Today, we were all smiles. We were going to be home before dark! Our beloved pets were waiting to be petted. Our own comfy beds were calling. Our own familiar surroundings beckoned us back towards home.
But first, eight hours or so of highway driving, including the infamous Pennsylvania Turnpike. The first couple of hours in Ohio just looked like home to me. No matter that I have now lived in the DC area about two decades, the rolling hills of Ohio are still what come to mind when I think of “home.”
And yet, to get to our own homes, we had to skip going back through Columbus to stay at Mom’s house again. I knew Mom would be disappointed, but I also knew she would understand. I tried to salve my conscience that I would be seeing her at the beach in a week, but I still felt stabs of unworthy daughter guilt and the thought that what's a child to do, even an adult child, but disappoint her mother?
We hadn’t been hot and sweaty for weeks, but Michigan and Ohio brought heat. We rolled up jackets and packed them away. We guzzled water at every stop. But the day was truly beautiful, as was the ride. We hit the Beltway around DC, and traffic thickened. It didn’t matter, because we were an hour from home! As we rounded the Beltway, we saw thick, gray clouds on the horizon, and we headed right into them.
At the last gas stop, we said our goodbyes to K and S in advance. Once L and I got to our exit, we would peel off while S and K continued to their exit. But as we approached our exit, L and I talked helmet-to-helmet that it just didn’t seem right to cap off an 8,000 mile trip with a disinterested wave of “See ya later.” We decided to ride with them to their house, give them a proper hug and goodbye, then head the last few miles for our home.
We had been staring at the gray clouds for so long that we had convinced ourselves they were impotent. Nothing could stand in the way of these four intrepid travelers! And just after we passed the last possible moment to exit to our house and away from the clouds, those clouds burst. With a vengeance. On a stretch of Beltway called “The Mixing Bowl” where it would be suicidal to try to pull off onto a shoulder and don rain gear. Where the rain pelted down so hard and so quickly that it would be useless to try to pull off and don rain gear as our clothing was no longer dry enough to even try to protect. We were drenched in moments. Saturated. Sodden. And laughing at the absurdity of it all. Ten more minutes and S and K could have been home dry. Fifteen more minutes, and L and I could have made it as well. But no, first one last cosmic joke.
In the end, we waved goodbye anyway as we parted at a stop light. There was obviously not going to be a leisurely goodbye in their driveway with this rain. L and I headed to our own home, L leading. Two miles left to our own driveway, and l drove through a huge standing puddle of water in the road. She watched in her mirror as she saw a huge plume of water stream off the back wheels of the trailer, arc majestically in the air, and crash right into my face. We laughed so hard that we almost ran off the road.
Daily Recap: 480 miles, States: Return through OH, PA, MD, and PA
Total trip recap: 7,784 miles, or 338 miles/day average. A few hundred photos. About 144 freezer bag meals. Can’t even imagine how many ounces of Gatorade. About 65 gas stops. One lost retainer. One back broken, then repaired. 5 oil and/or repair stops. Amazing wildlife viewed. Postcard quality scenery seen. Countless laughs enjoyed. And friends for life. Priceless.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Day 22: Back in the USA
We woke for the day, excited that we would be back in the United States of America within half an hour. We had tried to use up our Canadian cash so that we would only have a little change left and nothing substantial to exchange. First stop, our last Tim Horton’s breakfast. Next stop, border patrol.
A quick check of the passports, and we were in the fingers of the mitten of Michigan. We got to add another state to our map of places visited by motorcycle. Somehow we have missed Michigan on every other trip.
The first scene to confront us back in the states was the Mackinac Bridge that connects the upper and lower peninsulas of Michigan. It is a 5-mile long bridge. Seriously. And of course, the bridge was under construction. One lane was closed, and the other lane had the asphalt removed down to the bridge deck latticework so that two-wheeled vehicles sway all over the place and people driving the two-wheeled vehicles can see all the way down to the great lake below. People driving the two-wheeled vehicles were terrified and whimpering inside their own helmets.
The whole reason we planned our trip back through Canada instead of heading back through Montana, etc. the way we came is that there is a route along Lake Michigan that is highlighted by the Harley Owner’s Group as an especially beautiful motorcycle ride. We thought it would be a great way to cap off our summer trip.
We looked at the map and did some math. If we put in 500-some miles today and 480 tomorrow, we could get home a day earlier (Saturday) so we could relax and decompress on Sunday before returning to work. And if we headed straight down I-75 instead of jogging west for the pretty highlight route, we could cut today’s mileage to the 440 range. This is what a long, exhausting trip will do to you: we said t’hell with the highlighted route and barreled down I-75 instead. The entire reason we came back 2,000 miles or so through Canadian provinces, and we bagged out on the pretty route.
Our first gas stop, and we were thrilled that back in the states, pay-at-the-pump is the default standard. We only saw pay-at-the-pump at new gas stations in bigger cities throughout Canada. We saw speed limits in MPH again, and bought gas in gallons. I should also add that gas is significantly cheaper in the States. And we were back in the land of traffic. Friday morning and then afternoon brought a torrent of traffic with it. We knew it was coming, that reacquaintance with population and big city traffic, but it was still difficult to readjust.
We hit a little bit of rain that turned to bright blue skies as we entered Ohio. Today’s destination was a KOA in Toledo, in the middle of cornfields. For our last night of the trip, we pulled out all the stops. Instead of eating out of freezer bags, we pulled out a big pot and made a pasta dish together to be eaten out of, yes, bowls. We also made a just-add-cold-water cheesecake-like dessert.
As we were talking and laughing and licking the remains of our dessert off our sporks, a guy in a Harley t-shirt walked over to chat with us. He was traveling alone in one of the RV’s, headed to North Carolina for a work project. He travels all over the country for his specific construction inspection skills, and he lives in his RV. He was unassuming and clearly lonely. Who were we to deny a fellow traveler a little conversation? None of us had the heart to turn him away.
I shouldn’t have waited 3 weeks from finishing the trip to write about it. I’m sure really funny things happened on this day, but now I just don’t recall.
Daily Recap: 420 miles, States: Michigan (new on our maps), back to Ohio
A quick check of the passports, and we were in the fingers of the mitten of Michigan. We got to add another state to our map of places visited by motorcycle. Somehow we have missed Michigan on every other trip.
The first scene to confront us back in the states was the Mackinac Bridge that connects the upper and lower peninsulas of Michigan. It is a 5-mile long bridge. Seriously. And of course, the bridge was under construction. One lane was closed, and the other lane had the asphalt removed down to the bridge deck latticework so that two-wheeled vehicles sway all over the place and people driving the two-wheeled vehicles can see all the way down to the great lake below. People driving the two-wheeled vehicles were terrified and whimpering inside their own helmets.
The whole reason we planned our trip back through Canada instead of heading back through Montana, etc. the way we came is that there is a route along Lake Michigan that is highlighted by the Harley Owner’s Group as an especially beautiful motorcycle ride. We thought it would be a great way to cap off our summer trip.
We looked at the map and did some math. If we put in 500-some miles today and 480 tomorrow, we could get home a day earlier (Saturday) so we could relax and decompress on Sunday before returning to work. And if we headed straight down I-75 instead of jogging west for the pretty highlight route, we could cut today’s mileage to the 440 range. This is what a long, exhausting trip will do to you: we said t’hell with the highlighted route and barreled down I-75 instead. The entire reason we came back 2,000 miles or so through Canadian provinces, and we bagged out on the pretty route.
Our first gas stop, and we were thrilled that back in the states, pay-at-the-pump is the default standard. We only saw pay-at-the-pump at new gas stations in bigger cities throughout Canada. We saw speed limits in MPH again, and bought gas in gallons. I should also add that gas is significantly cheaper in the States. And we were back in the land of traffic. Friday morning and then afternoon brought a torrent of traffic with it. We knew it was coming, that reacquaintance with population and big city traffic, but it was still difficult to readjust.
We hit a little bit of rain that turned to bright blue skies as we entered Ohio. Today’s destination was a KOA in Toledo, in the middle of cornfields. For our last night of the trip, we pulled out all the stops. Instead of eating out of freezer bags, we pulled out a big pot and made a pasta dish together to be eaten out of, yes, bowls. We also made a just-add-cold-water cheesecake-like dessert.
As we were talking and laughing and licking the remains of our dessert off our sporks, a guy in a Harley t-shirt walked over to chat with us. He was traveling alone in one of the RV’s, headed to North Carolina for a work project. He travels all over the country for his specific construction inspection skills, and he lives in his RV. He was unassuming and clearly lonely. Who were we to deny a fellow traveler a little conversation? None of us had the heart to turn him away.
I shouldn’t have waited 3 weeks from finishing the trip to write about it. I’m sure really funny things happened on this day, but now I just don’t recall.
Daily Recap: 420 miles, States: Michigan (new on our maps), back to Ohio
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Day 21: Last Day in Canada
Our morning started out bright and cheery. We had our oatmeal and coffee while a big bunny at the end of our campsite ate patches of clover, totally unconcerned with us. We headed out and hoped the rain was over for us.
The first 100 miles snaked along Lake Superior, and we had continual glimpses of the lake through openings in the thick trees. We rode up and down the rolling terrain, in and out of curves, always looking to the right to catch sight of the lake.
As we headed east over the past week, I think we all instinctively expected that we were moving toward more population. Maybe not DC metropolitan area type population, but, you know, the crowded east coast kind of population. However, when we looked at the map, we could see each day that our route through Canada was only about 100 miles north of North Dakota, then Minnnesota, then Wisconsin, and now Michigan. These are not particularly populous states, especially the northern reaches of these states, so it should have been no surprise to us that the towns we passed through were tiny and with limited services.
We rode on, continually noticing the gray clouds on the horizon closing in on us. We pulled over and put on the rain gear. It was only a matter of time before the rain caught us. S had a few days back mentioned over dinner how she had been thinking the only way she would ever get K to agree to this kind of trip again was to get an RV that would hold the bikes in the back. S serenaded us with her ruminations on what the RV would hold and the comfort it would provide. She extolled the convenience of one person driving while others napped or enjoyed the scenery or made sandwiches for the group.
As we rode through sprinkles then drizzles, all I could do was fantasize about that RV. All I could think about was being dry and being able to chat together and look-look-look to my heart’s content without having to worry about running off the road or into the person in front of me. I pulled my chin into my jacket and bent forward into the raindrops, sulking, and picking out additional features for the RV.
K and I were not pulling trailers, and so our bikes could go 180 miles or so before refueling. S and L could go about 40 miles less than that on a 5-gallon tank, so we always tried to plan gas stops at about 100 to 120 miles. When you spend this kind of time on a bike, you need to stop about every 2 hours anyway, just to stretch your legs and refocus your attention.
We had been driving and driving without seeing any kind of town or gas station, and now our trip odometers were showing about 120 miles on this tank. We had seen a couple of billboards for some kind of Native American trading post ahead, but it was impossible to tell if it would have gas or was just an outlet for handmade craft items. All of a sudden, we turned a corner and saw a building with a gas pump out front. Unfortunately, we had so little warning that we didn’t have time to turn. We were on a winding, wet, two-lane road, so our next opportunity to stop and turn around was at a scenic pull-off about 8 miles down the road. We deliberated. Go back and hope the gas was operational (these far-flung establishments are often out of gas), or continue on to the trading post that we thought was 15-18 miles ahead, from our best recollection of the billboards we had seen.
We mulled it over. If we continued, we would get to the trading post at about 145 miles or so on the tank and two of us would be running on fumes. About then, another car pulled in from the opposite direction, and K was dispatched to go ask them how far it was from the nearest gas they had seen. K is always sent on these errands, because her face and demeanor obviously state to the world that she only uses her powers for good. She could get the nastiest curmudgeon in the world to melt and give her a kind word. I trailed along. I don’t have the same magical powers as K, but apparently I do have a “girl next door” face that is so unintimidating that wherever I go in the whole wide world, I am continually picked out of a crowd and asked for directions.
The couple told K that they had passed a place about 15 or 20 minutes back that had gas. We figured that must be our trading post. K asked, “So, it’s about 15 or 20 minutes ahead of us, so it’s less than 20 miles, right?” The Canadian couple faltered and said, “Well, it depends on how fast you drive.” We have become so accustomed to the fact that a speed of 60 miles per hour means a mile per minute that we use this rule-of-thumb estimate all the time in coming up with a ballpark range for traveling. The metric system has no such easy equivalent.
We chanced it, and 18 miles later, we pulled into a gas station surrounded by a cheesy tourist trap of little Indian-themed shops full of every ticky-tack tchotchke and trinket and knickknack and gew gaw. Bears whittled out of acorns and coasters made of twigs and scat encased in Lucite. Crystal inukshuks. Taffy totem poles and fudge wigwams. T-shirts with trite slogans. Kids running wild everywhere. This was apparently the first major souvenir destination in Canada from the Michigan crossing at Sault Ste. Marie, and all those children cooped up in cars for hours were let out to burn off energy. Four bikers also walked the encampment, just as happy to be off two wheels for awhile.
One advantage of road tripping by motorcycle is that no one expects you to haul souvenirs back for them when you have such limited packing room. An hour later, we left the trading post with no trades.
Our destination was the Sault Ste. Marie KOA on the Canadian side. Michigan has a city of the same name on the other side of the border. It would be our last night in Canada. It was a bit wet but not actively raining, and so S and L pressed for camping again, while K and I angled for a hotel. We didn’t press it but hoped the KOA would be full. No such luck.
L had been joking that by the time she and S got came out after registering, K and I would have pulled off and gotten ourselves a motel instead. It was our game to pretend that K and I would hotel it while S and L would camp it. As we turned around and were driving to our site, S and L led. L waved at us, as if to say, “Bye bye now.” It was all I needed. I drove right past the turn off to our site and headed back out to the road. K followed me. We sat at the KOA driveway and thought we needed to make them sweat it a little, so we decided to drive down the road to the closest gas station/convenience mart and pick up some sodas or something to go with dinner.
We realized our little joke had gone wrong when we drove 4 miles without seeing a gas station, and then even that one was closed. In the end, it took us about 15 minutes to find a place, and by then, we figured S and L might actually be getting worried. Our only defense was to bring back some serious loot to make up for it. We bought drinks along with chips and salsa, and then we headed back. Now it wasn’t even fun anymore. A joke is 5 or 10 minutes. Half an hour is just cruel. We pulled back into the KOA and faced terse smiles by S and L who said, “You think you’re reeaaalll funny, don’t you?” The chips and salsa were considered an acceptable peace offering.
We were given the least desirable lot of the place – it was right next to the RV wash station. No one washed their RV’s while we were there, but the site obviously always had standing water because the mosquitoes were brutal. Instead of trying to dine at our site, the KOA had a nice pavilion with minimal mosquitoes, and it even had a big screen TV that played DVD movies on a 2-hour schedule. We took our chips, salsa, freezer bag meals, and hot water pot to the pavilion to a lovely dinner while watching Robin Williams in “RV.” The movie was hilarious and a great evening together watching Robin Williams have a far worse time in his RV than we could hope to complain about on our bikes. Still, we started thinking about real plans to rent an RV for our next big trip instead of riding motorcycles.
