Hey Everyone,

Last time you heard from me I was getting ready to leave the Clark's and go visit the protestors up in Cathedral Grove. Well, I left the Clark's, but have yet to reach the protestors!

Instead, I took a ride from my host Michael, in a big five ton truck, out to the west coast. For me, and not because of Michael's driving, it was white knuckle experience weaving over the narrow, shoulderless passes that lead to Pacific Rim National Park. I bit my tongue and hid my hands through-out, and became entirely convinced the west coast highway is not a road for cyclists who plan to live to cycle again.

So, it was with great relief we pulled safely into Tofino and I unloaded Blu and BoB onto the street, in front of one of the local expensive bistros. Bagel and cheese only $6.95. Heck, I can eat for two days, and well, on that kind of money.

Anyway, once loaded, Blu, BoB and I set out down the winding, gently sloping hills towards Long Beach, where, at about 3PM on Saturday, I dipped Blu and BoB's wheels, and my scantily clad feet, in the ever-shifting, sometimes roaring, Pacific surf. I wasn't sure why, but I have some idea that sometime before this journey is through, I may get the opportunity to dip our extremities in another ocean, or at least a great inland lake.

Once our little bath was done, we headed off to Green Point, still on Long Beach. We'd actually set out for Ucluelet, but I could not let myself be so close to the beach and not actually stop a while and get friendly with it. About 3:30 we pulled into Green Point, and set up camp in a nifty little walk-in site overlooking the rocks on the edge of land, at the northern end of a long sweep of sand stretching as far as I could see in the building fog and cloud drifting onto the shore.

No sooner was the tarp up, and dinner cooked, when those clouds made land and the famous west coast rain began to fall. It fell, and fell, while I roamed the beach, log-walking, and exploring the tide pools full of mussels and other rich sea life. Then, when darkness overcame, I crawled to the safety of my warm sleeping bag wrapped in mosquito net (to keep the slugs out) and fell into a sound sleep beneath the wet tympany.

Morning broke with a short respite from the rain, long enough to cook a couple cups of coffee and a bowl of porridge. Then the rain hit again, with its best buddy, the wind. I'd survived the night without getting wet. I even packed all the bags without getting wet, but when it came time to actually load the bike, I had no option but to do so without cover. In minutes Blu, BoB, all the stuff we have with us, and me, were soaked through and through.

It was cold, wet and in our face.

Miraculously, though being stood up straight by gale force gusts, and a few steep watery lake-like stretches of pavement, and the odd SUV spraying us with gallons of highway film, we made Ucluelet in almost exactly two hours, meaning we were travelling at about 9K an hour, to find a big yellow and black sign that pointed out the "CNN WATERFRONT HOSTEL".

I pulled in the drive, tucked Blu and BoB under the porch, and took my dripping saturated self in through the front door, where I was greeted by Sandra and Gerd, two unsespecting German nationals who, a couple weeks earlier, after just visiting the hostel on a whim, found themselves running the place.

I was wide-eyed, wind-blown, crazed, wet and shivering, but from the moment I walked through the door, I was warmed, welcomed and treated like an honoured guest.

That night over dinner I treated them, and another German couple, to a torrent of poems and stories, which they all were greatly enthused by, and rewarded me for with the purchase of some books.

Since then I have continued to be a much honoured guest, campfire builder, English Writing consultant, barbeque culinary expert, and grandfather to an ever-changing string of faces from all over the world, which includes my host Gerd's parents, an east German couple a few years my younger, who have flown in for two weeks to visit their son.

Last night I horned in on their salmon steak dinner, teaching them how to properly barbeque the fishes, and earning myself an incredible salmon dinner in the process.

After dinner we talked for a few hours about life behind the Iron Curtain, the propoganda about life there, and here, that we both experienced. It was an insightful and delightful conversation, mediated and translated by the others in the room.

I learned that life behind the wall was not so different than life on this side. We were all fed untruths about the other's lives and conditions. I learned the Soviet soldiers were poor men who lived in squalid conditions, with poor pay, and great restrictions on their movements. They were friendly to the east German people, and partially dependant on them for those little extras that make our lives pleasant and bearable. Perhaps the biggest difference in people's lives in the east was the control over their living environment, and what they did to earn their keep. For the mostpart they were told where to live and what they had to produce.

One story, they told, was about friends who, during a drunken night out, said they were going to flee to the west when they had a chance. The next morning Soviet Secret Service came to their door and moved them hundreds of miles from the border with the west. After that, the people in the community never spoke out loud about their desire to go west. In fact, they most often spoke in whispers when out in public. In the end though, many had good lives, with plenty to eat, and lots of family, friends, decent educations, and reasonably comfortable lifestyles, albeit without all the toys we have.

Last night over a campfire, Gerd's mom, a woman who speaks no English, sat with me and told me all about their homelife, their sheep, chickens, rabbits and Gerd's younger brother, who is sixteen, and is home minding the farm. I learned their parents were farmers, and their parents before them. I also learned the biggest changes since the fall of the wall have been adjusting to the new capitalist economy, and the loss of many of the young, who are fleeing to the west.

All in all, in over 30 years of hostelling, I can't rightfully say I've ever experienced a warmer, more educational, and fun time at any hostel anywhere. And to make it even better, this might well be one of the more functional and comfortable hostels anywhere. It’s a big three-story rectangle built about 150 meters from the Alberni Inlet, featuring a five acre, magnificently landscaped yard, respelendant with boardwalks, picnic areas, fire pits and hamoc. There is a 30-meter by six-meter kitchen, several bathrooms and showers, and big spacious rooms. It is clean, cared for, and respected. Unlike some of the better hostels, like the Painted Turtle in Nanaimo and the Dancing Bear in Nelson, where things are almost too nice to touch, this one begs to be lived in.

Alas, as much as I want to stay and adopt these people, and this place as my own, I am on a mission. I promised all you folks I would stop in on those furry protestors up in the Fir trees and I have every intention of keeping that promise.

So, this afternoon, after a bus ride to Alberni (the boat I'd hoped to catch does not sail at this time of year), I will resume my spining and grinding.

This morning, after another night of wet windblown squalls, the sun has emerged from misty mountains to the east, and the time has come to move on.

The next time I speak to you all I will have met up with those protestors, and will have yet another adventure to tell ya all about.

Have fun, I am. Until next time,
Will.