In June 2004 I set off across Canada on my bicycle. Or at least I'd planned to cross Canada. It didn't work out, mostly because of the weather, but I did have a great ride.

These pages are an account of that trip, as told through travelogs I sent to friends. I hope you enjoy the ride!

The Invisible Line
 

    Saying farewell to my Dutch pals Kees and Marjon was a little sad. It reminded me a bit of saying so long to my German pals, Yuri and Andrea, last summer in Hope, after riding the KVR. Alas, it is the way of the long distance grinder. You meet up and travel with folks for a while, then one morning they're gone and you're left to face down the miles on your own.

    Watching Kees and Marjon pull out of Dutch Creek on their way south, I knew I'd not be long behind them. Storm clouds brewed in every direction and, for my own good, I knew I had to try to make either a forest service or provincial park campsite, or be stuck paying the big bucks. So, after tidying up a bit, I took off.

    Felt good riding out that day. Marjon had done some of my laundry, so I was wearing clean spandex for the first time since Calgary, the weather was holding (although a bit ominous) and I'd finally had my fill of being social. I felt ready for the solitary ride down the Rocky Mountain Trench.

    It was a good ride. The building storm gave me a headwind, but nothing like I'd experienced in the high Rockies or out on the prairie. It also sheltered me from the sun, which always makes riding a little easier. On top of that the road was levelling out, the hills diminishing, and the run downstream along the Columbia was just that, down!

    Before departing, Marjon told me they might stop at Wasa, because she wasn't feeling well. I'd responded that I was unlikely to go that far, 70K. Instead I planned to stop at Skookumchuk, about 50 K along.
    Well, with no real hills to climb, no blistering sun or driving rain to slow me down, I found myself in Skookumchuk (which means "good water" in some sort of forgotten western slang) by mid-afternoon. Pulling into the access to the camp where I'd originally planned to stay, I
failed to realize where I was and, after a short snack, rode in circles for about a half hour looking for the place I'd already found but didn't realize I'd found!

    Giving up on this foolishness, cussing a bit because I couldn't find what my map said was there (if I'd walked a 100 meters west of where I ate lunch I'd have found the small lake, the outhouse and the picnic table), I proceeded down the hill into the actual village of Skookumchuck, basically a general store, a couple commercial campgrounds, a gas station and a post office. There I inquired as to the whereabouts of the forestry site I'd failed to find, and was informed that I'd actually found it but hadn't looked hard enough. The nice lady in the store told me: "You must have blinked because otherwise you wouldn't have missed it!"
    Because returning to the site meant climbing a short hill, and because at this point in my journey it has become against my religion to backtrack, I decided to proceed the 18K to Wasa, where I'd assured Kees and Marjon I would not go!

    Sometimes, in the next few days, I wished I hadn't. From the get go, despite the 18K being the shortest 18K, and easiest of my entire trip, things went awry.
    First I had to deal with a very rude, insensitive and obnoxious camp attendant, a middle-aged, redneck of a woman whom I swear was either drunk or pilled up. You see, I have a special camp pass that allows me to stay free in BC provincial parks. This camp attendant doesn't really like the idea that some folks, especially long-haired furry freak balls like me, get to stay free. She'd rather have all her sites filled by good paying customers with Alberta plates - even though the provincial government reimburses her later for characters like me. She gave me a rough ride, saying the person on my ID card wasn't me, which made me rip off my floppy hat, put my face near her's, and say, pointing at the card which I'd tossed right in front of her nose, "what do ya mean, that's me, no one else on earth has that mug."

    She finally relented, realizing her ploy was not going to tick me off so much I'd leave. Which I would have done except for the building clouds and imminent rain showers building just to the west.
    Then she had to the gall to hand me a comment form, with my site number and name written on it in ink, and demanded I fill it out and say how nice she was to me, then place it on the post next to my site. I assured her I'd do so, but tucked the thing safely in a guide book
determined to use it later, when I file my official complaint with BC Parks about this individual's manner of doing business.

    All that crud behind me, my spirits were boosted for a time when a couple from Australia arrived on fold away bikes, towing little trailers, neat contraptions that could be turned into large suitcases, capable of carrying both their bikes and their gear. It's difficult to describe but these guys were set up so, if they didn't like the road, the could fold everything up and hop on a bus in about five minutes flat.
    We shared some tea and hung out until the weather finally hit, then we all scrambled for our respective tarpage.
    The next morning, early, they left, in blinding rain, to do the run I'd just completed. I did not envy them the climb up SinclairCanyon and the pass, in driving rain, and still wonder if they actually rode it or gave up and got on a bus.
    Myself, I wasn't about to go riding in the thick misty wet soup that had developed overnight and decided to stay put. Actually, I made the decision the night before when I told the camp attendant, much to her disdane, that I'd be staying at least two nights.