Daily Recap: 330 miles, Province: Ontario (Sault St Marie)
The first 100 miles snaked along Lake Superior, and we had continual glimpses of the lake through openings in the thick trees. We rode up and down the rolling terrain, in and out of curves, always looking to the right to catch sight of the lake.
As we headed east over the past week, I think we all instinctively expected that we were moving toward more population. Maybe not DC metropolitan area type population, but, you know, the crowded east coast kind of population. However, when we looked at the map, we could see each day that our route through Canada was only about 100 miles north of North Dakota, then Minnnesota, then Wisconsin, and now Michigan. These are not particularly populous states, especially the northern reaches of these states, so it should have been no surprise to us that the towns we passed through were tiny and with limited services.
We rode on, continually noticing the gray clouds on the horizon closing in on us. We pulled over and put on the rain gear. It was only a matter of time before the rain caught us. S had a few days back mentioned over dinner how she had been thinking the only way she would ever get K to agree to this kind of trip again was to get an RV that would hold the bikes in the back. S serenaded us with her ruminations on what the RV would hold and the comfort it would provide. She extolled the convenience of one person driving while others napped or enjoyed the scenery or made sandwiches for the group.
As we rode through sprinkles then drizzles, all I could do was fantasize about that RV. All I could think about was being dry and being able to chat together and look-look-look to my heart’s content without having to worry about running off the road or into the person in front of me. I pulled my chin into my jacket and bent forward into the raindrops, sulking, and picking out additional features for the RV.
K and I were not pulling trailers, and so our bikes could go 180 miles or so before refueling. S and L could go about 40 miles less than that on a 5-gallon tank, so we always tried to plan gas stops at about 100 to 120 miles. When you spend this kind of time on a bike, you need to stop about every 2 hours anyway, just to stretch your legs and refocus your attention.
We had been driving and driving without seeing any kind of town or gas station, and now our trip odometers were showing about 120 miles on this tank. We had seen a couple of billboards for some kind of Native American trading post ahead, but it was impossible to tell if it would have gas or was just an outlet for handmade craft items. All of a sudden, we turned a corner and saw a building with a gas pump out front. Unfortunately, we had so little warning that we didn’t have time to turn. We were on a winding, wet, two-lane road, so our next opportunity to stop and turn around was at a scenic pull-off about 8 miles down the road. We deliberated. Go back and hope the gas was operational (these far-flung establishments are often out of gas), or continue on to the trading post that we thought was 15-18 miles ahead, from our best recollection of the billboards we had seen.
We mulled it over. If we continued, we would get to the trading post at about 145 miles or so on the tank and two of us would be running on fumes. About then, another car pulled in from the opposite direction, and K was dispatched to go ask them how far it was from the nearest gas they had seen. K is always sent on these errands, because her face and demeanor obviously state to the world that she only uses her powers for good. She could get the nastiest curmudgeon in the world to melt and give her a kind word. I trailed along. I don’t have the same magical powers as K, but apparently I do have a “girl next door” face that is so unintimidating that wherever I go in the whole wide world, I am continually picked out of a crowd and asked for directions.
The couple told K that they had passed a place about 15 or 20 minutes back that had gas. We figured that must be our trading post. K asked, “So, it’s about 15 or 20 minutes ahead of us, so it’s less than 20 miles, right?” The Canadian couple faltered and said, “Well, it depends on how fast you drive.” We have become so accustomed to the fact that a speed of 60 miles per hour means a mile per minute that we use this rule-of-thumb estimate all the time in coming up with a ballpark range for traveling. The metric system has no such easy equivalent.
We chanced it, and 18 miles later, we pulled into a gas station surrounded by a cheesy tourist trap of little Indian-themed shops full of every ticky-tack tchotchke and trinket and knickknack and gew gaw. Bears whittled out of acorns and coasters made of twigs and scat encased in Lucite. Crystal inukshuks. Taffy totem poles and fudge wigwams. T-shirts with trite slogans. Kids running wild everywhere. This was apparently the first major souvenir destination in Canada from the Michigan crossing at Sault Ste. Marie, and all those children cooped up in cars for hours were let out to burn off energy. Four bikers also walked the encampment, just as happy to be off two wheels for awhile.
One advantage of road tripping by motorcycle is that no one expects you to haul souvenirs back for them when you have such limited packing room. An hour later, we left the trading post with no trades.
Our destination was the Sault Ste. Marie KOA on the Canadian side. Michigan has a city of the same name on the other side of the border. It would be our last night in Canada. It was a bit wet but not actively raining, and so S and L pressed for camping again, while K and I angled for a hotel. We didn’t press it but hoped the KOA would be full. No such luck.
L had been joking that by the time she and S got came out after registering, K and I would have pulled off and gotten ourselves a motel instead. It was our game to pretend that K and I would hotel it while S and L would camp it. As we turned around and were driving to our site, S and L led. L waved at us, as if to say, “Bye bye now.” It was all I needed. I drove right past the turn off to our site and headed back out to the road. K followed me. We sat at the KOA driveway and thought we needed to make them sweat it a little, so we decided to drive down the road to the closest gas station/convenience mart and pick up some sodas or something to go with dinner.
We realized our little joke had gone wrong when we drove 4 miles without seeing a gas station, and then even that one was closed. In the end, it took us about 15 minutes to find a place, and by then, we figured S and L might actually be getting worried. Our only defense was to bring back some serious loot to make up for it. We bought drinks along with chips and salsa, and then we headed back. Now it wasn’t even fun anymore. A joke is 5 or 10 minutes. Half an hour is just cruel. We pulled back into the KOA and faced terse smiles by S and L who said, “You think you’re reeaaalll funny, don’t you?” The chips and salsa were considered an acceptable peace offering.
We were given the least desirable lot of the place – it was right next to the RV wash station. No one washed their RV’s while we were there, but the site obviously always had standing water because the mosquitoes were brutal. Instead of trying to dine at our site, the KOA had a nice pavilion with minimal mosquitoes, and it even had a big screen TV that played DVD movies on a 2-hour schedule. We took our chips, salsa, freezer bag meals, and hot water pot to the pavilion to a lovely dinner while watching Robin Williams in “RV.” The movie was hilarious and a great evening together watching Robin Williams have a far worse time in his RV than we could hope to complain about on our bikes. Still, we started thinking about real plans to rent an RV for our next big trip instead of riding motorcycles.
Daily Recap: 330 miles, Province: Ontario (Sault St Marie)
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Day 20: Inukshuk
Our day started with gray skies but sunny smiles. It was gray enough and cold enough to start out in rain suits over our jeans. I was wearing my new big ole clunky rubber farm boots. They quickly became my favorite things, even if atrociously styled. My feet were warm and toasty.
The scenery was more hills, rocky formations, and tiny lakes with tiny names. We passed Wabigoon Lake, and I wondered if that was the inspiration for Garrison Keillor’s Lake Wobegon.
When we made our first gas stop in Canada, oh so many days ago, the gas station was selling a series of drinking glasses (one per week, $3.99 each with fillup, that kind of thing) for the Vancouver Olympics in 2010. The drinking glasses had a faux etching of their chosen symbol, a stack of rocks shaped like a man (see photo). We had seen the glasses, and we had seen some rocks stacked up occasionally beside the highway in B.C. However, in Ontario, where you drive through small rock formations all day long, these rock stacks are EVERYWHERE. We found out that this formation is called an “inukshuk,” which is an Inuit word meaning “in the image of man.” They are stone formations built to resemble humans, and they can be found along Canada’s northern shores. They were originally landmarks to aid in navigation for caribou hunting, but Canada has adopted the symbol as a reminder on our dependence on each other. Here endeth the plagiarism of a small informational card I found in a gift shop.
Every turn in the road would have a rock wall beside the road, one or three inukshuks on top, and then, of course, graffiti. We saw a crew of two men painting over the graffiti with paint colored roughly the same red as the rocks. They left the little rock men alone though. L was appalled with all the graffiti. I was more impressed with the dedication of someone so compelled to tell the world that J.L. loves T.D. 4ever that he/she would drive 40 miles down a two-lane road to nowhere to tell the world on a rock. I told L, “Look at it this way: graffiti is just modern petro glyphs. Who is to say the carvings we drive miles to see in ancient caves weren’t just prehistoric teenagers saying, “Og (expletive deleted) mastodon (expletive deleted)?”
L thinks I am seriously disturbed. No doubt, my friends, no doubt.
We stopped in Thunder Bay for lunch. I want to live in Thunder Bay, not because it was a great place or anything, but the NAME! For cryin’ out loud, the name is fantastic! They must name every kid born there Thor. This bay is part of Lake Superior.
Right outside of Thunder Bay, we drove on the Terry Fox Courage Highway. I don’t know if any of my traveling companions knew who he was, but he was a big deal when I was a devoted runner in high school. He had cancer and tried to run across Canada to raise awareness and money for cancer research in 1980. He ran from the Atlantic Ocean to Thunder Bay when he had to stop because his bone cancer had progressed so far. Anyway, I remembered him well and felt a little misty as we passed his memorial. If anyone asks, I’m claiming it was leftover rain.
The day had become beautiful, so K and I were left with no excuses not to go camping. We stopped at Rainbow Falls campground. After we set up the tents and had our dinner out of freezer bags (Chicken Rice and Gravy – one of our favorites), we went for a light hike to see the falls. The sun was setting, and all was right with the world. We reveled in some free time off the bikes, outdoors, in the company of each other.
Daily Recap: 340 miles, Province: Still Ontario (Rainbow Falls Campground)
The scenery was more hills, rocky formations, and tiny lakes with tiny names. We passed Wabigoon Lake, and I wondered if that was the inspiration for Garrison Keillor’s Lake Wobegon.
When we made our first gas stop in Canada, oh so many days ago, the gas station was selling a series of drinking glasses (one per week, $3.99 each with fillup, that kind of thing) for the Vancouver Olympics in 2010. The drinking glasses had a faux etching of their chosen symbol, a stack of rocks shaped like a man (see photo). We had seen the glasses, and we had seen some rocks stacked up occasionally beside the highway in B.C. However, in Ontario, where you drive through small rock formations all day long, these rock stacks are EVERYWHERE. We found out that this formation is called an “inukshuk,” which is an Inuit word meaning “in the image of man.” They are stone formations built to resemble humans, and they can be found along Canada’s northern shores. They were originally landmarks to aid in navigation for caribou hunting, but Canada has adopted the symbol as a reminder on our dependence on each other. Here endeth the plagiarism of a small informational card I found in a gift shop.
Every turn in the road would have a rock wall beside the road, one or three inukshuks on top, and then, of course, graffiti. We saw a crew of two men painting over the graffiti with paint colored roughly the same red as the rocks. They left the little rock men alone though. L was appalled with all the graffiti. I was more impressed with the dedication of someone so compelled to tell the world that J.L. loves T.D. 4ever that he/she would drive 40 miles down a two-lane road to nowhere to tell the world on a rock. I told L, “Look at it this way: graffiti is just modern petro glyphs. Who is to say the carvings we drive miles to see in ancient caves weren’t just prehistoric teenagers saying, “Og (expletive deleted) mastodon (expletive deleted)?”
L thinks I am seriously disturbed. No doubt, my friends, no doubt.
We stopped in Thunder Bay for lunch. I want to live in Thunder Bay, not because it was a great place or anything, but the NAME! For cryin’ out loud, the name is fantastic! They must name every kid born there Thor. This bay is part of Lake Superior.
Right outside of Thunder Bay, we drove on the Terry Fox Courage Highway. I don’t know if any of my traveling companions knew who he was, but he was a big deal when I was a devoted runner in high school. He had cancer and tried to run across Canada to raise awareness and money for cancer research in 1980. He ran from the Atlantic Ocean to Thunder Bay when he had to stop because his bone cancer had progressed so far. Anyway, I remembered him well and felt a little misty as we passed his memorial. If anyone asks, I’m claiming it was leftover rain.
The day had become beautiful, so K and I were left with no excuses not to go camping. We stopped at Rainbow Falls campground. After we set up the tents and had our dinner out of freezer bags (Chicken Rice and Gravy – one of our favorites), we went for a light hike to see the falls. The sun was setting, and all was right with the world. We reveled in some free time off the bikes, outdoors, in the company of each other.
Daily Recap: 340 miles, Province: Still Ontario (Rainbow Falls Campground)
Day 19: More rain = hotel
Sacrebleu! The Hampton Inn in Winnipeg does not have the Belgian waffle maker we know and love. We ate breakfast in the lobby all decked out in jeans and motorcycle gear, among all the professionals getting ready for work. It was a great reminder for me that I didn’t have to go to work or put on a suit today!
We headed out of the city, back to the Trans-Canada highway, no longer called the Yellowhead. Oh, tete jaune, I shall miss you. We settled in for another day of flat fields. A couple of hours later, we crossed into Ontario, and the landscape changed almost literally at the border. It was hilly, and lake-y. Ontario is directly north of Minnesota, land of a thousand lakes. Minnesota gots nuthin on Ontario. Take a gander at Google Earth, and Ontario looks like someone spit blue all over it.
All the lakes had signs by the road to tell you their names. Apparently there is no size limit for what constitutes a lake, and frequently, the body of water on one side of a chunk of rock I passed would have a totally different name than the body of water on the other side of a chunk of rock. I had not looked at a map before setting off, so at first I was amused at the simple lake names: Falcon, Hawk, West Hawk, Eagle, Granite, Jenny, Dixie, Patrick. Then I realized this game was going to go on for the entire province, and I stopped categorizing them by animals, first names, last names, and inanimate objects. By far my favorite names were a trio of three lakes: Dad Lake, Mom Lake, and Baby Lake. These people really have more lakes than they can supply with clever names.
I was wrong about not having to put on a suit today. The rain started and we all put on rain suits. The lakes were probably beautiful, but as you get wetter and colder, bodies of water start losing their appeal.
We were trying to make some time, but towns large enough to support a hotel were scarce. We would worry about finding a town with a working gas station before we ran out of gas. We were getting worried about just that around lunchtime when we came up on an old timey motel with a restaurant and a gas pump out front. We filled up the bikes and tried to figure out how far down the road we had to go to find a decent eatery. L had gone inside, and she came back out to say this would be our eatery. There was a sign in the washroom that said something about how this establishment provided you with a clean restroom and maybe you could show your gratitude by purchasing something to help out a struggling business woman. We are all for helping struggling business women, so we ordered pots of hot coffee and bowls of chili. It’s July.
We finished the day at Dryden. We weren’t sure how much farther we would have to go to find another decent town, and once again, K and I insisted on a hotel – a Holiday Inn was handy. All our clothing was soaked. K had a great deal of experience in drying out gear. She went to New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, and they created these drying rooms to take care of their gear each night. She created a drying room in the hotel bathroom with a portable heater and all our soggy gear on hangers. Worked like a charm.
Our night’s entertainment was a trip to Wal-Mart. I was sick of wet feet and was on the search for waterproof boots. I found these Farmer Brown looking things that were rated to -40 degrees F and -40 degrees C. L looked at the tag and said, “This must be a misprint. It can’t be -40 for both.”
