Whenever I travel I take several people with me via email. Below are some excerpts from travelogs I sent to them during my recent adventure on the Kettle Valley Railway.

These are observations, experiences and opinions. I hope they provide you, the reader, with a look into what I see going on in the world as I travel through it.

If these words give you pause to think, good. I've done my job.

    Well, even though none of you are writing and asking what became of me I  figured I'd fill you in anyway.
    My week in Nelson was full of puppy dogs and a crazy Japanese fellow with a  bad case of scabies. Poor guy, the doctor joked that he thought it was  Chicken pox, which the Japanese fellow interpreted to be some deadly disease.
    It took me a few hours to calm the poor fellow down and teach him what a  scabie was. After a good wash he was doing much better but I felt sorry for  him because something in the Kwelldaa cream was very appetizing to mosquitos  and so the hapless fellow not only had scabie warts but big lumping mosquito  bites that he couldn't help but itch,  soon he was itching and scratch and as  much as my empathy bled for him I was happy to escape him and get back to my  adventure.
    Ah, but just when everything appears to be going somewhere the Greyhound  decides to up the prices and for the first time in years a clerk recognizes  that my ten percent discount card is two years out of date and charges me the  full rate. Then, just to make things interesting I land in the Okanagan just in time for  the hottest days of the summer and find myself completely subdued and  unwilling to climb long hills. So I sit still at the hostel and try to
weather the heat but it keeps me from sleeping and I turn into a grouchy  grumpy grizzly bear, which I already am, but even worse now.
    So then it strikes me that I really am not properly prepared for the trip to  come to I decide to buy a proper pair of front paniers and that sets me back  a week's supply of food and so then I begin to fret that I won't have enough  money to survive a week, even though I know I do, and I wonder why I'm  suddenly getting so neurotic and then I realize I'm not suddenly getting  neurotic but have always been neurotic and the heat isn't helping at all and  then, out of the clear blue sky comes a stroke of sanity.
    And that stroke of sanity say, "will you quit farting around and get on the  damn bike and ride for crying out loud."
    So that's what I'm doing folks, the blue ox is loaded and ready to go,  complete with new paniers, and I'm off into the hills once again. So stay  tuned, I'm bound and determined to find something, anything, other than my  own neurosis, and the malady's of crazy Japanese people, to write you about soon.
 

Penticton to Princeton
 

    I tried to get out of Penticton, I honestly did. And I succeeded but not before I broke and axle and my rear carrier half way up the Summerland hill. Which left me coasting back down into that town I had such a hard time getting out of in the first place.
    After an eight hour delay finding parts and attaching them to my bike I was off again only to be met by 30K of sand and gravel, much of it I walked through, and when, finally through the slush, I found myself being chased by a bull mastiff and a rather ugly Rotweiller, who both pealled off in quick fashion when I let out my most God-like bellow to "HEAL YOU BASTARDS OR I'LL HAVE YOU FOR DINNER."
    That was when my luck changed, but just a little. It was growing dark when I came upon fellow peddling with his young daughters and he clued me into a nearby free campsite that I made tracks for and slept out under the stars staring up through the pines to the stars above.
    My next day was less hellish and I did manage to impress myself with my own strength circumnavigating a missing bridge down a long narrow precipice to a rushing river where I hung out a while and took it easy.
    Once back on the trail my travels were rather dull until I was startled from my near slumber by two large moose who seemed also to be dozing and we just kind of all looked at each other for a few seconds before rushing off.
    Some hours later I made camp at a place called Link Lakes where the fish jump and the ATVers chew up every trail in sight. I was cursing the ATVers something fierce for chewing up my trail but that did not stop me from plopping myself down in their midst and deciding that ATVers, mosquitoes and deer flies were not going to prevent me from stopping and just doing nothing for a bit.
    It was odd, even though there were ATVers and mosqitoes and all those things I curse something deep inside was saying, Willbilly boy you just set your hard buns down right here and you wait.
    So I waited and two days into my wait I was sitting at the nearby Three Lakes General Store when in rode a blonde woman from Scotland named Peelee, with a missing panier. It was funny because the night before at my picnic table I'd been thinking to myself, what would be real nice would be a couple lovely young women to keep my company. Then, right behind
the first woman came a second woman, this one from Ireland by the name of Orla. Well, we all hit it off right away and to my surprise, when I invited them to share my camp, they took me up on my invitation.
    Peelee and Orla are a couple of self-described "Butches of Bikes" who are on the tail end of a worldwide bike tour. They have been in the far east, down under and were one week into their Canadian adventure when they showed up at Link Lake.
    Well I took them to my temporary home and we spent two wonderful days sharing stories, cooking skill (mostly mine), and camp knowledge (also mostly mine). I taught them how to make spaghetti with two pots on oneburner, turned them onto the camp rule of never yawning before the Milky Way comes out, and to pile their blankets under them, not over them, when coldness because a problem in the tent. I also inundated them with poetry and was quite shocked when they bought copies of all my books and my CD to boot.
    As they left they told me that all the people they would meet for the rest of their journey would pale in comparison to me, and coming from a pair of seriously gay ladies I took it as a major compliment. Then they added a real good piece of advice.
    They said, "Hey Will, next time you're sitting around the picnic table conjuring up beautiful young women make sure you specify their sexual orientation! And please know, if either or both of us were going to go straight we'd both go straight to you!"
    So we all said good bye, they went east and I went west and when I had gone but a few kilometres my front paniers suddenly fell off my bike and I was rolling up over them before I had a chance to stop. Then, right then, some cursed ATVers came along and were gracious enough to loan me a pair of plyersand a twist tie which I used to temoporarily refasten my
front rack.
    Then, rolling down through some of the most beautiful ranch country in the world, or that I've seen in the world, I managed to make Princeton where I booked into a campsite that had showers, my first in a week, and slept like a babe in the woods as the big trucks rolled by not a
hundred metres from my tent.
    When I woke this morning one of my first thoughts was, "I love it when things go well." Then, seconds later I discovered one of my brand new Canadian Tire paniers, was ripped from stem to stern, so I had to spend the first hour of my morning sewing the thing up again.
    Once that was done I made it to the local bike shop where I had no choice but to purchase a new rack and a new chain for the Blue Ox, which has become more like a mule lately. Then, just as I was about to leave my front post started screaming like a freight train with its brakes on. "Oil me, oil me, oil me."
    I turned to Jim, the bike man and said, "Hey Jim, what do you think I have to do about that."
Fully expecting him to say, Well Will, sorry to break it to you but you need a new post, I was surprised when he walked over with some WD 40 and just made that squeak disappear. Next stop, laundry, which like my body has gone some time undone. Then, if all goes well, I'll peddle the Ox out of this town, where I can smell the redness of neck, and on towards Hope, I hope!
    Hope you're all well. And please know, I'm having the time of my life despite the seeming chronic state of disrepair. I figure by time I'm done this trip I will have a whole new bike. And yes, I will take the girl's advice and be more specific in my conjuring.

