next leg of the trip is going to be very different as soon after leaving the city the land becomes much more rugged and wild. My tent tonight is surrounded by a magnificent forest of large pine and maple not far from the highway.