“ Actually, it is right,” I said. “Minus 40 is the one temperature where both Fahrenheit and Celsius are the same.”
Stony silence. “Sometimes it is really irritating to travel with a know-it-all engineer,” she replied.
The boots look ridiculous, but I don’t care. I hope they work, and I also hope I don’t have to find out how well they work. I REALLY hope I don’t find out if they are comfortable down to negative 40 C/F.
Daily Recap: 280 miles, Province: Ontario (Dryden) – Holiday Inn
We headed out of the city, back to the Trans-Canada highway, no longer called the Yellowhead. Oh, tete jaune, I shall miss you. We settled in for another day of flat fields. A couple of hours later, we crossed into Ontario, and the landscape changed almost literally at the border. It was hilly, and lake-y. Ontario is directly north of Minnesota, land of a thousand lakes. Minnesota gots nuthin on Ontario. Take a gander at Google Earth, and Ontario looks like someone spit blue all over it.
All the lakes had signs by the road to tell you their names. Apparently there is no size limit for what constitutes a lake, and frequently, the body of water on one side of a chunk of rock I passed would have a totally different name than the body of water on the other side of a chunk of rock. I had not looked at a map before setting off, so at first I was amused at the simple lake names: Falcon, Hawk, West Hawk, Eagle, Granite, Jenny, Dixie, Patrick. Then I realized this game was going to go on for the entire province, and I stopped categorizing them by animals, first names, last names, and inanimate objects. By far my favorite names were a trio of three lakes: Dad Lake, Mom Lake, and Baby Lake. These people really have more lakes than they can supply with clever names.
I was wrong about not having to put on a suit today. The rain started and we all put on rain suits. The lakes were probably beautiful, but as you get wetter and colder, bodies of water start losing their appeal.
We were trying to make some time, but towns large enough to support a hotel were scarce. We would worry about finding a town with a working gas station before we ran out of gas. We were getting worried about just that around lunchtime when we came up on an old timey motel with a restaurant and a gas pump out front. We filled up the bikes and tried to figure out how far down the road we had to go to find a decent eatery. L had gone inside, and she came back out to say this would be our eatery. There was a sign in the washroom that said something about how this establishment provided you with a clean restroom and maybe you could show your gratitude by purchasing something to help out a struggling business woman. We are all for helping struggling business women, so we ordered pots of hot coffee and bowls of chili. It’s July.
We finished the day at Dryden. We weren’t sure how much farther we would have to go to find another decent town, and once again, K and I insisted on a hotel – a Holiday Inn was handy. All our clothing was soaked. K had a great deal of experience in drying out gear. She went to New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, and they created these drying rooms to take care of their gear each night. She created a drying room in the hotel bathroom with a portable heater and all our soggy gear on hangers. Worked like a charm.
Our night’s entertainment was a trip to Wal-Mart. I was sick of wet feet and was on the search for waterproof boots. I found these Farmer Brown looking things that were rated to -40 degrees F and -40 degrees C. L looked at the tag and said, “This must be a misprint. It can’t be -40 for both.”
“ Actually, it is right,” I said. “Minus 40 is the one temperature where both Fahrenheit and Celsius are the same.”
Stony silence. “Sometimes it is really irritating to travel with a know-it-all engineer,” she replied.
The boots look ridiculous, but I don’t care. I hope they work, and I also hope I don’t have to find out how well they work. I REALLY hope I don’t find out if they are comfortable down to negative 40 C/F.
Daily Recap: 280 miles, Province: Ontario (Dryden) – Holiday Inn
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Day 18: Yellow Fields
On our trip across the parking lot the night before, S noticed a pool of oil under her bike. Oh for pity’s sake; not again. Unbelievably, our hotel was literally walking distance away from a Harley dealer. We took this as our excuse to sleep in, let S take her bike over at 9:00 when the shop opened, and we’d leisurely pack up while they checked it out.
It wasn’t oil. It was transmission fluid. Two bolts holding the cover on were gone, and all the rest were loose. No one in the shop had ever heard of such a thing. S wondered if drunken locals had tampered with her bike the night before at our dirty campsite while we slept. No, surely not, the rest of us insisted. But then again, do you suppose??
We left the flat, yellow fields of Saskatchewan behind for the flat, yellow fields of Manitoba. What is that? Mustard? Golden rod? Some fields are green. Do they cut off the yellow tops when they reap it, then bale the green stalks later? What is that?
I had puzzled on this for three days, and finally some farmer helpfully labeled her fields. The yellow flowered ones were canola. The green ones were flax. I wonder what I would have thought about for three days if the fields way back in Alberta had signs. Probably would have come up with a cure for the common cold, but no, I had to puzzle over crops.
It rained again. K and I insisted on a hotel again. We were headed towards Winnipeg, a major city, and therefore, likely to include a Hampton Inn. S and L lamented that they had spoiled K and I by giving in on the Ramada Inn last night. They figured the camping was over and they wouldn’t get K and I back in tents for the rest of the trip. Or maybe ever.
Clean sheets. Fluffy bedding. Hot showers. Mindless TV to help you downshift from your day. Room Service. These are a few of my favorite things. S and L might be right.
Daily Recap: 300 miles, Province: Manitoba (Winnipeg)
It wasn’t oil. It was transmission fluid. Two bolts holding the cover on were gone, and all the rest were loose. No one in the shop had ever heard of such a thing. S wondered if drunken locals had tampered with her bike the night before at our dirty campsite while we slept. No, surely not, the rest of us insisted. But then again, do you suppose??
We left the flat, yellow fields of Saskatchewan behind for the flat, yellow fields of Manitoba. What is that? Mustard? Golden rod? Some fields are green. Do they cut off the yellow tops when they reap it, then bale the green stalks later? What is that?
I had puzzled on this for three days, and finally some farmer helpfully labeled her fields. The yellow flowered ones were canola. The green ones were flax. I wonder what I would have thought about for three days if the fields way back in Alberta had signs. Probably would have come up with a cure for the common cold, but no, I had to puzzle over crops.
It rained again. K and I insisted on a hotel again. We were headed towards Winnipeg, a major city, and therefore, likely to include a Hampton Inn. S and L lamented that they had spoiled K and I by giving in on the Ramada Inn last night. They figured the camping was over and they wouldn’t get K and I back in tents for the rest of the trip. Or maybe ever.
Clean sheets. Fluffy bedding. Hot showers. Mindless TV to help you downshift from your day. Room Service. These are a few of my favorite things. S and L might be right.
Daily Recap: 300 miles, Province: Manitoba (Winnipeg)
Day 17: Yellow Fields
This morning’s wake up call was thunder. The four of us shot out of bed and packed up camp, hooked up the trailers, and headed out of the dirty park in 20 minutes flat – a trip record by at least half. None of us wanted to pack up a wet tent.
We hit the local Tim Horton’s along with the rain. We went inside to linger over coffee and let the rain blow by. The main clouds had passed, but the roads were wet and the skies were still gray. We pulled on our rain gear and hit the Yellowhead Highway.
Saskatchewan was full of yellow fields. What is that? Mustard? Golden rod? Isn’t golden rod, well, golden? This is bright yellow. What would they do with that much golden rod? What do you do with any golden rod at all? But someone has to grow mustard. I never see mustard in the States. What is that? Hmmm. Some fields are green. Do they cut off the yellow tops when they reap it, then bale the green stalks later? What is that?
It poured. We soaked it up like sponges. Cold, miserable sponges. When we could barely take it anymore, the rain abated and the temperature rose about 10 degrees. We stopped for lunch at a curb outside a local bar (the photo is me and my whitey whiteness trying to look all gangsta outside the bar -- we all cracked up moments later.), then decided to pound out some more miles, since all the towns were tiny and did not support the hospitality industry.
It was amusing to see that this province was trying so hard to encourage tourism. Each little spot on the map had a big sign on the outskirts describing the tourist attraction(s) close at hand. It was an excellent attempt to sell nothing. Almost every town had a “Western Development Museum.” Yawn. These provinces didn’t stand a chance compared with the glorious beauty of British Columbia.
K and I couldn’t do it anymore. We could not camp again when we were soaked. We insisted on a hotel night, so Ramada Inn it was. Wonderfully, right across the parking lot was a Robin’s Donuts. We had never heard of it, but the hotel clerk said it was a great place to eat. She said they had a lot more than doughnuts and recommended the dry ribs.
After luxurious showers with soft, fluffy towels (not the backpacker quick-dry squares of semi-perpetually damp microfiber the four of us use at campsites), we walked across to check out their menu. Our big meal out, and I ordered a ham and cheese sub. Stupid is as stupid does. We have lunchmeat sandwiches about every day, and I order ham.
We hit the local Tim Horton’s along with the rain. We went inside to linger over coffee and let the rain blow by. The main clouds had passed, but the roads were wet and the skies were still gray. We pulled on our rain gear and hit the Yellowhead Highway.
Saskatchewan was full of yellow fields. What is that? Mustard? Golden rod? Isn’t golden rod, well, golden? This is bright yellow. What would they do with that much golden rod? What do you do with any golden rod at all? But someone has to grow mustard. I never see mustard in the States. What is that? Hmmm. Some fields are green. Do they cut off the yellow tops when they reap it, then bale the green stalks later? What is that?
It poured. We soaked it up like sponges. Cold, miserable sponges. When we could barely take it anymore, the rain abated and the temperature rose about 10 degrees. We stopped for lunch at a curb outside a local bar (the photo is me and my whitey whiteness trying to look all gangsta outside the bar -- we all cracked up moments later.), then decided to pound out some more miles, since all the towns were tiny and did not support the hospitality industry.
It was amusing to see that this province was trying so hard to encourage tourism. Each little spot on the map had a big sign on the outskirts describing the tourist attraction(s) close at hand. It was an excellent attempt to sell nothing. Almost every town had a “Western Development Museum.” Yawn. These provinces didn’t stand a chance compared with the glorious beauty of British Columbia.
K and I couldn’t do it anymore. We could not camp again when we were soaked. We insisted on a hotel night, so Ramada Inn it was. Wonderfully, right across the parking lot was a Robin’s Donuts. We had never heard of it, but the hotel clerk said it was a great place to eat. She said they had a lot more than doughnuts and recommended the dry ribs.
After luxurious showers with soft, fluffy towels (not the backpacker quick-dry squares of semi-perpetually damp microfiber the four of us use at campsites), we walked across to check out their menu. Our big meal out, and I ordered a ham and cheese sub. Stupid is as stupid does. We have lunchmeat sandwiches about every day, and I order ham.
S ordered wings. L and K decided to split an order of the highly acclaimed dry ribs. When the order was ready, L and K opened the box to look at the ribs. They were small, pan fried chunks of unidentifiable meat. “These are ribs?” L asked.
“Yes, dry ribs,” the counter clerk answered.
“But they don’t have bones.” L pressed.
“But they’re really good,” the clerk countered.
They were not, in fact, really good. They were not, as far as any of us could tell, ribs. I felt better about my ham and cheese sub selection.
Daily Recap: 380 miles, Province: Still Saskatchewan (Yorkton)
“Yes, dry ribs,” the counter clerk answered.
“But they don’t have bones.” L pressed.
“But they’re really good,” the clerk countered.
They were not, in fact, really good. They were not, as far as any of us could tell, ribs. I felt better about my ham and cheese sub selection.
Daily Recap: 380 miles, Province: Still Saskatchewan (Yorkton)
Day 16: Yellow fields
Putting in long mileage days heading west was facilitated by gaining an hour every few days as we crossed into a new time zone. Heading east meant we had to painfully repay each of these hours. As we packed up in the morning, we could see our bikes parked higher up the hill than our tents. S noticed her back tire was completely bald. We looked at L’s tire as well, since she was also pulling a trailer. L and I had just gotten brand new back tires right before the trip. My tire still looked brand new. L’s tire was down to 1/8 inch of tread. Pulling the trailers was obviously halving the tire life.
We checked the GPS and the Harley maps, and the closest dealer was 100 miles away. We weren’t sure S’s tire would make it that far, especially if she continued to pull the trailer. I had a hitch for my bike, but our trailer has a different wiring connection that S and K’s trailer. We decided I would pull S’s trailer and just use hand signals. We wouldn’t be driving after dark, and we would have one of our group riding right behind me, so we thought 100 miles without trailer lights would be okay.
We made it to Edmonton without anyone blowing a tire. The service department put S and L’s bikes in immediately, but we knew we would be locked in for at least two hours. We used their WiFi to catch up some on my blog and to google campsites for the night. We found whatever we could on the Internet and then called to make a reservation.
New rubber met the road, and we were definitely out of the mountains. The glaciers had bulldozed everything here, and we passed field after field that was as level as a pool table. In the states, we typically saw fields of corn or soybeans. Alberta was full of yellow fields.
What is that? Mustard? Golden rod? Isn’t golden rod, well, golden? This is bright yellow. What is that?
We pressed on to Lloydminster, which is located on the very line between Alberta and Saskatchewan. We were headed to the Sandy Beach Campground but driving through flat yellow fields to get there. We wondered where on God’s green earth they were going to get sand or a beach out of these fields.
The campground was part of a park by a lake (not the glacier green, stunningly beautiful kind, but the pond from the pond succession picture in your biology text book kind) that had trucked in some sand. Our site was near the entrance, right next to a dirt track where the proprietor circled around and around in his four-wheel ATV doing Lord only knows what, but doing it at high speeds and a cloud of dust. Every vehicle full of locals sped by our tents raising another cloud of choking dust.
We had stayed at some seriously flawed camping sites, but this was by far the worst. We walked around after our freezer bag meal of red rice and beans, and we saw the lake. It was just dirty. As was the sand. The washrooms were disgusting. They even had signs on the taps suggesting that the Province of Saskatchewan recommended for your own safety not to drink this water. The man in the ATV buzzed the tents again with the resulting dusty cloud.
We checked the GPS and the Harley maps, and the closest dealer was 100 miles away. We weren’t sure S’s tire would make it that far, especially if she continued to pull the trailer. I had a hitch for my bike, but our trailer has a different wiring connection that S and K’s trailer. We decided I would pull S’s trailer and just use hand signals. We wouldn’t be driving after dark, and we would have one of our group riding right behind me, so we thought 100 miles without trailer lights would be okay.
We made it to Edmonton without anyone blowing a tire. The service department put S and L’s bikes in immediately, but we knew we would be locked in for at least two hours. We used their WiFi to catch up some on my blog and to google campsites for the night. We found whatever we could on the Internet and then called to make a reservation.
New rubber met the road, and we were definitely out of the mountains. The glaciers had bulldozed everything here, and we passed field after field that was as level as a pool table. In the states, we typically saw fields of corn or soybeans. Alberta was full of yellow fields.
What is that? Mustard? Golden rod? Isn’t golden rod, well, golden? This is bright yellow. What is that?
We pressed on to Lloydminster, which is located on the very line between Alberta and Saskatchewan. We were headed to the Sandy Beach Campground but driving through flat yellow fields to get there. We wondered where on God’s green earth they were going to get sand or a beach out of these fields.
