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,
It was with some considerable chagrin that I yarded myself out Winnipeg at 3 in the afternoon two Fridays ago. I did so after trying in vain to get my host, one Bill, to trade me a few hours work for an extra night's stay in his flea bag. If I'd been 25 years younger and of the female persuasion, he would have helped me out. As it was, I later found out, he charged me $20 for a basement room he usually rents out for $10.

So all was not great in Winnipeg, and I moved out into the weekend traffic, streaming like some sort of vile canal that just had its doors swung open to allow all the sludge and grime to escape. For five hours I groaned beneath the humid sun, inhaling diesel farts and sucking up the monoxide. It was about dark when, after 50K of drudgery, I pulled into a little family-run campsite near Richer. I groaned about the $14 camp fee, and vowed not to use the complimentary hot tub. It wasn't so bad really. The place was well cared for and each campsite had a thick wall of shrubbery encircling it.

So, although I could hear my fellow campers, I did not have to look at them, nor was I exposed to what had become a rather bone rattling west wind. Showering and sleeping okay, I woke the next morning to find favourable wind to go with the diminishing highway shoulder, which, since Winnipeg, had gradually gone from two meters width to mere centimeters, with a soft stoney gravel all along its side. Fortunately the previous day's traffic had wound itself out, and I found myself on a relatively tame portion of the Trans Canada, making good time. I did just over a hundred K that day and wound up in Falcon Lake, in a grove of pines near the lake. The rent was a little cheaper so I decided to stay an extra day, catch up on some sleep, do some writing, and basically get ready for Ontario, which one elderly former campground keeper warned me about.

“It just gets worse in Ontario," she said, before zooming off in her golf cart.

Taking a day off was perfect. I slept in, took my time in the morning, and left my camp standing for a change. I thought back on the previous days. My misadventure with the Kiwis, who I was now really glad to be away from, and of my time in Winnipeg, which was such a whirlwind, visiting the Fringe Fest, the Forks and the local coffee district, and barely having a moment to write in my journals. I was happy now, in Falcon Lake, to just sit and make notes about it all.

I wrote about the German fellow, who stood nearly seven foot tall, and had his fists planted firmly on the counter of the office at a campground in Prawda. He wanted $11 to camp, but there was no water. In its place he sold water in plastic jugs, with homemade labels on them, for a dollar a litre. I'd need six to get through the morning. That brought the campfee to $17.

I'd pushed on, realizing, that during my five minute exchange with the guy, his facial expression had not changed once, nor had he moved at all from his position, erect with his fists grinding into the counter top.

I also wrote about a stop I'd made halfway between there and Falcon, when a fellow, with his wife and two kids, stopped to chat. They were from Kelowna. I told him how I'd been forced to evacuate Winnipeg because of money, and was now facing down a tough four days with only $30 to survive on. Before they drove off the guy slipped me a 20 bill. I told them, "If I'm ever in Kelowna you guys are toast!"

I wrote about three different semi trucks that got within two meters of my person and had caused the hair on my neck to stand up. And about how I seem to lose my ability to see clearly at about 80K, and about the large mule deer who went right on munching when I stopped within feet of it. Mostly, I wrote about how nice it was to be free, to be on my own, away from some of the weird people I'd been meeting.

Overall, by dark of my second night, I was feeling good, like the adventure was finally unfolding as it should, on my schedule and according to my whim. I'd had a good day, and was about to go to sleep when it happened.

Like a pair of hemroids, the Kiwis came pushing their bikes up the lane! I don't know what's wrong with me, but the idea of getting a kick back on the $12 rent cheered me. I was down to $30, the kick back meant I'd have an extra $10. I invited the roids to join me!

They smiled, they apologized, they said everything right, then set up their tent and went to sleep, agreeing to ride with me the next day to Rushing River, past Kenora.

Next morning we were all up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Off we went, in a stern headwind, towards Kenora. I was loving it. The road was good, although I'd expected total deterioration. Instead, as we hit Ontario, the shoulder widened, and got smooth. It was a great ride, into the Canadian Sheild, a rocky landscape covered in forest and dotted with clear clean swimmable lakes. I was making great time, rolling along towards Kenora.

The Kiwis however were not doing so well. They were slow, and one of them was complaining about being sick. Then the other one said the first one might be sick, in part, because I was there! I finally took the hint, and went off ahead of them, into Kenora, a town that has grown up from a one-street kinda hoaky place, into a real nice tourist destination with tree-lined avenues, walmarts, Canadian Tires, banks, librarys. Used to be the biggest thing in town was the stature of a muskie fish on the west side. Now, that fish is barely visible for all the walkways, cycle paths, landscaping and urban beautification that has gone on.