    Well, the rain set in, like an old man into his favourite lazy boy couch. It settled deep, into everything. It settled so deep my pens, which I keep plasticized and well protected, all began
bleeding water. It settled in so deep I could feel it trickling up my . . . oh never mind!
    Let's just say it was real bloody wet and leave it at that!

    So, there I was hanging out under a tarp, giving Blu agood wiping and blast of WD-40, when I noticed an RCMP car pull into the camp. It drives by me but I notice the cop giving me a look, which left me wondering if my "nice" camp attendant hadn't asked them to check on the weird hippie cycle guy. When the car kept going I forgot all about it.
    Then, about an hour later, along comes some guy on roller blades pushing a kid in a stroller. I recognized him right away. It was Constable Bob, formerly of the Kaslo RCMP detachment, and now based in Cranbrook. Nice guy Bob, but a fairly useless copper. In the few years I'd known him in Kaslo I'd never once witnessed him actually deal with an issue. He's more of a "put-it-off-until-I'm-transferred-out-of-here" type law enforcer. We'd tried to get him to deal with some of the more aggressive young males in town but he hadn't.

    Anyway, although it was nice to see a familiar face after so many weeks riding, I wasn't all that keen on spending my leisure time talking with the police, nor was the policeman all that interested is passing his time with some hippie from the toolies. Although he did confess that rollerblading by me, with his kid, was a bit of a ruse to see who I was.  He'd recognized me earlier when he'd driven into the grounds in his squad car.
    "Usually," he confided, "when I recognize someone of your description its because they're someone I've arrested before. I thought maybe you were one of them."
    Bob, who was actually my neighbour in Kaslo, seemed relieved he knew me more socially then professionally, but was equally glad to get away from me as I was to see him go. It takes a special type of person to be a police officer and its a type of personality that I don't really like. I was glad when he left but, between cranky camp attendants, pouring rain, and clandestine meetings with the RCMP, I was not enjoying Wasa so much.

    However, there was something reassuring about cops on blades rolling around the campground that made the place feel a little safe and, when the sky cleared for a bit that afternoon, I decided to take Blu, minus BoB, for a run. Blue was, afterall, all cleaned up and
juiced. It would be a good idea to spin it for a bit. Wasa has a lovely cycle path all around the lake, through pine forest and marshlands. It's all a little tame but fun for a spin. While on the spin I made a note to myself to return the next day to a little roadside flea market, come organic vegetable stand, I found by the highway.

    That night the weather continued to ebb and flow. For a while it would lighten up and stars would appear, then the downpour would begin again. I got to bed early hoping the next morning would dawn tame and I'd have a chance to get away. It was not to be. I woke up to a pouring rain storm that kept me tent bound, between mad rushes out to the picnic table to brew more coffee, or stir my oats.
    The camp attendant, this time the former's husband, was not too pleased when I announced I'd be staying another night, but he chose not to give me any sort of the same hassle his wife had.
    I wasn't at all pleased about staying but, I was also not going to even attempt riding. It was just too ominous and intimidating.

    Most of that morning and early afternoon I went about a process of drivng myself crazy by writing in my journal about all the things I failed to do on the trip, which mostly was a rehash of why I didn't keep going east. Then to really make things rough on myself, I started intensely reviewing my time with the Aussie lass. This too was a head f--k, so I eventually gave it up. However, it was good to write it all down and get it out of my system, which I would find out later, relieved me.

    Determined to really make life rough for myself that day, I decided to defy the rain gods and go for another spin. An hour later, soaking wet and cold, I pulled into the flea-market, come-organic-vegetable stand I'd discovered the day before. Walking in, I was greeted by a
somewhat familiar woman who called me by my childhood name, Billy!