The campground was part of a park by a lake (not the glacier green, stunningly beautiful kind, but the pond from the pond succession picture in your biology text book kind) that had trucked in some sand. Our site was near the entrance, right next to a dirt track where the proprietor circled around and around in his four-wheel ATV doing Lord only knows what, but doing it at high speeds and a cloud of dust. Every vehicle full of locals sped by our tents raising another cloud of choking dust.
We had stayed at some seriously flawed camping sites, but this was by far the worst. We walked around after our freezer bag meal of red rice and beans, and we saw the lake. It was just dirty. As was the sand. The washrooms were disgusting. They even had signs on the taps suggesting that the Province of Saskatchewan recommended for your own safety not to drink this water. The man in the ATV buzzed the tents again with the resulting dusty cloud.
The park also had a 9-hole golf course with dirt greens. L was so stunned she had to check. Yep, dirt. You had to rake the "green" when you were finished. This place was all about dirt.
Locals were allowed to access the park until 11:00 p.m. We could not for the life of us figure out what someone would come to the park for at 11:00, except to drink. This must be why the park did not have a website with photos. I told the group I was going to learn to be a little more particular in my questions when phoning campgrounds. “Really? Like what would you ask?” they inquired.
“How about, ‘Of your guests that are dissatisfied, what would their top two complaints be?’”
S laughed. “What management class did that come from? ‘Please appraise your own performance and tell me the top three areas where you believe you could improved compliance to the company’s objectives over the past year.’ ‘Uh, none, I was a great employee.’ ‘Wrong answer! No raise for you!’”
We all laughed. The sad fact is that S left that life behind to become a firefighter, which she loves, and I still hack away in corporate America with its ridiculous lingo.
Daily Recap: 360 miles, Province: Saskatchewan (LLoydminster)
Locals were allowed to access the park until 11:00 p.m. We could not for the life of us figure out what someone would come to the park for at 11:00, except to drink. This must be why the park did not have a website with photos. I told the group I was going to learn to be a little more particular in my questions when phoning campgrounds. “Really? Like what would you ask?” they inquired.
“How about, ‘Of your guests that are dissatisfied, what would their top two complaints be?’”
S laughed. “What management class did that come from? ‘Please appraise your own performance and tell me the top three areas where you believe you could improved compliance to the company’s objectives over the past year.’ ‘Uh, none, I was a great employee.’ ‘Wrong answer! No raise for you!’”
We all laughed. The sad fact is that S left that life behind to become a firefighter, which she loves, and I still hack away in corporate America with its ridiculous lingo.
Daily Recap: 360 miles, Province: Saskatchewan (LLoydminster)
Day 15: Top of Whistler’s
We got up when the construction started right outside our tents – 6:00 a.m. sharp. K said it was only right. We’ve been awakened by angry squirrels, loud ravens, and now, caterpillars. We consoled ourselves with a Tim Horton’s breakfast. Man, are we gonna miss that place.
We had noted early on in the trip that we could go broke buying bottles of water at every gas/meal stop. I am not picky about my water and am cheap in the oddest places, so I decided to refill my water bottle from sinks in restrooms. L needed more water and asked if I would go to the counter and ask to have it refilled while she headed to the washroom. S pointed out that this was ridiculous. The water behind the counter would be the same water that flowed in the bathroom sink. L said there was a big difference. She was not drinking washroom water.
There was no way I was going to stand in line at a busy establishment and ask them to refill a water bottle when they sell bottled water. S looked at me. Now’s your chance! Go refill it in the washroom yourself before L gets back! I scrambled to.
Moments later, I walked back to the table, an empty bottle in my hand. L was back at the table with S and K. “Couldn’t fit the bottle under the tap?” she asked.
“That’s the way it went down,” I affirmed.
A splendid day for a ride, although the afternoon brought unaccustomed heat. We crossed from British Columbia back into Alberta. L and I were trying the intercoms again, and when we saw the “Welcome to Alberta” sign, we both broke into song together, “She lives in Vancouver, Her name is Alberta, She’s my girlfriend, my wonderful girlfriend, my girlfriend who lives in Can-a-da!!” This is the ending to a song from our favorite musical, “Avenue Q.” I think we lost our Harley Owner’s cards right there. It is bad enough that we even know the lyrics to any musical theater, but singing them? At the top of our lungs? In two-part harmony? While riding? Sacrilege. I’m surprised our bikes didn’t spontaneously combust.
As we approached Jasper National Park, L asked the group if we were interested in getting off the bikes for awhile and riding the aerial tram up the mountain. We shot down the idea. Tired, hot, want to get to the campsite. But the miles peeled off pretty quickly, and K pointed out maybe we should make it a tradition to do some crazy ride each trip. Last year, the four of us piled into a bobsled on wheels together when we spent some time in Lake Placid, and I think we set a course record. This was a light mileage day, we were going to be done early, and the cool air at the top of the mountain seemed inviting. We stopped and rode.
The aerial tram is on Whistler’s Mountain. It starts at about 4,300 ft. above sea level and goes up by cable to about 7,500 ft. The Aussie tour guide on the tram is a font of knowledge.
Turns out, Whistler’s Mountain was named for the critters called Hoary Marmots that live at the top and make whistling sounds. Tip for tour guides: you should not say “hoary marmots” on a tram crowded with teenagers and/or motorcycling adults with the senses of humor of twelve year olds. Sophomoric snickering filled the tram. He also told us the peculiar greenish-white color of water we had noticed since we stepped into Canada was from the glacial silt.
At the top, you could hike around lightly or fairly seriously if you wanted to hike up to the very top. The four of us were in motorcycle boots that are designed for protection against small rocks, bugs, road rash if the bike goes down, etc., but they are decided built for staying in one place. A lot of one place. We did minimal hiking, and we watched some critter battle an old Gatorade bottle up and down through his rock cave. I don’t know if it was a hoary marmot, but I didn’t hear it whistle.
We waited for the next tram back the mountain, got back on the bikes, and headed for our campground in Pocahontas, Alberta. It was about 5:30 p.m., or prime animal viewing time. The Yellowhead Highway curved through Jasper National Park, with lakes and rivers on one side and mountain sides on the other, totally protected from towns of any kind. We saw mountain goats standing on rock walls on our left. Then, we saw a skinny wolf loping across a plain to our right. Then we saw a herd of elk? moose? in the trees. We argued later on which. We decided in the spirit of compromise they were a herd of melk. Then we saw another herd of mountain goats. It was a ride through the Wild Kingdom with Marlin Perkins. (The under 40 crowd will once again need to consult Wikipedia.)
We had noted early on in the trip that we could go broke buying bottles of water at every gas/meal stop. I am not picky about my water and am cheap in the oddest places, so I decided to refill my water bottle from sinks in restrooms. L needed more water and asked if I would go to the counter and ask to have it refilled while she headed to the washroom. S pointed out that this was ridiculous. The water behind the counter would be the same water that flowed in the bathroom sink. L said there was a big difference. She was not drinking washroom water.
There was no way I was going to stand in line at a busy establishment and ask them to refill a water bottle when they sell bottled water. S looked at me. Now’s your chance! Go refill it in the washroom yourself before L gets back! I scrambled to.
Moments later, I walked back to the table, an empty bottle in my hand. L was back at the table with S and K. “Couldn’t fit the bottle under the tap?” she asked.
“That’s the way it went down,” I affirmed.
A splendid day for a ride, although the afternoon brought unaccustomed heat. We crossed from British Columbia back into Alberta. L and I were trying the intercoms again, and when we saw the “Welcome to Alberta” sign, we both broke into song together, “She lives in Vancouver, Her name is Alberta, She’s my girlfriend, my wonderful girlfriend, my girlfriend who lives in Can-a-da!!” This is the ending to a song from our favorite musical, “Avenue Q.” I think we lost our Harley Owner’s cards right there. It is bad enough that we even know the lyrics to any musical theater, but singing them? At the top of our lungs? In two-part harmony? While riding? Sacrilege. I’m surprised our bikes didn’t spontaneously combust.
As we approached Jasper National Park, L asked the group if we were interested in getting off the bikes for awhile and riding the aerial tram up the mountain. We shot down the idea. Tired, hot, want to get to the campsite. But the miles peeled off pretty quickly, and K pointed out maybe we should make it a tradition to do some crazy ride each trip. Last year, the four of us piled into a bobsled on wheels together when we spent some time in Lake Placid, and I think we set a course record. This was a light mileage day, we were going to be done early, and the cool air at the top of the mountain seemed inviting. We stopped and rode.
The aerial tram is on Whistler’s Mountain. It starts at about 4,300 ft. above sea level and goes up by cable to about 7,500 ft. The Aussie tour guide on the tram is a font of knowledge.
Turns out, Whistler’s Mountain was named for the critters called Hoary Marmots that live at the top and make whistling sounds. Tip for tour guides: you should not say “hoary marmots” on a tram crowded with teenagers and/or motorcycling adults with the senses of humor of twelve year olds. Sophomoric snickering filled the tram. He also told us the peculiar greenish-white color of water we had noticed since we stepped into Canada was from the glacial silt.
At the top, you could hike around lightly or fairly seriously if you wanted to hike up to the very top. The four of us were in motorcycle boots that are designed for protection against small rocks, bugs, road rash if the bike goes down, etc., but they are decided built for staying in one place. A lot of one place. We did minimal hiking, and we watched some critter battle an old Gatorade bottle up and down through his rock cave. I don’t know if it was a hoary marmot, but I didn’t hear it whistle.
We waited for the next tram back the mountain, got back on the bikes, and headed for our campground in Pocahontas, Alberta. It was about 5:30 p.m., or prime animal viewing time. The Yellowhead Highway curved through Jasper National Park, with lakes and rivers on one side and mountain sides on the other, totally protected from towns of any kind. We saw mountain goats standing on rock walls on our left. Then, we saw a skinny wolf loping across a plain to our right. Then we saw a herd of elk? moose? in the trees. We argued later on which. We decided in the spirit of compromise they were a herd of melk. Then we saw another herd of mountain goats. It was a ride through the Wild Kingdom with Marlin Perkins. (The under 40 crowd will once again need to consult Wikipedia.)
Wild Kingdom continued at our campsite, although only with human critters. Campsite courtesy is that quiet time starts around 9:00 p.m., since at least half the campers will get up ridiculously early to set out on their sightseeing for the day. Unfortunately, at our camp, either a busload of families or some kind of entire social group showed up around 10:00, noisily erected their massive tents and air mattresses, then commenced a spirited game of football accompanied by yodeling from the concrete rest rooms. The acoustics resonated perfectly if the doors were held open so yodelers could, I’m guessing here, see all the action. I seethed and wondered if I was ready to be that killjoy camper to stomp down the gravel path in my bunny slippers and curlers to tell them all to quiet down already. I was not.
Daily Recap: 250 miles, Province: Alberta again (Pocahantas)
Daily Recap: 250 miles, Province: Alberta again (Pocahantas)
Day 14: Heading East
We are going to be backtracking for the next couple of days. Fortunately, the scenery is so dazzling here, we are not opposed to this concept.
I’m not usually a coffee drinker at home in my regular life, but hot coffee has been the antidote to camping and motoring. There wasn’t a Tim Horton’s for miles, so we had our oatmeal and coffee at the picnic table on site, while a fellow camper in bright red hair, yellow crocs, and pink jammies covered in little cupcakes came over to chat. I wished the caffeine in the coffee hadn’t shot my eyes open so much. Half lidded would have been a better defense.
For our return trip through B.C., L and I were excited to stop at some of the attractions with obvious chicken picture potential that we had blown by on our way through heading west. One of our first stops was at a town that had lumberjack statuary outside an information center. We stopped, posed the chicken, started to snap the photo, and then disaster! The chicken fell from about 7 feet, and his metal base broke off from his little metal legs. The four of us grieved for our beloved silent sentinel. Alas, he was designed for years of use on a kitchen counter next to the blender, not the kind of industrial abuse we have put him through. He was already missing some of his wooden comb from previous journeys, and now he was, well, de-feeted. Ha ha! See, that’s punny! Ha! … Heh … Huh. Okay, I’ve been in the woods too long.
We traveled on. I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned this before, but L just loathes riding over grooved pavement, metal grated bridges, anything uneven that shakes you around on two wheels. We had our Bluetooth intercoms on for a change. We bought the intercoms right before the trip so we could talk helmet to helmet to each other. You are supposed to be able to touch a button and talk to the other person, then when you don’t want to talk, you press the button again to make them go in standby until you see something you want to talk about again.
Ours function perfectly only for the first part. The intercom link never turns off, unless you turn the whole unit off. Of course, when you do that, there is no way for the person in the back to notify the person in front to turn the unit back on so you can talk again. I hope to return them when we return home, but the box and everything in it looks like it has been dragged to Alaska and back, and I think the only way they will take them back now is if I complain strenuously, ardently, and most probably, jackassedly. I am up to the task.
Anyway, that was a lot of setup. The point is that we were driving along, discussing the day, the evergreens, the razzle dazzle of the landscape, and then I heard this:
“I think I just saw an eagle back there and --- AAAH! Oh no! I can’t believe it! We’re heading straight for a wooden bridge! Aaah! We’re going to fall into the river and die! We’re on a perfectly good road – why is there a wooden bridge here? What century is this? For God’s sake, you can’t drive on wooden planks! We’re all going to fall in and drown! All four of us, we’re going to …”
We got to the other side of the bridge. Silence from the intercom.
“Crisis averted. Stand down.”
Another day of lovely weather meant another day of camping. We tried to stay at the same RV site in Prince George where we had stayed on our previous way through, but they were full. We liked it, although it was close to a road that after dark carried so much truck traffic that L and K had to wear earplugs to bed to get any sleep. (S and I sleep like the dead.)
We found another RV campground on the other side of town – it had a sign that said “Adult Camping” that gave us pause. What could be so adult about camping? Sans clothing? We hoped not. We are excellent friends, yet there are limits.
S and I went in to register, and the couple that ran the place were very concerned that there were four of us and two tent campers on one site. We have run into this occasionally for tent sites where campgrounds had a policy of one tent per site, so we had to pay for two. We had no problem with this. But when you are renting an RV site, the site is HUGE, and our two tiny campers together are smaller than all but a conversion van.
S pointed out each of our little campers was about 6’x10’ when opened and set up. The couple said the two campers weren’t the problem – it was the extra people. We would have to pay for two additional people on the site. S asked, quite reasonably I thought, well, what happens if you have a whole family in an RV? Her point was that if you pay for an RV site, do you really check how many people are in it? What if you brought the grandparents along?
I’m not usually a coffee drinker at home in my regular life, but hot coffee has been the antidote to camping and motoring. There wasn’t a Tim Horton’s for miles, so we had our oatmeal and coffee at the picnic table on site, while a fellow camper in bright red hair, yellow crocs, and pink jammies covered in little cupcakes came over to chat. I wished the caffeine in the coffee hadn’t shot my eyes open so much. Half lidded would have been a better defense.