Princeton to Bert's Horse Motel
 

    Just emerged in Hope from days on the trail, but that is another story. The one I bring you today goes back about a week. Rumour on the trail said the trail from Princeton to Hope was awful and quite nearly impassable. Most folks, including my wild gay girls, had bypassed the
section and come up the highway, but being a hardy tough SOB I decided to brave it.
    Two long tunnels put me into some of the nicest country I've seen running west along the Tulameen River out of redneck Princeton. The first stretch, to Coalmont, a great little village with a lot of laid back biker types in it, was the nicest part of the entire KVR.
    My first night I camped at the site of an old mining town Granite City. I'd arrived late and left early so I managed to escape the five dollar camping charge. The next morning I loaded up and road to Tulameen, a lovely little tourist hangout wedged on the shores of Otter Lake,
a big blue lake nestled in a narrow valley. My plan had been to camp on a rock cut described in my book as "beautiful." It was, but there was no shade and I didn't like the fact I was exposed to both sun and weird folks in motor boats so after a short nap and a snack, my instincts were screaming to go, so I decided to move on.
    It was scorching hot at about 4pm in the afternoon. I put my t-shirt up over my helmet and let it hang down my back so I looked a little like an Arabian Knight or something. I do this often in the heat because of the portable shade it provides. It can be a problem though because it somewhat limits my proliferal vision.
    So, I was riding along very much enjoying the hard packed trail and had left the lake and was running up a river bed when I suddenly heard a loud noise to my right side. I turned just in time to see the brown red face of a young Grizzly bear not five metres from me on the side of the hill. He's no doubt been on the path and the noise I heard was him getting off it when I'd come around the corner and surprised him.
    Right at that moment I began to lose my balance so I turned my eyes back to the path to right myself, and keep from falling over. I then turned back again and took a closer look. It was then I realized the bear was young, saw it's hump and it's huge snout. It was also at that moment that I realized that such a young bear was not likely far from its momma and I began to look around for her, hoping she was not in my path.
    Although I've always been told not to look a bear in the eye I couldn't help myself and what I saw was a mixture of fear and curiosity, but mercifully the thing was standing pat. It was also at this moment that I once again began to lose my balance and felt my legs begin to pump as the Blue Ox took off, covering the next few kilometre in minutes. Until this point I"d been feeling a little low energy but now I was full of gusto and was going like the wind.
    A few kilometres later I crossed paths with a farmer changing irrigation pipes and told him what I saw. He said he and his brothers had seen a pair of "Griz" in the field earlier that morning. So I knew for sure that I'd been lucky.
    I calmed down a bit at this point and began to just take my time rolling between farmers fields and marshes until I came out on another lake where I stopped a while to watch a falcon fishing. He was an amazing fellow, hovering almost motionless in the sky, then diving and great speeds to emerge drenching wet with a good eight inch fish in his talons. While watching a black hawk circled and hovered over me, admiring some Osprey feathers I'd found earlier and attached to the front of the Ox.
    After a little dip in the lake I wandered on, up through a narrow canyon and onto a flat stretch that was drenched in late afternoon sun and wildflowers, where I found a funky sign that said, "Bert's Horse Motel - Cyclists Welcome!"
    Having about had it for the day I turned into the place by two large old horses, a chestnut name Drummer and a black gelding named Lucky, who had a diamond on his forhead. Next I was greeted by an old cowboy with a big friendly smile. This was Bert, a 71 year old former trapper, who leased the five acres spread when he gave up a nearby trapping line.
    For the next three days I hung out at Bert's, with his horses, who came by every time I was cooking and hit me up for food. After a day I was joined by a German couple, Yuric and
Andrea, who have since become my travel mates and camp companions. We spent three nights sharing road stories and feeding ourselves while being serenaded by Bert, who knows
every song Gene Autrey ever sang, and half of Woody Guthrie's material.
    It was a great three days, and if you're ever down between Tulameen and Brookemere, drop in on the old gaffer. You'll be greated with one of the warmer smiles you'll ever see and you'll find out unequivically what the word "rustic" means.
    Anyway, that's all for now. Like I said, the journey down into Hope is another story. I'll get it to you soon but right now the place where I'm at is filling up with tourists and my pals have already split for Agassiz, and I want desperately to get out of town.
    Talk to you all soon, and though I know there is no way you're all having as much fun as me, I hope at least you are having some.