    This was not anyone I particularly wanted to see. Gail, many years before had married a friend of mine. Years later, when that friend of mine, and Gail, had taken over the student society of my former university, I'd joined them to help make a go of things. A note to the uninformed here: There used to be a very radical university in Nelson, Notre Dame. It was closed by the government in the early 1980s.
    We students had managed to secure our student union building, and the land upon which it was located, and had kept the idea of a university in Nelson alive as a result. The place had fallen into disrepair over the years and, when Tim and Gail decided to rescue it, I signed on.
    Saving defunct sudent unions from the banks is not an easy task. In fact, it takes up all your time. Tim and Gail, with the help of many others, did a good job but methinks it cost them on some other levels. They owned a home and had three daughters to feed and clothe. Putting all their time in at the student society cut into their ability to earn money. Somewhere along the line they started extracting a little cashola from student society coffers, here and there, to supplement their incomes. Now, if at any point they'd come forward and asked the society to help them out, I'd have said, let's give them a cut of any profit they make. Instead, Tim and Gail, decided to do it on the sly.
    One day we held a giant yard sale. I worked it, and sold over $1100 worth of stuff. There were eight others working, and all of them, except Tim and Gail, reported selling over $100 worth of goods each. So, at the end of the day, I was expecting to hear that we'd earned
between two and three thousand dollars.
    However, after Tim and Gail disappeared into a room bythemselves, with all the cash boxes, they returned to announce that the entire yard sale had earned just over $1200. This meant that all the other sellers had collectively sold less than $100. Something was fishy! I
said so, and within a few weeks found myself being exorcised from the society (in a  fashion much akin to being excommunicated from the Catholic Church by the pope himself)  my lifetime membership revoked, and a bloody ugly rift set between me and these "friends" of mine.
    I went off to be journalist in the far north, and have had nothing to do with either Tim or Gail since. They divorced some years ago, when Gail discovered Tim writing erotic poetry to a young woman about same age as one of their daughters. Tim would later be ostracised from the society when a sum of money disappeared from the student pub, a sum that exactly resembled an overdue mortgage he was suddenly and miraculously able to pay. He would, years later, rejoin and become presidentof the society  again, only to be ostracised once more "for good", when a sum of money, exactly matching his car insurance, disappeared from society coffers!

    Anyway, now you're all filled in, I think you can understand why I wasn't so pleased to see Gail. However, I wanted to give her a chance to make good to me, so I hung in there talking a bit, asking about the daughters and inquiring, gently, about days gone by.
    Gail just piled it all on Tim, made no apology and accepted no blame. It was all her ex-husbands doing!
    Finally, I got sick of it, leaned over the counter, and said: "Gail, I don't really care what happened back then. In fact, it all worked out well for me. However, what I don't like is the dishonesty. If people would just be honest it would go a long way to righting things. You never really get past the crud until you talk about it. So, just to let you know, the way I see it, you and Tim were in cahoots. You were milking the society and I caught you with your fingers in the pie. You, in turn, cut me off at the testicles for it. You were equally guilty as Tim, so don't stand here and blame it all on him. You were in there like a dirty shirt and you know it!"
    "Now, how much do you want for this zucchini and tomato?"
    "Two bucks," she replied.
    I handed her a twoonie and walked out, loaded the food on Blue, and rode off in the pouring rain, determined, between cranky attendants, cops on blades, and blame shifting tyrants from the past, to get the hell out of Wasa the very next morning, rain, hail, sleet,  snow or bull crap!

    Dawn came gentle and off I rode, enjoying the up and down ride towards Fort Steele. After a pit stop at a farm,where I purchased some plums and a loaf of fresh made bread, I rolled into Fort Steele, parked my bike against a picnic table, and wandered around for a couple
hours inside the place. Coming from the east, where many such old forts and towns have been rebuilt, many of them fully operational according to historic protocol, I was not so impressed by the place. It was okay, but it wasn't my cup of java so I decided to split. Walking back out the main entrance, I discovered an admission booth, and that the fee to enter the place was over $10. I hadn't noticed it when I walked in, and now I was walking out, I had no intention of forking up that kind of cash.

    Hopping on Blu, with old BoB on our tail, we spun across the Columbia River and half way up the hill before turning onto the Trans Canada Trail at Eagar Hill Road. This was the section of trail I'd missed when I got lost chasing two moose with some school teacher back in June. It's a lovely section of trail that winds up an unused road before ducking into a birch forest, where it follows a goat trail up onto a grassy hill overlooking the Steeples Range of the Rockies. On the hill there is a picnic table. There, amid the wavering brown long grass,
with the sound of Highway 3 in the distance, and storm clouds gathering all around, I sat and ate my lunch, avocado sandwiches on the farm bread with some nuts and dates. It was delicious.
    After an hour or two, I continued along the goat trail until it connected to the old Isadore Canyon rail grade leading into Cranbrook.