For our return trip through B.C., L and I were excited to stop at some of the attractions with obvious chicken picture potential that we had blown by on our way through heading west. One of our first stops was at a town that had lumberjack statuary outside an information center. We stopped, posed the chicken, started to snap the photo, and then disaster! The chicken fell from about 7 feet, and his metal base broke off from his little metal legs. The four of us grieved for our beloved silent sentinel. Alas, he was designed for years of use on a kitchen counter next to the blender, not the kind of industrial abuse we have put him through. He was already missing some of his wooden comb from previous journeys, and now he was, well, de-feeted. Ha ha! See, that’s punny! Ha! … Heh … Huh. Okay, I’ve been in the woods too long.
We traveled on. I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned this before, but L just loathes riding over grooved pavement, metal grated bridges, anything uneven that shakes you around on two wheels. We had our Bluetooth intercoms on for a change. We bought the intercoms right before the trip so we could talk helmet to helmet to each other. You are supposed to be able to touch a button and talk to the other person, then when you don’t want to talk, you press the button again to make them go in standby until you see something you want to talk about again.
Ours function perfectly only for the first part. The intercom link never turns off, unless you turn the whole unit off. Of course, when you do that, there is no way for the person in the back to notify the person in front to turn the unit back on so you can talk again. I hope to return them when we return home, but the box and everything in it looks like it has been dragged to Alaska and back, and I think the only way they will take them back now is if I complain strenuously, ardently, and most probably, jackassedly. I am up to the task.
Anyway, that was a lot of setup. The point is that we were driving along, discussing the day, the evergreens, the razzle dazzle of the landscape, and then I heard this:
“I think I just saw an eagle back there and --- AAAH! Oh no! I can’t believe it! We’re heading straight for a wooden bridge! Aaah! We’re going to fall into the river and die! We’re on a perfectly good road – why is there a wooden bridge here? What century is this? For God’s sake, you can’t drive on wooden planks! We’re all going to fall in and drown! All four of us, we’re going to …”
We got to the other side of the bridge. Silence from the intercom.
“Crisis averted. Stand down.”
Another day of lovely weather meant another day of camping. We tried to stay at the same RV site in Prince George where we had stayed on our previous way through, but they were full. We liked it, although it was close to a road that after dark carried so much truck traffic that L and K had to wear earplugs to bed to get any sleep. (S and I sleep like the dead.)
We found another RV campground on the other side of town – it had a sign that said “Adult Camping” that gave us pause. What could be so adult about camping? Sans clothing? We hoped not. We are excellent friends, yet there are limits.
S and I went in to register, and the couple that ran the place were very concerned that there were four of us and two tent campers on one site. We have run into this occasionally for tent sites where campgrounds had a policy of one tent per site, so we had to pay for two. We had no problem with this. But when you are renting an RV site, the site is HUGE, and our two tiny campers together are smaller than all but a conversion van.
S pointed out each of our little campers was about 6’x10’ when opened and set up. The couple said the two campers weren’t the problem – it was the extra people. We would have to pay for two additional people on the site. S asked, quite reasonably I thought, well, what happens if you have a whole family in an RV? Her point was that if you pay for an RV site, do you really check how many people are in it? What if you brought the grandparents along?
But the point was missed. The couple went into a long explanation that families could camp there and their “Adult Camping” just meant that they had no playground or facility for children, not that children were excluded, so yes, you could have a family in an RV. S and I looked at each other. It was an extra seven bucks for the two “additional” people. Without a word, we paid the seven dollars rather than try to get back to S's original point.
We found our site. It was shaded with nice, mature trees on it. Unfortunately, it had zero trees between us and the major road we were on. We could literally pick up a rock and throw it into the middle of the road. This area of the road was also under construction. The “Beep – beep – beep” of heavy equipment and clouds of dust accompanied us while we set up our tents. We cooked our finest meal of the trip – hamburgers and fresh corn on the cob – while the construction crews came across the road into our campsite at the end of their day. From what we can gather, the construction crews for these remove roadway projects throughout B.C. must live somewhere else and live at the closest campgrounds for the duration of the construction.
As night fell, the traffic picked up again, and that's when we heard the trains. Clearly a depot close by that ran all night. So much for camping to get back to nature. We’ve had our share of incredibly noisy campsites lately. L and K looked at each other. Tomorrow night, they declared, we’re going to camp in the median strip.
Daily Recap: 335 miles, Province: British Columbia, The Sequel
We found our site. It was shaded with nice, mature trees on it. Unfortunately, it had zero trees between us and the major road we were on. We could literally pick up a rock and throw it into the middle of the road. This area of the road was also under construction. The “Beep – beep – beep” of heavy equipment and clouds of dust accompanied us while we set up our tents. We cooked our finest meal of the trip – hamburgers and fresh corn on the cob – while the construction crews came across the road into our campsite at the end of their day. From what we can gather, the construction crews for these remove roadway projects throughout B.C. must live somewhere else and live at the closest campgrounds for the duration of the construction.
As night fell, the traffic picked up again, and that's when we heard the trains. Clearly a depot close by that ran all night. So much for camping to get back to nature. We’ve had our share of incredibly noisy campsites lately. L and K looked at each other. Tomorrow night, they declared, we’re going to camp in the median strip.
Daily Recap: 335 miles, Province: British Columbia, The Sequel
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Day 13: Town of Hyder, Alaska
We went to town to buy postcards, write them, send them, and have lunch. There were two general stores. We stopped at the first one. It had some ominous looking signs (see photos) that suggested either the proprietor had a great sense of humor or was himself a jerk. We went inside and our clothes were immediately saturated with the smell of cigar smoke. We might have to throw these clothes away. The store just had that air (not counting the cigars) that said, I think we really need to leave. When we saw the KKK badges, we were certain.
The second store was its direct opposite: clean, friendly, well-lit, and it had an old dog named Daisy on the front porch. Yep, our kind of place. A sweet, well-fed dog is always a good sign. Daisy wandered in with us and held out for a treat from a white-bearded Alaskan straight out of central casting before heading back to the porch. We did our part for the Alaskan economy, then asked if we could eat our PBJ sandwiches on his porch while we wrote out our postcards, and he said, be my guest, ladies.
K and I drove back the half mile to the post office. We were lucky: it was Wednesday, and the mail plane comes Monday and Thursday, weather permitting. That meant there was an outside chance our postcards would reach their recipients before we arrived back home.
Finally, there was nothing for it but to head back to Canada. There really wasn’t anything left to do in Hyder. We headed back, and although we breezed into the Hyder without any border crossing, we did have to go through customs to get back into Canada.
On the loneliest road back to Kitwanga, we saw a momma bear up on the berm beside the road. She had 3 fluff ball cubs with her, two of which stood on their stubby little hind legs to watch us pass. When you are traveling via unenclosed vehicles, you do not stop and may consider only slowing marginally. Later as we set up camp, all four of us agreed that the fleeting glimpse of the mother bear and cubs was at least as thrilling as seeing the bears fish at Fish Creek. Every hard won mile of this trip was worth it for this day alone.
We found our campground, staffed by two little old ladies. We had been thrilled on this trip that Canadian currency is so similar to our own. However, they are more advanced than us in that they have done away with dollar bills. They have dollar coins and two dollar coins that are actually in common circulation (when is the last time you purchased anything with Susan B. Anthony or Sacagawea?) We asked the ladies if the site had laundry. Oh yah, it takes loonies.
We had been in Canada 5 days, and somehow we had failed to discover until now that they call their dollar coins “Loonies.” The two dollar coins are “Toonies.” Don’t you love that?
All the campgrounds so far had specific hours the laundry was open – they usually close at 9:00 or 10:00 p.m. I asked the pair, “Do you have hours for the laundry?”
They looked at each other. “Well, the washer takes about 20 minutes, and the dryer takes more like 40,” one replied.
I decided maybe I shouldn’t ask more questions, so we went to find our site. Our number was up a hill, in a lot of about 16 spaces, 2 of which were occupied. The ladies had put us right next to another RV where a couple was all set up on their picnic table having dinner. They were sauced out of their gourds. Although good natured about it, they were clearly irked that the ladies had out of this vast area, plunked us down right beside them. Back I went to talk with the ladies about moving us to a different spot.
One of the thrills of camping on this trip has been the people watching. If you like nothing better than to amuse yourself with observing and interacting with the vast array of personalities available to the human population, I highly recommend camping. We have met some true characters, an extraordinary percentage of whom were wearing yellow Crocs. If I were the academic type, I’d look into a dissertation on the correlation.
The second store was its direct opposite: clean, friendly, well-lit, and it had an old dog named Daisy on the front porch. Yep, our kind of place. A sweet, well-fed dog is always a good sign. Daisy wandered in with us and held out for a treat from a white-bearded Alaskan straight out of central casting before heading back to the porch. We did our part for the Alaskan economy, then asked if we could eat our PBJ sandwiches on his porch while we wrote out our postcards, and he said, be my guest, ladies.
K and I drove back the half mile to the post office. We were lucky: it was Wednesday, and the mail plane comes Monday and Thursday, weather permitting. That meant there was an outside chance our postcards would reach their recipients before we arrived back home.
Finally, there was nothing for it but to head back to Canada. There really wasn’t anything left to do in Hyder. We headed back, and although we breezed into the Hyder without any border crossing, we did have to go through customs to get back into Canada.
On the loneliest road back to Kitwanga, we saw a momma bear up on the berm beside the road. She had 3 fluff ball cubs with her, two of which stood on their stubby little hind legs to watch us pass. When you are traveling via unenclosed vehicles, you do not stop and may consider only slowing marginally. Later as we set up camp, all four of us agreed that the fleeting glimpse of the mother bear and cubs was at least as thrilling as seeing the bears fish at Fish Creek. Every hard won mile of this trip was worth it for this day alone.
We found our campground, staffed by two little old ladies. We had been thrilled on this trip that Canadian currency is so similar to our own. However, they are more advanced than us in that they have done away with dollar bills. They have dollar coins and two dollar coins that are actually in common circulation (when is the last time you purchased anything with Susan B. Anthony or Sacagawea?) We asked the ladies if the site had laundry. Oh yah, it takes loonies.
We had been in Canada 5 days, and somehow we had failed to discover until now that they call their dollar coins “Loonies.” The two dollar coins are “Toonies.” Don’t you love that?
All the campgrounds so far had specific hours the laundry was open – they usually close at 9:00 or 10:00 p.m. I asked the pair, “Do you have hours for the laundry?”
They looked at each other. “Well, the washer takes about 20 minutes, and the dryer takes more like 40,” one replied.
I decided maybe I shouldn’t ask more questions, so we went to find our site. Our number was up a hill, in a lot of about 16 spaces, 2 of which were occupied. The ladies had put us right next to another RV where a couple was all set up on their picnic table having dinner. They were sauced out of their gourds. Although good natured about it, they were clearly irked that the ladies had out of this vast area, plunked us down right beside them. Back I went to talk with the ladies about moving us to a different spot.
One of the thrills of camping on this trip has been the people watching. If you like nothing better than to amuse yourself with observing and interacting with the vast array of personalities available to the human population, I highly recommend camping. We have met some true characters, an extraordinary percentage of whom were wearing yellow Crocs. If I were the academic type, I’d look into a dissertation on the correlation.
Daily Recap: 310 miles, ALASKA! Then back to Kitwanga, British Columbia
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Day 13: 49th State: Part 1
Today is the big day! We got up early and packed up camp in record time. We had decided the night before that we would not make breakfast at camp but would drive the 30 miles to Stewart, have breakfast there, and then hop right over the border to Hyder, Alaska.
Stewart, B.C. is not much larger than Hyder, AK, but it had a gas station and a hotel that had a restaurant. The restaurant served us bottomless cups of hot coffee and fluffy pancakes. We ate like the condemned. Then we walked around town to take chicken pictures and to see what else they had to offer. We were gravitationally attracted to a museum that had an old timey fire engine out front, so S and K had some photo ops. Then enough stalling! Time to head back to the U.S. of A!
We got our passports out and ready, then drove the one mile to Alaska. No guards, no customs, no anything but dirt roads to a seedy little town. There is nowhere to go from Hyder except Hyder, so apparently if this is your big idea on how to sneak illegally into the US, the country wishes you well on your journey over the mountains and/or sea.
There are two tourist attractions in Hyder: The Blue Glacier, and a National Park where you can see bears. We had been told by friendly folks at the campground last night that there had been a rock slide two days ago at the glacier that took out the road, so we would not be able to see it. We were set on seeing bears, though. We did pass Bear Glacier while still in Canada on our way to Stewart. We did not get any photos, but the ice looked as blue as Windex. It was quite lovely.
We got to the middle of town, as far as we could tell, and there were no signs or any help at all in figuring out which way to go to see bears. However, there weren’t many options. We took the only road that looked like it went anywhere. We drove the length of the town, all on dirt roads, and then continued more miles down the same dirt road, hoping it would lead somewhere other than a crusty old coot’s cabin. In fact, it led directly to Tongass National Park, Fish Creek Wildlife Observation Site. We found it!
This park has an observation deck built by a shallow creek where salmon come to spawn. You can see the salmon, but this is also a great place for bears to catch an easy meal. The observation deck keeps the visitors safe from the bears, and vice versa. Over time, the bears learned that they are safe from people, and they continue to come to this creek, to the amazement and optimal viewing by throngs of tourists. Today we added four observers to the deck.
We had been told at breakfast that the bears typically come to Fish Creek before 8:00 a.m. and after 3:00 p.m. We arrived at almost noon. There were no bears, but we saw salmon spawning. They are huge fish. It hadn’t occurred to us before that when you see the classic photo of a grizzly with a salmon hanging out both sides of his huge head that the fish, too, must be of good size. I hoped that the wilderness supported a couple of lazy bears that didn’t like to get up early, or at least a bear or two that got peckish about lunchtime.
People on the observation deck talked amongst themselves, and we met a guy that showed us on his camera the amazing photos he had gotten that very morning. We practically seethed with envy. Then the alert went out. Black bear spotted! We watched, and sure enough, this fairly young bear, very skinny, came out of the underbrush and started wading in the creek. Have you ever watched an indoor cat go out in the snow? They walk a step, shake their paw, take the next step, shake the paw, etc. The black bear did this with the water in the creek. It looked like it was his first day getting his paws wet. Then salmon splashed behind him and he jumped away from them startled. Everyone on the deck laughed quietly. Poor bear was going to stay skinny if he was afraid of the fish. He headed to the other bank, directly below us, and he started eating berries. Maybe this bear was a vegetarian.
Word went out again – grizzly bear downstream. We could barely make him out, but slowly and surely he approached. Unlike his young black bear friend, he clearly knew what he was doing, and he was huge. He paced along the bank, watching for the salmon spash, then pounced in. The chase took less than 15 seconds, and he was back out with a huge catch. He ambled into the brush to eat. Ten minutes later, he was back. Same result.
We were so thrilled at our luck, and then word went out again. Another bear! This was a black bear that had some brown on his shoulders. The park guide ventured this bear was about 3 or 4 years old. He was very skinny, and his fishing skills made it understandable. First, he satisfied himself by eating the leftovers from the grizzly. Then he splashed in himself and tried to chase a salmon downstream. Upstream, we silently chastised him, chase them upstream if you want to have a chance. He chased again, then stood up on his hind legs as if he’d sort of forgotten what he had got in the river for. Finally, he chased upstream and caught himself some lunch. We cheered quietly -- no startling the bears allowed. “I just love a happy ending,” I overhead a tourist say. Well, happy ending for the bear, I added to myself.
