On April 1, 2005 I set off across Canada on my bicycle. Or at least I'd planned to cross Canada. These pages are an account of that trip, as told through travelogs I sent to friends. I hope you enjoy the ride!

Hey Kids,
Here's some journal excerpts:


June 11
I have been treated well here, given wood and provided every comfort. I'm secretly in love with the woman who is tending the place today, but she's married to a carpenter and has two kids living at home. Still, I noticed she's shaved since our first meeting, got rid of the butchy cowboy hat, and put her hair up. What a smile! Here she comes in her little red truck full of brush, rakes and garbage bags. There she goes with a wave around the corner to clean up another site, and collect more money.

Lit a fire as the sun went down from the totally clear sky. Weatherman says more rain tomorrow. I'm staying put expecting the worst. If I wake up, expecting a storm, to find the sun shines clear and bright, I'll be pleasantly surprised. And should that woman come around here after work looking to break her wedding vows. Well, I'll go by the code of the road and give myself willingly, then clear out in the morning.

Now here come the clouds. I can smell the rain on thier heels. It'll be rocks from the fire in my sleeping bag, not that woman's love that keeps me warm tonight.

June 12
The rain continues while my spirits lag. I'm thinking of staying longer. Don't know if I can. Perhaps if I move I'll catch the wind and roll from these mountians like a full spring river, or perhaps an early summer breeze caressing the road map and exciting the long green grass, up one road then the next, never knowing for certain which way I'll turn. Haunted by some vague desire to go somewhere and do something extraordinary, or perhaps just a little more fun than watching the pennies disappear until there's no dollars left. Better than to hunger for the road where there is no road to follow, or thirst for something new where everything is old.

More Rain, More Rain. But the wind is from the west, which is pleasant for a change.

June 13
Today has been the greyest since my arrival. There was sun out of Nelson but precious little since. I reside in a damp world where the droplets hang in the tree branches and get you, even when it turns sunny for a few moments. I keep yearning for the company of some stranger on a similar quest to mine.

My only guests are polite chipmunks and pesky ground squirrels, come to explore my nest of dripping tarps and half-wet saddle bags. I'm thinking tomorrow I'll make a run for it. See if the eastern slopes of these mountains, that have not dared to show their swollen white faces to me in four or five days, hold anything more than this constantly seeping weather.

I write between raindrops on this page. Move between the squalls to fidget with my gear or grab another wet log for the fire. I wrap myself in wooly underthings that have hung from my tightening middle-aged anatomy for so long they feel like second skin.

I yearn to be half naked wild beneath the burning sun, to have sand in every crevice and wind burn on my thighs, to sleep without a blanket beneath the stars. I die for summer then duck beneath the smoke billows that tell me the fire needs stoking.

And I remember I am sitting in the rain as twilight turns the forest to shadows.

Yes, I think I'll make a run for it tomorrow. If the weather lets me.

June 14
Late at night by candlight beneath the ratty old tarp the camp attendent gave me after I struggled with the rain all day. Since dusk I've been fighting to get the fire burning. Now success, and I have a moment to write.

Today, which started out the nicest, has turned into the ugliest of my stay. The sky has been vicious and the ground, already saturated, can absorb no more. It leaves the rain to pool around my campsite. Even when I went to pull my food into the tree, the boughs were so wet the rope slid off. I've put the food in another tree, but its far too close to my tent.

Now, after many hours, the stars appear and a half moon hangs ragged in the southern sky, as west winds sweep across the place and the trees begin to weep. They too have had quite enough!

It has been an awful day, but I expect the worst is yet to come. It begins with quiet, no bird songs in the trees. It whips suddenly into a frenzy, cold blowing from the east. Then crashes into everything, rain and hail and sleet, before ebbing in a drizzle, then starting up again. It pounds the tarp, fills the ground, and beats down on the leaves until I'm so overtaken I feel like I too could weep and become myself, just like it, sharing my misery with everyone, unleashing my hurt on everything, destroying what fun there was to be had, camping in the Rocky Mountains in June.

Tried. Planned to do laundry today but the rain raked such havoc on my camp I spent the whole day staying one step ahead of it. It was frustrating and nearly drove me to defeatism.

June 15
A dry night. What a change. I've actually been able to air some stuff out, clothing, sleeping gear. Bought a new sleeping shirt and a pair of handmade wool socks, all for $4, in town today. Did a grocery shop. Have pretty much what I need to get through the week.

Caught a couple nice Quebecker women raiding the wood supply.

Need a shower, must do laundry. Maybe tomorrow.

June 16
Did laundry. Showered at the Raging Elk. That took most of the day.

An owl hoots and the wind comes up. The forcast is for rain.


June 17
child of wonder, child of flight,
bearer of raw organic light,
find me here in this mountainous hideaway,
while there's still dreams to catch


June 18
Once again twilight. I sit by the fire, relieved the bugs have died down.

It has been a nice day, a few short sprinkles but no rain. A welcome respite. Aired all my things out today.

Packed them up as well. Thinking lots about the road. Feel I should wait for Wednesday, just to make sure I have no further money problems. Wouldn't want to get stuck in Alberta.

I know I can move. I moved between Van and Hope. I moved over the Hope Princeton and onto Pentiction. I blasted between Rock Creek and Nelson on a broken wheel. I ran between Balfour and Moyie. I know I can go.

But for now, I sit beneath this canopy of fir, cedar and cottonwood, as a round of birch cracks in the fire. Got my radio on, listening to JS Bach played on twin harpsicords, a sound that one composer suggested was like "two skeletons making love on a tin roof."

A few birds sing. The night is beautiful, a little cool. The sky is clear and the campground nearly empty. A train whistle blows. I feel the rumble of its steel wheels through the ground. I begin another night, strangely alone in a temporary paradise.

It's June 21 today. The summer solctice. I roll at dawn.

Talk to you all later.
Will