I took some time out, checked email, and visited with some Metis folk I found hanging out at Walmart. They invited me to visit their campsite at Rushing River. I said I might tomorrow. I had other plans for that night. I decided to give the Kiwis the slip again. If they were going to be weird I'd let them, somewhere else. We'd agreed to meet at Rushing River, but I ducked off the road and went to a campground called Anicnabe. It was a $20 hit, but as I made dinner and sat down to write in my book, I felt good to be on my own again. That night, well before dark, I crawled into my sleeping bag and had one great night's sleep.

When I woke up in the morning, like a pair of really persistant roids, the Kiwis were there. I walked over and said, "Girls, this is destiny." They agreed. We had coffee, then agreed to meet later in the day at a place called Sioux Narrows.

Hey, camp fees split three ways are camp fees split three ways. That day, a hot sunny bluster with a favourable wind, I made good time. I must have been averaging about 25K an hour as I sailed out of Kenora then turned south at Highway 71. Pulling into Rushing River, I dropped by to visit my new Metis friends. They fed me eggs and bacon and coffee, and demanded I read them some of my poetry, before honouring me with a puchase of one of my books. It was a delighful way to pass the late morning, sitting out near Lake of the Woods, with a whole gang of real sweet people, while the summer wind played in the birch trees. Before I left they invited me to stay, "we've already paid, its free." No, sorry, I told them, I’d committed to meeting up with these two New Zealanders.

Damn I'm a fool sometimes!

Back out on the road, I was soon overtaken by a members of a large group of cheater cyclists. You know the ones, they have trucks carrying all their gear, while they coast along unburdened pulling down great distances in no time at all. As they rode by several made comments to me.

"God's Country" said one.

I responded; "NO, Manitou's country. Last guy who came through here claiming it was Gods Country was a Jesuit, and he was preparing the locals for the coming invasion."

Several others made comments about the disposition of Blu and BoB. "Man, you must be a sucker for punishment," said several, referring to my weight as they blasted by carrying only thier bodies.

I didn't much like them. They were a bit of a nuisance, not warning me they were there, taking up the lane, making silly comments, telling me God loves me!

As it turned out, they were a church group, one hundred strong, riding from sea to sea to advertise their church. All their gear and food was not only being hauled for them, but their dinners were being made, even brought out to them. Hell, they even had guys hauling portable potties, so they could do their business along the way!

Later I would ask one of their leaders, "Do you think Jesus would be hauling a portable shitter across Nazareth?
Don't you think that's a little over the top? Wouldn't that money have been better spent on the homeless and hungry in your town?

I would also later suggest that they really needed to think less about Jesus, and more like Jesus, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

I arrived at Sioux Narrows a good two hours ahead of the Kiwis and took a little time to write while I waited. When they arrived, swarmed by several of the younger males in the Christian gang, we went into pay for a campsite. Midway through negotiations, one of the Christians offered the Kiwis free camping and food. The girls jumped at it, leaving me to hold the bag for our campsite. As an after thought, once the girls had aquiesced, one of the guys looked at me and said, "you can come too."

I thanked him, then said, sorry guy, but I don't really want to appear to be affiliated with your group. I paid the $22. The Kiwis disappeared, never to be seen again, and I, gratefully, got back to my ride.

Didn't sleep well that night. Had the worst campsite ever. People driving around all night, flashing their lights, yelling at their kids. It was awful. So, when morning rolled around, I loaded up, and headed down the road. It was an easy day, mostly downhill on a quiet road, that unfortunately got more and more decrepit as I went.

Round about 6pm I arrived at a provincial camp called Caliper Lake. I happily went in, paid the $22 fee, and found myself a lovely little site right on the lake, all by my lonesome in a stand of pines. It was gorgeous. The loons sang all night, the lake was calm and quiet, the stars twinkled.

I wanted to stay there, I really did, but the $22 a night fee was too much. I'm tired of ending up broke at the end of every month. So I'm trying to avoid such expense. Reluctantly, I pushed on the next morning.

Leaving Caliper, I came upon a marsh on the right hand side of the road. As I passed a great bald eagle let up from its kill in the murky water near some bullrushes. It was spooked and hurriedly flapped its two meter wide wings, rising up off the marsh with large droplets of mud and blood spilling from its wingtips. It was so close I was actually able to look it right in the eye, an eye that was dark and frightened, but surrounded by pure white plummage. It was a massive creature, over a meter in body length, and with large talons on its feet. I took it as a good sign, to see such a beast early in my day.