Stewart, B.C. is not much larger than Hyder, AK, but it had a gas station and a hotel that had a restaurant. The restaurant served us bottomless cups of hot coffee and fluffy pancakes. We ate like the condemned. Then we walked around town to take chicken pictures and to see what else they had to offer. We were gravitationally attracted to a museum that had an old timey fire engine out front, so S and K had some photo ops. Then enough stalling! Time to head back to the U.S. of A!
We got our passports out and ready, then drove the one mile to Alaska. No guards, no customs, no anything but dirt roads to a seedy little town. There is nowhere to go from Hyder except Hyder, so apparently if this is your big idea on how to sneak illegally into the US, the country wishes you well on your journey over the mountains and/or sea.
There are two tourist attractions in Hyder: The Blue Glacier, and a National Park where you can see bears. We had been told by friendly folks at the campground last night that there had been a rock slide two days ago at the glacier that took out the road, so we would not be able to see it. We were set on seeing bears, though. We did pass Bear Glacier while still in Canada on our way to Stewart. We did not get any photos, but the ice looked as blue as Windex. It was quite lovely.
We got to the middle of town, as far as we could tell, and there were no signs or any help at all in figuring out which way to go to see bears. However, there weren’t many options. We took the only road that looked like it went anywhere. We drove the length of the town, all on dirt roads, and then continued more miles down the same dirt road, hoping it would lead somewhere other than a crusty old coot’s cabin. In fact, it led directly to Tongass National Park, Fish Creek Wildlife Observation Site. We found it!
This park has an observation deck built by a shallow creek where salmon come to spawn. You can see the salmon, but this is also a great place for bears to catch an easy meal. The observation deck keeps the visitors safe from the bears, and vice versa. Over time, the bears learned that they are safe from people, and they continue to come to this creek, to the amazement and optimal viewing by throngs of tourists. Today we added four observers to the deck.
We had been told at breakfast that the bears typically come to Fish Creek before 8:00 a.m. and after 3:00 p.m. We arrived at almost noon. There were no bears, but we saw salmon spawning. They are huge fish. It hadn’t occurred to us before that when you see the classic photo of a grizzly with a salmon hanging out both sides of his huge head that the fish, too, must be of good size. I hoped that the wilderness supported a couple of lazy bears that didn’t like to get up early, or at least a bear or two that got peckish about lunchtime.
People on the observation deck talked amongst themselves, and we met a guy that showed us on his camera the amazing photos he had gotten that very morning. We practically seethed with envy. Then the alert went out. Black bear spotted! We watched, and sure enough, this fairly young bear, very skinny, came out of the underbrush and started wading in the creek. Have you ever watched an indoor cat go out in the snow? They walk a step, shake their paw, take the next step, shake the paw, etc. The black bear did this with the water in the creek. It looked like it was his first day getting his paws wet. Then salmon splashed behind him and he jumped away from them startled. Everyone on the deck laughed quietly. Poor bear was going to stay skinny if he was afraid of the fish. He headed to the other bank, directly below us, and he started eating berries. Maybe this bear was a vegetarian.
Word went out again – grizzly bear downstream. We could barely make him out, but slowly and surely he approached. Unlike his young black bear friend, he clearly knew what he was doing, and he was huge. He paced along the bank, watching for the salmon spash, then pounced in. The chase took less than 15 seconds, and he was back out with a huge catch. He ambled into the brush to eat. Ten minutes later, he was back. Same result.
We were so thrilled at our luck, and then word went out again. Another bear! This was a black bear that had some brown on his shoulders. The park guide ventured this bear was about 3 or 4 years old. He was very skinny, and his fishing skills made it understandable. First, he satisfied himself by eating the leftovers from the grizzly. Then he splashed in himself and tried to chase a salmon downstream. Upstream, we silently chastised him, chase them upstream if you want to have a chance. He chased again, then stood up on his hind legs as if he’d sort of forgotten what he had got in the river for. Finally, he chased upstream and caught himself some lunch. We cheered quietly -- no startling the bears allowed. “I just love a happy ending,” I overhead a tourist say. Well, happy ending for the bear, I added to myself.
Day 12: Almost There
L had one request for the trip: we had to stop at a Tim Horton’s. Someone told her he was a famous Canadian hockey player or something and he now had a huge chain of these coffee and donut stores that were fantastic. We had noticed one a block away from our campsite as we pulled in last night, and we all agreed we would save time in the morning by having breakfast at Tim’s instead of oatmeal in baggies.
Tim Horton’s was directly across the street from a McDonald’s. The McDonald’s had no one in line. Tim Horton’s had 22 cars waiting at the drive-through and a line of 5 or 6 people at the counter inside. We figured that was a pretty good endorsement. We went in and were dazzled by their pastries and breakfast sandwiches. We decided to try them both. They were delicious. The whole place was like a Dunkin’ Donuts crossed with Panera. We all agreed that if we had these stores in our neighborhoods, we would never eat breakfast at home.
The morning was bright and pleasant. We headed west towards Alaska. Based purely on observation only, we decided the main industry in B.C. was logging. We wondered what the other residents did for a living, since we so rarely saw homes, and we did, they were clustered in tiny towns that did not appear to support anything but possibly ATV repair.
After several days of traveling through the Canadian Rockies and beyond, my own impression is that their second major occupation was roadway construction. B.C.’s economic stimulus plan also involves roadway improvement projects, most of them on two-lane roadways reduced to a single lane for several hundred meters at a time and controlled by flaggers on both ends.
My estimation is that about 90% of the flaggers were women. I don’t know if women don’t have the heavy equipment skills, or if crews don’t allow women to do anything else, or if they have hiring quotas to include a certain percentage of women and that’s the easiest place to fill positions, or if they staff women in these positions because irate drivers tired of waiting tend to be more polite to women than men. Those were my top theories. You have a LOT of time alone to follow the most inane mental wanderings when on a motorcycle. Since we entered Canada, we had to stop at least once an hour for a construction zone, and our bikes were absolutely filthy from several thousand miles of bugs and grime and dirt construction zones.
We flew past tiny towns and finally stopped in Smithers where there was a Harley dealer. For a change, we did not stop for mechanical difficulties. We stopped just to have lunch, and while we were there, we got the firefighter connection yet again. When you travel with two firefighters, both riding Firefighter edition Harleys and both wearing their firefighter patches and firefighter only riding group jackets, people talk to you even more than when you are just a group of four women riding together. Almost every place we stopped, someone would come and talk to S and K, and invariably, they were retired fire fighters or had been a volunteer for a decade or so, etc. The man running the Harley dealer was a 17 year volunteer. He couldn’t do enough for us, and he let us use their soap/water/equipment to wash our bikes. We took a break for an hour or so to clean them up.
We headed back out on clean machines and within 8 miles, hit another construction zone with dust flying everywhere. Well, clean is a temporary and fleeting condition, for motorcycles as well as homes. Or bodies, as this trip would attest.
We reached our day’s tentative destination: Kitwanga. S had called the night before and made a reservation at a campground here as well as another campground about 45 miles north, according to her map. However, the GPS could not find the second town. We were going to touch Alaska the next day, but the current schedule had us riding 300 miles riding to and from AK in the same day. We figured that would not leave a lot of time for us to sightsee in Alaska, so we wanted to get some additional mileage in today.
We finally decided to chance it and head up the road. About 30 miles later, S, who almost always leads, pulled over beside the road. There was almost no traffic on the road – we saw other vehicles about every 5 or 10 minutes. The signs all said to check your gas because there were no services for about 120 km. S was worried that maybe we had called the wrong campground. What if we went 45 miles and there was nothing there? Then we would be stuck going another 45 miles or so hoping to find another campground and hoping they would actually have a site left we could use (not a good bet as we have found in Canada). The remoteness of our current location suggested we would also definitely need bear boxes to hold our food overnight, but what if the campgrounds were too primitive to provide them?
We took a vote and 3 out of 4 of us decided to drive 15 more miles and hope the campsite we reserved was actually located here. Fifteen miles later, there was nothing. L was defeated. She lay down in the middle of the road while we once again voted on our next move. There was zero chance she would be hit by a car. Attacked by a bear would be more likely on this road. We took a blind vote: 2 to return to Kitwanga, 2 to continue on.
None of us really wanted to backtrack. We had ridden too hard to get where we were. We pulled out the map again. We took a couple more votes. It is nigh on impossible to achieve consensus with four tired women. In the end, S decided and we followed, driving another 45 miles to another provincial park: Lake Meziadan, B.C. It was stunning. There were a handful of sites left, the sun was still up (sun doesn’t set until about 10:30 p.m. in these parts), and it was, as the name suggests, on a beautiful lake that we could see from our campsites. We boiled water, ate a freezer bag meal, and considered ourselves lucky. If one cared to look, one could see a divine hand all over this trip.
Daily Recap: 400 miles, Still British Columbia, campground at Lake Meziadan, B.C.
Tim Horton’s was directly across the street from a McDonald’s. The McDonald’s had no one in line. Tim Horton’s had 22 cars waiting at the drive-through and a line of 5 or 6 people at the counter inside. We figured that was a pretty good endorsement. We went in and were dazzled by their pastries and breakfast sandwiches. We decided to try them both. They were delicious. The whole place was like a Dunkin’ Donuts crossed with Panera. We all agreed that if we had these stores in our neighborhoods, we would never eat breakfast at home.
The morning was bright and pleasant. We headed west towards Alaska. Based purely on observation only, we decided the main industry in B.C. was logging. We wondered what the other residents did for a living, since we so rarely saw homes, and we did, they were clustered in tiny towns that did not appear to support anything but possibly ATV repair.
After several days of traveling through the Canadian Rockies and beyond, my own impression is that their second major occupation was roadway construction. B.C.’s economic stimulus plan also involves roadway improvement projects, most of them on two-lane roadways reduced to a single lane for several hundred meters at a time and controlled by flaggers on both ends.
My estimation is that about 90% of the flaggers were women. I don’t know if women don’t have the heavy equipment skills, or if crews don’t allow women to do anything else, or if they have hiring quotas to include a certain percentage of women and that’s the easiest place to fill positions, or if they staff women in these positions because irate drivers tired of waiting tend to be more polite to women than men. Those were my top theories. You have a LOT of time alone to follow the most inane mental wanderings when on a motorcycle. Since we entered Canada, we had to stop at least once an hour for a construction zone, and our bikes were absolutely filthy from several thousand miles of bugs and grime and dirt construction zones.
We flew past tiny towns and finally stopped in Smithers where there was a Harley dealer. For a change, we did not stop for mechanical difficulties. We stopped just to have lunch, and while we were there, we got the firefighter connection yet again. When you travel with two firefighters, both riding Firefighter edition Harleys and both wearing their firefighter patches and firefighter only riding group jackets, people talk to you even more than when you are just a group of four women riding together. Almost every place we stopped, someone would come and talk to S and K, and invariably, they were retired fire fighters or had been a volunteer for a decade or so, etc. The man running the Harley dealer was a 17 year volunteer. He couldn’t do enough for us, and he let us use their soap/water/equipment to wash our bikes. We took a break for an hour or so to clean them up.
We headed back out on clean machines and within 8 miles, hit another construction zone with dust flying everywhere. Well, clean is a temporary and fleeting condition, for motorcycles as well as homes. Or bodies, as this trip would attest.
We reached our day’s tentative destination: Kitwanga. S had called the night before and made a reservation at a campground here as well as another campground about 45 miles north, according to her map. However, the GPS could not find the second town. We were going to touch Alaska the next day, but the current schedule had us riding 300 miles riding to and from AK in the same day. We figured that would not leave a lot of time for us to sightsee in Alaska, so we wanted to get some additional mileage in today.
We finally decided to chance it and head up the road. About 30 miles later, S, who almost always leads, pulled over beside the road. There was almost no traffic on the road – we saw other vehicles about every 5 or 10 minutes. The signs all said to check your gas because there were no services for about 120 km. S was worried that maybe we had called the wrong campground. What if we went 45 miles and there was nothing there? Then we would be stuck going another 45 miles or so hoping to find another campground and hoping they would actually have a site left we could use (not a good bet as we have found in Canada). The remoteness of our current location suggested we would also definitely need bear boxes to hold our food overnight, but what if the campgrounds were too primitive to provide them?
We took a vote and 3 out of 4 of us decided to drive 15 more miles and hope the campsite we reserved was actually located here. Fifteen miles later, there was nothing. L was defeated. She lay down in the middle of the road while we once again voted on our next move. There was zero chance she would be hit by a car. Attacked by a bear would be more likely on this road. We took a blind vote: 2 to return to Kitwanga, 2 to continue on.
None of us really wanted to backtrack. We had ridden too hard to get where we were. We pulled out the map again. We took a couple more votes. It is nigh on impossible to achieve consensus with four tired women. In the end, S decided and we followed, driving another 45 miles to another provincial park: Lake Meziadan, B.C. It was stunning. There were a handful of sites left, the sun was still up (sun doesn’t set until about 10:30 p.m. in these parts), and it was, as the name suggests, on a beautiful lake that we could see from our campsites. We boiled water, ate a freezer bag meal, and considered ourselves lucky. If one cared to look, one could see a divine hand all over this trip.
Daily Recap: 400 miles, Still British Columbia, campground at Lake Meziadan, B.C.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Day 11: More Mountains
We woke to a nip in the air and the sounds of car doors opening and slamming. There were a couple of young women with a tent at the site right beside us. As we woke up and put on the only sweat pants and sweat shirts we had packed, L and I headed out to the bear lockers to retrieve our stores. I asked L if she had heard our neighbors packing up their car. She agreed she had, and she said, those two girls got cold and they went to sleep in the car.
No way, how would she know that? But sure enough, she was right. Their car was still there with a pair of flip flops neatly placed beside each door. When we passed, the front seats were empty. Both girls were huddled in the back seat. Man, did she call it. Less than 20 minutes later, they had had enough. They took their tent and went home for some proper rest.
S and K came over to our site with the camp stove and their freezer bags full of oatmeal. L was banging around in the tent while S, K, and I sat in front of a roaring fire, wearing knit caps, full sweats, and our frozen fingers wrapped around scalding hot mugs of coffee. L stuck her head out of the tent and asked brightly, “Hey, has anyone seen my swimsuit?”
We collapsed in laughter. “It’s July!” we all cried in unison.
“I know. I’m thinking of putting on my swimsuit and walking around all the campsites in nothing else but flip flops and a towel over one arm and asking everyone, ‘Do you know where the pool is? I thought there was a pool.’”
We clutched ourselves.
“Hey, don’t laugh. It might be the only thing I wear today. I’ll ride on out of here in my leopard print with the skirt flying out behind me and my snow-peaked mountains jutting forward to lead the way!”
Coffee expelled through nostrils.
So, the Canadians love to camp, but they are pretty prissy about it. At the shower house in the morning, all the sinks were taken by women blow drying their hair and applying makeup. This is camping?