    At Cranbrook I checked email then made a pit stop at the grocery store where I crossed paths with a Swedish couple who were cycling the same direction as I. Sadly, they were not as freindly as most cyclists I've met, and paid me only a courtesty chat when I approached them. I think there was something about Blu and BoB, being all muddied up, and me, all gruffed up, that made these two, very clean cut, Swedes on lovely new bikes, give me a wide berth.

    A couple hours later I crossed the Invisible Line.
    Everyone who lives in these parts knows about the Invisible Line. It lays somewhere just west of Cranbrook and defines, not only the east Koots from the west Koots, but also, Alberta car culture from rustic old hippies on 20-year-old, two-wheeled jalopies, culture. Somewhere on this stretch of winding highway the suits and ties disappear and grundgy patched jeans and bandanas emerge, barber shops disappear and the hemp shops are the centerpiece of every village. It is somewhere in this area that people stop staring at strangers and go right up and say; "HI! Welcome to the West Kootenays!"

    When I pulled into the Moyie Lake Provincial Campground the attendants not only remembered me from June, but were glad to see me. They stood around, chatted, gave me a pile of free firewood, and even started a campfire for me while I set my tent against the gloom cloaked sky. Then they stood around and told me about their summer, and listened as I told them about mine. It was like old home week!
    Later, some of my fellow campers came by to ask how my trip was and to commiserate with me about the 52 days it rained out of 69. I felt at home and slept well.

    Fighting the urge to hang around in such friendly territory, when the sky cleared early the next afternoon, I rode out again. That night I made Yahk. Riding into the village one of the first things I saw was the local camp attendant in her little red truck. She smiled, waved, and hollered, "Welcome Back" as I rode by. Later she would ply me with free firewood and give me an axe to use on it. She even came by the next morning for a visit, and apologized personally for Wasa when I told her the story.

    Packing up again, I made tracks for Creston. For two days, since Wasa, I'd been riding at least 70K. Heck, ever since Louise, I'd been averaging over 70K. It was time to slow down I told myself. But after making the 40 K to Creston in just over three hours, and finding little of interest in the West Kootenay's most easterly town, I headed north up Kootenay Lake, riding another hard hilly 30K and  catching my first glimpses of sun and blue sky in ages, before coming to rest at the Holbrook Motel, near Twin Lakes.

    Riding in I was greeted at the little pie stand they have there by a Grandma and her ten year old granddaughter.
    "How much is it to stay in your motel?" I asked Grandma.
    "Fifty nine dollars plus tax," she told me.
    "Guess I'll have to push on then," I reponded. "That's a little outside my budget."
    "You're not going to find anything cheaper," responded Grandma, about to say something else when her grandaughter butted in.
    "You can camp here!" she said, a big smile illuminating her lively blue eyes. "Grandma will let you stay in the gazebo and there's a shower around back."
    "How much to camp," I asked Grandma, who looked a little perturbed.
    "Ten bucks!" she replied. "And I'll throw in a piece of fresh banana cream pie."

    Well, that's not exactly how it went but you get the gist of it. I had some wonderful, free,  fresh banana cream pie with real bananas in it before dinner. I set up in the gazebo, a lovely little octogon next to the highway, and made use of the shower as well.
    In the morning the folks came out to check on me and I thanked them. Sweet people really, stop in if you're up that way.

    The next day was a breeze, and the ride to Riondel quite pleasant, even though there was at least one killer hill, going out of Crawford Bay, and a few cloudbursts I had to dip out of.

    About suppertime I arrived at my friends house in Riondel, you know the place, where earlier in the summer I built a stairway to the beach. Things were pretty crazy there, with half the family heading out to the coast, and the other half busy fixing cars and yearning for some space.
    I stayed a couple nights then loaded up, crossed the ferry, and took a leisurely evening ride down the lake into Nelson, where I arrived just in time to see a freind off to the Queen Charlottes.

    So, here I am, like a tourist in my own town, hold up with my mechanic, for a day or two (one of which is my big 5-0 B-day) before pushing on, and I  am pushing on, even though I'm actually home again.
    I've decided to run the Kettle Valley Railway to wind up the trip on a sunny note. There's a patch of it I've never ridden, the Columbia Western bit out of Castlegar to Rock Creek. So I'm going to do that, and maybe run as far as Bert's Horse Motel. With the weather turning good, and me finding out that I don't really need to be back here until late October, I've decided, what the heck, I may as well keep the adventure going.

    So, you're all up to date but hang on, there's more to come. I may be on home turf, but the adventure continues. So saddle up, we all got some more riding to do.