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
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