We got back on the road, onto Route 16: The Yellowhead Highway. I had seen on the map a town called Tete Jaune. I was thrilled to be able to lend my French “skills” to the group and was all prepared to act all scholarly and inform them that it meant yellow head. Then we saw Yellowhead Mountain, and the Yellowhead Highway that helpfully had a cameo graphic of a head in profile and is colored in yellow. Turns out that once again I am no use whatsoever to the group.
No way, how would she know that? But sure enough, she was right. Their car was still there with a pair of flip flops neatly placed beside each door. When we passed, the front seats were empty. Both girls were huddled in the back seat. Man, did she call it. Less than 20 minutes later, they had had enough. They took their tent and went home for some proper rest.
S and K came over to our site with the camp stove and their freezer bags full of oatmeal. L was banging around in the tent while S, K, and I sat in front of a roaring fire, wearing knit caps, full sweats, and our frozen fingers wrapped around scalding hot mugs of coffee. L stuck her head out of the tent and asked brightly, “Hey, has anyone seen my swimsuit?”
We collapsed in laughter. “It’s July!” we all cried in unison.
“I know. I’m thinking of putting on my swimsuit and walking around all the campsites in nothing else but flip flops and a towel over one arm and asking everyone, ‘Do you know where the pool is? I thought there was a pool.’”
We clutched ourselves.
“Hey, don’t laugh. It might be the only thing I wear today. I’ll ride on out of here in my leopard print with the skirt flying out behind me and my snow-peaked mountains jutting forward to lead the way!”
Coffee expelled through nostrils.
So, the Canadians love to camp, but they are pretty prissy about it. At the shower house in the morning, all the sinks were taken by women blow drying their hair and applying makeup. This is camping?
We got back on the road, onto Route 16: The Yellowhead Highway. I had seen on the map a town called Tete Jaune. I was thrilled to be able to lend my French “skills” to the group and was all prepared to act all scholarly and inform them that it meant yellow head. Then we saw Yellowhead Mountain, and the Yellowhead Highway that helpfully had a cameo graphic of a head in profile and is colored in yellow. Turns out that once again I am no use whatsoever to the group.
We drove through Mount Robson Park. Mount Robson is the highest peak in Canada (according to an overheard conversation that I have not taken the time to verify. If you want facts you can count on, you got the wrong blog). Again, we saw the most stunning array of mountain peaks still hanging onto pockets of snow.
About lunchtime, we stopped for gas at a little town called McBride. It was located so that whatever direction you turned, you saw mountains looming around you. The buildings were right out of the set of Andy Griffith. At a little ramshackle home across from the gas station, a man was making chainsaw art. It was wonderful craftsmanship, and while one man performed for the four of us, his lecherous buddy sidled up to S and tried to make his move on her, inviting to come back after 5:00 to drink with him.
We went across the road to eat at a park and then found an information center there. We got some great maps and brochures for camping throughout B.C., all for free. We popped back on the road, and the mountains were in the rear view mirror. We had the best roads for motorcycling we had hit to date: nice curves that you could take at speed, and just rolling hills. Wonderful. Then a trip highlight: we drove down a hill, and we saw a big black bear in the middle of the road. When he saw us, he ran to the side of the road, then stood up on his hind legs and turned around to look at us, as if it say, “What in the world was that??” Well, why should the bear be any different. We are four women on bikes. We have been garnering nothing but attention for 11 days now.
Again, we drove for over a hundred miles without seeing a house or a side street, and then all of a sudden, we came across a series of three or four handmade signs advertising homemade bread and pies and other goodies. It was a café in the wilderness. We stopped because there were gas pumps, but we stayed because they had ice cream.
As we walked in, L had to duck under a brown paper lunch bag blown up and tied to the top of the doorway. As we enjoyed our cones, L asked the waitress what was up with the bags. She said they deter hornets. Does that work? Oh, yes. Hornets are very territorial. They see the paper bag and they think it is a hive, so they don’t come in. The things you learn.
While we were picking out cookies to take to the campsite with us for later, a man parked his RV and came in to buy a pie. He asked her if she had a whole blueberry pie, and she said she did. He looked at it. Can I taste it first? I don’t want to be stuck with a pie I don’t like. We all looked at each other. This was the stupidest thing we had heard all day. You get to sample ice cream before you commit to a cone, but you don’t get to try a piece of pie. They let him try it anyway.
Here’s the best part. As we walked back to the bikes, we were checking out his RV. On the back, he had a big bumper sticker stating he was a member of “IAAI – The International Association Against Idiots.”
Daily Recap: 230 miles, Back to British Columbia, RV campground in Prince George, B.C.
Day 10: Icefields Parkway
We woke up to the sounds of an angry squirrel. This is a more effective alarm clock than we have at home, and there’s no snooze button. We ate our oatmeal out of a freezer bag and strained our fresh percolated coffee through a paper towel. Then we packed up and headed north through the Kootenay National Park.
Ever since we crossed the border into Canada, we noticed the color of the rivers is totally different here. It is the clear light green that looks so pure you figure it must be fake. As we drove through Kootenay, we continued to marvel at rivers and lakes of this most peculiar color. We pulled over at a stunning overlook (thanks to Chris for emailing me a list of synonyms for “spectacular.” I’ll be sprinkling them through future posts). I’m not sure the photos will do it justice, but I’ve included one as an example.
The temperature had cooled dramatically from the day before, and it became colder as we headed up in elevation. We saw waterfalls and snow peaked mountains and crystal lakes as we drove through one picture postcard after another. Laura said, “I think I was unfair to Canada in my three-word assessment of hot, buggy, and smells like Christmas. It really doesn’t do the country justice. I’ve mulled it over and expanded my entry.”
“Well, give it to me. What’s today’s soundbyte?”
“Canada is cold, buggy, and smells like Christmas.”
“Good choice. Big improvement.”
We left Kootenay and entered the Banff National Park, on our way to Lake Louise. We were meeting a friend of S and K’s from Virginia that also happened to be vacationing in Canada at the exact same time. She was ice climbing with a group called Chicks with Picks.
We picked an outdoorsy sounding restaurant where we could meet, Lakeshore Grill, or some such thing. It looked All-Americana and the menu was standard (North) American food. We sat down to order and gradually noticed we were the only non-Asians in the joint. In the middle of whitebread Canada, we found the only all-Asian restaurant around. The friend told us she had to get up at 3:00 a.m. every day so they could climb up and get to the ice by 10:00 so they could finish climbing the ice by noon before it starting melting. Yep, that’s right, melting. The four of us decided that as daring as we might feel traveling 10,000 miles on motorcycles to spend a few hours in Alaska, we were serious wimps compared to the Chicks with Picks.
We left Lake Louise and headed west on the Icefields Parkway. Mountain peaks covered in ice (hence the name) loomed on both sides of the road. Elevations were helpfully labeled in meters. Temperatures are all posted in Celsius. We ordered turkey lunchmeat from a deli and had to figure out how many hundreds of grams we needed for four sandwiches. I haven’t done this many metric to English conversations since engineering school.
We stopped for gas, and L and I were layering up, putting on all our coats and pulling buffs over our faces. “It’s JULY!” crowed S and K. So glad you packed all those shorts! Don’t you just hate a sore winner? I pulled on my rain gear over everything else I owned to block the wind.
We drove three hours through the most unspoiled wilderness I had ever seen, with that same peculiar light green water. The odd thing is that as immense and awe-inspiring the scenery is, your brain starts tuning out after awhile. It is as if your senses can only handle so much and decide, “If you’ve seen one pristine, emerald lake at the foot of craggy, snow-peaked mountains, you’ve seen them all.” Before long, you have to catch yourself and make sure you are intentionally taking it all in instead of watching the curves in front of you and/or the bike in front of you.
We made it to Jasper and tried to find a campsite. The Canadians LOVE to camp, and they are serious about it. We drove literally for 160 miles without seeing a single house, driveway, or side street. Then we came out to some little tiny town and a campground with 640 sites, every single one of which was booked. We found another campground and an available site but no amenities. Well, it had a shower house and clean restrooms (they call them “washrooms” in Canada), but the site had no water, electric, or internet. It did have scat on every trail leading from every tent site, and it had bear lockers where all campers had to stow any food that would not be stored inside a hard sided vehicle (car or RV -- tents and tent campers are just like a big bear lunch sack).
We figured all the scat couldn’t be wrong; we would make full use of the bear lockers. We made a big fire and ate Tater Trasherole out of freezer bags, with a Gatorade chaser.
Daily Recap: 250 miles, 1 province: Alberta
Ever since we crossed the border into Canada, we noticed the color of the rivers is totally different here. It is the clear light green that looks so pure you figure it must be fake. As we drove through Kootenay, we continued to marvel at rivers and lakes of this most peculiar color. We pulled over at a stunning overlook (thanks to Chris for emailing me a list of synonyms for “spectacular.” I’ll be sprinkling them through future posts). I’m not sure the photos will do it justice, but I’ve included one as an example.
The temperature had cooled dramatically from the day before, and it became colder as we headed up in elevation. We saw waterfalls and snow peaked mountains and crystal lakes as we drove through one picture postcard after another. Laura said, “I think I was unfair to Canada in my three-word assessment of hot, buggy, and smells like Christmas. It really doesn’t do the country justice. I’ve mulled it over and expanded my entry.”
“Well, give it to me. What’s today’s soundbyte?”
“Canada is cold, buggy, and smells like Christmas.”
“Good choice. Big improvement.”
We left Kootenay and entered the Banff National Park, on our way to Lake Louise. We were meeting a friend of S and K’s from Virginia that also happened to be vacationing in Canada at the exact same time. She was ice climbing with a group called Chicks with Picks.
We picked an outdoorsy sounding restaurant where we could meet, Lakeshore Grill, or some such thing. It looked All-Americana and the menu was standard (North) American food. We sat down to order and gradually noticed we were the only non-Asians in the joint. In the middle of whitebread Canada, we found the only all-Asian restaurant around. The friend told us she had to get up at 3:00 a.m. every day so they could climb up and get to the ice by 10:00 so they could finish climbing the ice by noon before it starting melting. Yep, that’s right, melting. The four of us decided that as daring as we might feel traveling 10,000 miles on motorcycles to spend a few hours in Alaska, we were serious wimps compared to the Chicks with Picks.
We left Lake Louise and headed west on the Icefields Parkway. Mountain peaks covered in ice (hence the name) loomed on both sides of the road. Elevations were helpfully labeled in meters. Temperatures are all posted in Celsius. We ordered turkey lunchmeat from a deli and had to figure out how many hundreds of grams we needed for four sandwiches. I haven’t done this many metric to English conversations since engineering school.
We stopped for gas, and L and I were layering up, putting on all our coats and pulling buffs over our faces. “It’s JULY!” crowed S and K. So glad you packed all those shorts! Don’t you just hate a sore winner? I pulled on my rain gear over everything else I owned to block the wind.
We drove three hours through the most unspoiled wilderness I had ever seen, with that same peculiar light green water. The odd thing is that as immense and awe-inspiring the scenery is, your brain starts tuning out after awhile. It is as if your senses can only handle so much and decide, “If you’ve seen one pristine, emerald lake at the foot of craggy, snow-peaked mountains, you’ve seen them all.” Before long, you have to catch yourself and make sure you are intentionally taking it all in instead of watching the curves in front of you and/or the bike in front of you.
We made it to Jasper and tried to find a campsite. The Canadians LOVE to camp, and they are serious about it. We drove literally for 160 miles without seeing a single house, driveway, or side street. Then we came out to some little tiny town and a campground with 640 sites, every single one of which was booked. We found another campground and an available site but no amenities. Well, it had a shower house and clean restrooms (they call them “washrooms” in Canada), but the site had no water, electric, or internet. It did have scat on every trail leading from every tent site, and it had bear lockers where all campers had to stow any food that would not be stored inside a hard sided vehicle (car or RV -- tents and tent campers are just like a big bear lunch sack).
We figured all the scat couldn’t be wrong; we would make full use of the bear lockers. We made a big fire and ate Tater Trasherole out of freezer bags, with a Gatorade chaser.
Daily Recap: 250 miles, 1 province: Alberta
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Day 9
Movin’ day. Time to get moving again. The back felt pretty good, although if I dropped anything, someone else had to pick it up. Next stop, the Canadian Border.
We made it through customs and took our obligatory photos by the “’Welcome to British Columbia” signs. S had made us all a metric conversation strips and laminated them so we could tape them to the inside of our windshields. (Harleys are American made, and they obstinately do not include kmh on the speedometers.)
The first thing I noticed about Canada was the road striping. In the US, the road dashes are 10’ long with 30’ long spaces. Canada’s dashes appeared to be longer than 10’, perhaps 15’, with the same length space. I puzzled about the length for awhile until I remembered Canada uses the metric system. Ah, must be either 4 of 5 meter dashes with the same length space.
Yeah, I’m a geek. I’m pretty sure no one else was thinking the same thing. When your occupation is a traffic engineer and your major vacation each year involves a road trip, it is a bit of a busman’s holiday. Mostly, traffic control is about the same as the U.S.
It is highly possible, however, that my companions were also checking out the road signs. We saw a warning sign for some multi-antlered critter I assumed was an elk. Then there was a sign with a squat looking dump truck with a lumpy load. I figured it must mean either, “Caution – coal trucks entering road,” or “Warning – truck full of basketballs ahead.” It could go either way.
I was also thrilled to see all the signs in both English and French. In our area at home, most signs include Spanish, but we never see French. If only I had used some of my three years of high school French in the past 26 years, perhaps I would remember more than, “Je m’appelle Amy,” or, “Ou est la biblioteche (where is the library?).” (If I'm wrong on any spellings or French grammar, I didn't verify anything from my 26-year old memories of class.) I tried to figure out how to fit either sentence into casual conversation with a French Canadian and failed utterly.
It was lunchtime, and we were excited to feel cosmopolitan and dine internationally. We pulled into the first goodly sized town, and we saw the following Canadian restaurants to choose from: McDonald’s, KFC, Arby’s, and Dairy Queen.
Canada was by far our hottest day yet. “It’s July!” L and I heckled S and K. Bet you two now wish you had packed your swimsuits, don’t you? We’re not looking so dumb now, are we?” It is not our way to be gracious winners.
We stopped at a campground with only one campsite left available. S had called all our reservations to cancel them the day before, because our new trip plans couldn’t use any of them. Now we would be on our own to find what we could on the fly. The only site available in town was pretty primitive: bathrooms, but no showers. We took it. If there had been a pool or a creek, we would have immersed ourselves in it. Instead, we got water from the sinks in the bathroom, went outside, and poured it over each other’s heads to cool off. We dined on our freezer bag meals together while it was still light out, and then we played cards for two hours on the picnic table. Yep, this trip pace was going to suit us just fine.
We had been driving through pine trees all day. And heat all day. And when we stopped, we were besieged by mosquitoes. Here is L’s impression of Canada so far: “It’s hot, buggy, and smells like Christmas.”
Daily Recap: 250 miles, 1 province: British Columbia
We made it through customs and took our obligatory photos by the “’Welcome to British Columbia” signs. S had made us all a metric conversation strips and laminated them so we could tape them to the inside of our windshields. (Harleys are American made, and they obstinately do not include kmh on the speedometers.)