Eighty K, in a blinding flash down an easy road, with a tiny pit stop near Emo, where a fellow let me use the computer in an infocentre, to let a good friend know that I appreciated him loaning me some dough, and to avoid a sudden rain, I arrived in the fart-smelling and rather odd town of Fort Frances.

That night I set up in the local tourist park, and was about to go to sleep, when five women on cycles came rolling in. I'd heard about these girls.

They'd left Victoria July 1, as six. They were down to five because one had over extended her knee and was riding in a van. We talked. It was refreshing. They'd had the same experience with the Christians as I had. We grumped and grumbled. It was great. I'd have invited myself to travel with them, but they were doing 100 to 150 K days.

Got off with free rent that night. Was pleased. The eagle fortold it. Next morning, I was a little slow. There was stiff headwind, and my energy was a little low. I was quite surprised, after 15 K, to find the women I'd met the night before. They were all hanging out at a tourist shack, with one of them out back of the place curled up in the fetal position in her sleeping bag.

She'd apparently drank some of Fort Frances' water without boiling it, despite the warnings. Later on that day, three of the five women would opt for a car ride, and two would keep cycling. I was proud of those two. They were perservering. I told them they could camp with me, but again, they were forging on.

I stopped at a place called Bliss Cabins in Mine Center. For $8 I got a little site right on a lake, with a little dock all my own. I swam, then sat on the ground and cooked up a good pasta, before locking down my stuff. I knew it was going to rain.

Rain it did. Thunder and lightning and heavy, heavy rain. So heavy it seeped under my tarp and wetted my bed. But when morning came it eased, then stopped. I was able to wave some of my damp things in the air before packing them up. I got a late start and was not far up the road when I noticed another cyclist behind me. I stopped to let him catch up. He steamed by, saying hello, but not stopping. Then, a half hour later, another came up. This was the effervescent Nathalie, a 19 year old Quebecker, travelling with the fellow who'd earlier blown my doors off. She stopped and grumbled about her companion, then moved on. A couple hours later I caught up to them again, having lunch. Her partner’s name was Simon. They were not a couple, Nathalie was quick to point out. We talked again, and agreed to share a campsite in Atikokan. They rode off.

That evening we met up in Atikokan, and despite all my spendthriftness, I agreed to go to dinner with them. It was a big pasta barrage, full of hamburger and grease, in the local pasta eatery, where it took hours to finally get fed. I saved some of mine, chicken caccitore. It would be lunch the next day.

Simon, Nathalie and I set up camp on the edge of town where some local baseball teams were also set up. They paritied in the night, playing music, and making noise with their cars until a huge thunder storm rolled in, drowned out their noise and inundated the treeless bluff with wind and rain and bolts of screaming blue for hours on end. By morning my already damp gear was even damper, but the rain ebbed.

Simon and Nathalie left early, saying they might stop in a place called Shebandowan, but were most likely to carry on to Kakabeka Falls. Leaving Atikokan, I came upon another marsh on my right side, and up from the bullrushes, startling me totally, came a big chestnut brown bull moose with a small furry rack just begining to grow. He must have stood nearly three meters high and had a body length to equal it.

As I came up he began to run along in the swamp beside me, then cut up, quite suddenly, onto the road. I thought for a millisecond he was going to charge, but then as quickly as he'd come up on the road, he went off it, to the left and into a stand of birch trees. From what I know of moose, he was likely about two years old. It was another good sign.

I'd started out slow but got faster. I think I really wanted to see Nathalie again. I don't know. But somehow, with wet gear and all, I managed to pull down the 120K to Shebandowan. Simon and Nathalie weren't there. I've since heard they pulled into Thunder Bay, have quit their ride, and gone back to Quebec. I, on the other hand, found myself pulling into the Burstall Resort, run by Ma Burstall, who built the place from the bush 47 years ago, and her son, Little Burstall, a short man of about 50, chubby, with big eyes, who could well be Santa Claus, or an elf of some sort. They charged me $10, instead of $20, and told me all about thier history.

That was yesterday. Today, despite telling myself I'd only do about 60K to Kakabeka Falls, I've plowed about 90. It was as I was riding down the seemingly endless stream of motels and fast food joints that lead into Thunder Bay, that I heard a voice.

"How ya doin'" it said, as if it was coming from inside my head.