The first thing I noticed about Canada was the road striping. In the US, the road dashes are 10’ long with 30’ long spaces. Canada’s dashes appeared to be longer than 10’, perhaps 15’, with the same length space. I puzzled about the length for awhile until I remembered Canada uses the metric system. Ah, must be either 4 of 5 meter dashes with the same length space.
Yeah, I’m a geek. I’m pretty sure no one else was thinking the same thing. When your occupation is a traffic engineer and your major vacation each year involves a road trip, it is a bit of a busman’s holiday. Mostly, traffic control is about the same as the U.S.
It is highly possible, however, that my companions were also checking out the road signs. We saw a warning sign for some multi-antlered critter I assumed was an elk. Then there was a sign with a squat looking dump truck with a lumpy load. I figured it must mean either, “Caution – coal trucks entering road,” or “Warning – truck full of basketballs ahead.” It could go either way.
I was also thrilled to see all the signs in both English and French. In our area at home, most signs include Spanish, but we never see French. If only I had used some of my three years of high school French in the past 26 years, perhaps I would remember more than, “Je m’appelle Amy,” or, “Ou est la biblioteche (where is the library?).” (If I'm wrong on any spellings or French grammar, I didn't verify anything from my 26-year old memories of class.) I tried to figure out how to fit either sentence into casual conversation with a French Canadian and failed utterly.
It was lunchtime, and we were excited to feel cosmopolitan and dine internationally. We pulled into the first goodly sized town, and we saw the following Canadian restaurants to choose from: McDonald’s, KFC, Arby’s, and Dairy Queen.
Canada was by far our hottest day yet. “It’s July!” L and I heckled S and K. Bet you two now wish you had packed your swimsuits, don’t you? We’re not looking so dumb now, are we?” It is not our way to be gracious winners.
We stopped at a campground with only one campsite left available. S had called all our reservations to cancel them the day before, because our new trip plans couldn’t use any of them. Now we would be on our own to find what we could on the fly. The only site available in town was pretty primitive: bathrooms, but no showers. We took it. If there had been a pool or a creek, we would have immersed ourselves in it. Instead, we got water from the sinks in the bathroom, went outside, and poured it over each other’s heads to cool off. We dined on our freezer bag meals together while it was still light out, and then we played cards for two hours on the picnic table. Yep, this trip pace was going to suit us just fine.
We had been driving through pine trees all day. And heat all day. And when we stopped, we were besieged by mosquitoes. Here is L’s impression of Canada so far: “It’s hot, buggy, and smells like Christmas.”
Daily Recap: 250 miles, 1 province: British Columbia
Day 8
Pride. I’m not sure which hurt more: my back or my pride on being outed as the weakest link among strong women I admire.
Pride. Each one of us had told every single person we knew and worked with that we were riding our motorcycles to Alaska. Not that we were going on a long vacation on bikes or that we were going west, but the destination was clear: Alaska. S and K said the other firefighters would never let them live it down if they didn’t actually get there. L would also be abused by her coworkers, since she dishes it every bit as much as she takes it.
S, our trip’s Julie McCoy, pulled out the maps. For those of you under 40 years of age or who exhibit taste in your TV viewing habits, Julie McCoy was a character in the 70’s sitcom, “The Love Boat.” She was a cruise director for the Pacific Princess, and each week she was able to fulfill each passenger’s deepest desires in just a five-to-seven day vacation at sea, up to and including matchmaking to find true love between two total losers, played by washed up TV actors.
I LOVED The Love Boat, and I loved Julie McCoy with her cute little Dorothy Hamill. (For those of you under 40, I can’t possibly be expected to fill you in on all 70’s and 80’s pop culture. You grew up with computers, for cryin’ out loud: Google Dorothy yourself!) I’d like to pawn this off to the fact that I was young at the time, but my current Tivo programming list still indicates an appalling lack of standards.
Anyway, the point is that S pulled out her maps and started a new plan. Within 30 minutes, she came up with a friendlier option that would still allow us to touch Alaska, although much lower and for only part of one day. She mapped it out so that we would only ride 200 to 250 miles each day, so we would have time to stop for lunch at someplace pretty, eat together, and walk around awhile before climbing back on the bikes. We would also have time for side trips and chicken pictures.
We decided to take a daytrip to Glacier National Park, 30 miles away from our campsite, I could come back and go to the chiropractor one more time, and then if all went well, we could set out on our new course Saturday morning.
L and I had been to Glacier two years ago on our cross country ride with the Harley Owners Group. We loved it and looked forward to showing it to S and K. The day quickly became hot. Then hotter. This park truly displays the awesome grandeur of creation. We marveled. But we also failed to plan. The day became late, and we had not packed food nor near enough water. There were no options at the top of the mountain.
We headed back serpentine roads hanging off the sides of cliffs, back to the nearest town with restaurants, and we stopped at the Huckleberry Patch. Our server from the restaurant last night had recommended it to us east coasters who had no idea what a huckleberry was, except that Yogi Bear had this kind of pie in his pick-a-nick basket.
Huckleberries threw up all over this store. There were t-shirts and cups and magnets dedicated to the berry. There was huckleberry fudge and milkshakes, and yes, pie. We ordered lunch and any beverage that was ice cold. Slightly revived, we went back out to the bikes.
Riding a motorcycle for several hours on a hot day drains your enthusiasm for, well, anything. And everything. We just wanted to get back to camp as rapidly as possible. We could have seen the Holy Grail of chicken pictures: a 40-foot high statue of a rooster made out of aluminum foil saved by a thousand local school children, feet made of popsicle sticks, and feathers fashioned from rubber bands and super glue, and on that day, we would have blown by it without a moment’s consideration.
I dropped the girls off at the campground, and I continued straight to the chiropractors office late on a Friday afternoon. I walked in and said, “How’d you like to do an adjustment on a sweaty, disgusing biker?”
“Step into my office,” she replied.
Glacier was as awesome as I remembered. The huckleberry milkshake was inspired. The chiropractor a godsend. The cool shower at the end of the trip, divine.
Daily Recap: 150 miles, Still Montana
Pride. Each one of us had told every single person we knew and worked with that we were riding our motorcycles to Alaska. Not that we were going on a long vacation on bikes or that we were going west, but the destination was clear: Alaska. S and K said the other firefighters would never let them live it down if they didn’t actually get there. L would also be abused by her coworkers, since she dishes it every bit as much as she takes it.
S, our trip’s Julie McCoy, pulled out the maps. For those of you under 40 years of age or who exhibit taste in your TV viewing habits, Julie McCoy was a character in the 70’s sitcom, “The Love Boat.” She was a cruise director for the Pacific Princess, and each week she was able to fulfill each passenger’s deepest desires in just a five-to-seven day vacation at sea, up to and including matchmaking to find true love between two total losers, played by washed up TV actors.
I LOVED The Love Boat, and I loved Julie McCoy with her cute little Dorothy Hamill. (For those of you under 40, I can’t possibly be expected to fill you in on all 70’s and 80’s pop culture. You grew up with computers, for cryin’ out loud: Google Dorothy yourself!) I’d like to pawn this off to the fact that I was young at the time, but my current Tivo programming list still indicates an appalling lack of standards.
Anyway, the point is that S pulled out her maps and started a new plan. Within 30 minutes, she came up with a friendlier option that would still allow us to touch Alaska, although much lower and for only part of one day. She mapped it out so that we would only ride 200 to 250 miles each day, so we would have time to stop for lunch at someplace pretty, eat together, and walk around awhile before climbing back on the bikes. We would also have time for side trips and chicken pictures.
We decided to take a daytrip to Glacier National Park, 30 miles away from our campsite, I could come back and go to the chiropractor one more time, and then if all went well, we could set out on our new course Saturday morning.
L and I had been to Glacier two years ago on our cross country ride with the Harley Owners Group. We loved it and looked forward to showing it to S and K. The day quickly became hot. Then hotter. This park truly displays the awesome grandeur of creation. We marveled. But we also failed to plan. The day became late, and we had not packed food nor near enough water. There were no options at the top of the mountain.
We headed back serpentine roads hanging off the sides of cliffs, back to the nearest town with restaurants, and we stopped at the Huckleberry Patch. Our server from the restaurant last night had recommended it to us east coasters who had no idea what a huckleberry was, except that Yogi Bear had this kind of pie in his pick-a-nick basket.
Huckleberries threw up all over this store. There were t-shirts and cups and magnets dedicated to the berry. There was huckleberry fudge and milkshakes, and yes, pie. We ordered lunch and any beverage that was ice cold. Slightly revived, we went back out to the bikes.
Riding a motorcycle for several hours on a hot day drains your enthusiasm for, well, anything. And everything. We just wanted to get back to camp as rapidly as possible. We could have seen the Holy Grail of chicken pictures: a 40-foot high statue of a rooster made out of aluminum foil saved by a thousand local school children, feet made of popsicle sticks, and feathers fashioned from rubber bands and super glue, and on that day, we would have blown by it without a moment’s consideration.
I dropped the girls off at the campground, and I continued straight to the chiropractors office late on a Friday afternoon. I walked in and said, “How’d you like to do an adjustment on a sweaty, disgusing biker?”
“Step into my office,” she replied.
Glacier was as awesome as I remembered. The huckleberry milkshake was inspired. The chiropractor a godsend. The cool shower at the end of the trip, divine.
Daily Recap: 150 miles, Still Montana
Day 7: The Healing
For those of you who think chiropractors are quacks, you obviously have never walked into a doctor’s office, listing to the left, walked back out still listing but with a prescription in your pocket for muscle relaxants and a week’s bedrest, then walked right across the street into a chiropractors office to come back out 30 min later standing up straight and able to go back to work. If your objective is to get off work for a few days, take your ailing back to the former. If you have stuff to do, go to the latter.
I sat down at the picnic table at 8:30 a.m. with a phone book supplied by the campsite office. My body is a temple; it is the only one I get in this life, so I choose my medical care with rigorous standards. I opened the yellow pages and picked out the three largest and most attractive display ads, and I gave them a ring.
One of them wasn’t open on Thursdays. Another wasn’t open until Thursday afternoon. The third opened at 9:00 a.m., so I sipped my coffee with the girls to wait. At 8:55, my cell phone rang. A chiropractor was on the other end of the line; said she had just gotten in the office and saw this number on her caller ID. Hmm. I’ve never had a medical professional call me back without leaving at least two messages of increasing urgency, and this time, I hadn’t left any. Guess business is slow.
I programmed her office address into the GPS (MAN, is that thing handy!), got help getting on the bike, and set off immediately. I crawled into her office, and she called to see how much my insurance would cover. She said I had a ten dollar copay after fulfilling an annual $200 medical deductable, of which, let’s see, I had so far used, um, zero. She looked up. “You don’t go to the doctor often, do you?”
“No, really I don’t. You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I’m ridiculously healthy.” She looked at me. I was tilting toward starboard. “’Except for this,” I added quickly.
She adjusted this, popped that, cracked the other thing, and if not a new woman, I was at least no longer a completely broken one. I went back to camp with a little hope in my heart.
We took the entire day easy and then decided to go out to dinner together. I believe I have mentioned that S was our consummate trip planner. She also put a great deal of thought into our evening meals. It is too expensive to eat at restaurants every night, and it also takes a great deal of time. Cooking at camp requires dishes and cleanup, and after being on the road for 10 hours, no one feels like cooking. Backpackers carry dehydrated meals that only require you to add boiling water to a pouch of food, seal it up for 10 minutes, then eat right out of the bag so your only dishes to wash are the spoons. This is the perfect option in that it also light and easy to pack 21 days worth of dinners in our trailers. The problem is that the backpacker meals you buy in outdoor recreation stores are pretty expensive.
S did some research. She found a website, trailcooking.com, where a woman made up a bunch of recipes so you could make backpacker meals yourself in Ziploc freezer bags that would hold up to the boiling water. They are surprising good, very economical, and indeed, after a long day, it is the only thing we had the energy to make.
After a week of dining on various chicken and rice combos out of a freezer bag, and we were looking forward to a real restaurant. We all ordered different dishes and then laid into the basket of fresh bread and butter brought to the table as if we had just gotten out of prison. When the entrees arrived, we practically applauded. Every plate looked like the finest meal on earth. We tried everything from each other’s plates, family style. It was pathetic, our sublime joy over a little well-plated cuisine. North Bay Grille in Kalispell Montana. Tell ‘em the grungy biker girls sent ya. If you dare.
I sat down at the picnic table at 8:30 a.m. with a phone book supplied by the campsite office. My body is a temple; it is the only one I get in this life, so I choose my medical care with rigorous standards. I opened the yellow pages and picked out the three largest and most attractive display ads, and I gave them a ring.
One of them wasn’t open on Thursdays. Another wasn’t open until Thursday afternoon. The third opened at 9:00 a.m., so I sipped my coffee with the girls to wait. At 8:55, my cell phone rang. A chiropractor was on the other end of the line; said she had just gotten in the office and saw this number on her caller ID. Hmm. I’ve never had a medical professional call me back without leaving at least two messages of increasing urgency, and this time, I hadn’t left any. Guess business is slow.
I programmed her office address into the GPS (MAN, is that thing handy!), got help getting on the bike, and set off immediately. I crawled into her office, and she called to see how much my insurance would cover. She said I had a ten dollar copay after fulfilling an annual $200 medical deductable, of which, let’s see, I had so far used, um, zero. She looked up. “You don’t go to the doctor often, do you?”
“No, really I don’t. You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I’m ridiculously healthy.” She looked at me. I was tilting toward starboard. “’Except for this,” I added quickly.
She adjusted this, popped that, cracked the other thing, and if not a new woman, I was at least no longer a completely broken one. I went back to camp with a little hope in my heart.
We took the entire day easy and then decided to go out to dinner together. I believe I have mentioned that S was our consummate trip planner. She also put a great deal of thought into our evening meals. It is too expensive to eat at restaurants every night, and it also takes a great deal of time. Cooking at camp requires dishes and cleanup, and after being on the road for 10 hours, no one feels like cooking. Backpackers carry dehydrated meals that only require you to add boiling water to a pouch of food, seal it up for 10 minutes, then eat right out of the bag so your only dishes to wash are the spoons. This is the perfect option in that it also light and easy to pack 21 days worth of dinners in our trailers. The problem is that the backpacker meals you buy in outdoor recreation stores are pretty expensive.
S did some research. She found a website, trailcooking.com, where a woman made up a bunch of recipes so you could make backpacker meals yourself in Ziploc freezer bags that would hold up to the boiling water. They are surprising good, very economical, and indeed, after a long day, it is the only thing we had the energy to make.
After a week of dining on various chicken and rice combos out of a freezer bag, and we were looking forward to a real restaurant. We all ordered different dishes and then laid into the basket of fresh bread and butter brought to the table as if we had just gotten out of prison. When the entrees arrived, we practically applauded. Every plate looked like the finest meal on earth. We tried everything from each other’s plates, family style. It was pathetic, our sublime joy over a little well-plated cuisine. North Bay Grille in Kalispell Montana. Tell ‘em the grungy biker girls sent ya. If you dare.
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