Bert's Horse Motel to  Beyond Hope
 

   I've got one whopping travelogue for ya and now that my internet service has been reconnected, thanks to the kindliness of a very good friend, I'm about ready to burst forth on you with adventure. So here goes.
    I didn't really want to leave old Bert's Horse Motel. There was something really homey in that place and I could see in old Bert a little of myself. Hope I'm as spartan and content as that man when I'm 71.
    The ride down the Coquihalla in 45 degree heat was as close as I've been to a tour of hell. The trail, which is advertised as part of the Trans Canada route is little more than a foot path wedged between steep ravines overlooking the Coquihalla River and the Coquihalla
Highway. And I, as well as my two German travelling companions, came out of it quite certain that no member of the trail crew had ever seen a bicycle, let alone rode one.
    Actually, after some sleep we agreed it wouldn't have been so bad if it weren't for that "damned highway." It took two days to complete the task, with an overnight stop at Coquihalla Lakes, where I shared my camp with some very taut Swiss folks who had just
ridden up the spine of the Americas from Bolivia.
    Emerging from the Coquihalla into the Othello Tunnels was a pure delight. If you've never stopped there I highly recommend it to any of you travelling near Hope. Despite its inundation with tourists and Rambo wannabes, there is something magnificent about how both nature and men have burrowed through the rock pinnacles of the place. What's more, after two days of frying pan heat, it was wonderful to emerge out the west side of the tunnel and into an old growth rain forest, down a trail that was thoroughly canopied and lined with black berry bushes.
    An hour later, riding through Hope, I found Yuric and Andrea at one of the local grocery stores. Andrea watched my bike as I went into the store and picked up some much needed groceries. Then I followed them up to a campground where they'd rented a site for the night, giving them hell along the way for not choosing the native campground I'd told them about.
    The campsite was in a grove of old growth cedar trees. It seemed odd to be in a place where the undergrowth was so luxuriant. We'd all grown accustomed to the dry kootch grass and prickly pear of Bert's and most of the KVR. It was dry and hot here too, but there was a big difference. Here at least there was shade, and greenery, and the air was not so stale.
    We sat around the picnic table cooking dinner and talking. All of us felt good about what we'd accomplished and decided to give ourselves a good pat on the back. We deserved it. It seemed like there should be a parade or something, a welcoming committee perhaps!
In some ways we were like kids who had just completed some task they weren't supposed to be old enough, or smart enough, or strong enough, to complete. We were downright giddy.
    Dinner was fantastic, a huge pasta with all sorts of fresh veggies in it. Dessert was a round of Mars bars and some licorice tea, which I'd finally convinced them to try. We talked a lot about the trail. Yuric was adamant that, despite what the Langford's book said, the KVR was no place for beginners. Our grumbling about the last 100 K, from Berts, was ferocious and, had we come across anyone boasting they were part of that trail crew, we'd have punched their lights out, metaphorically speaking. What's more, we all agreed we would never want to ride up it.
    Despite our growling, we all agreed the trail was a national treasure, and felt extremely fortunate about having had the opportunity to experience it. We did not know how lucky we were. Within days the government of BC would close the trail to travel, and a short time after that great chunks of it would be destroyed by fire.
    At one point we talked about Myra Canyon. Yes it was one of the highlights, but in perspective, it was just a point of the diamond, and without the perspective of riding the entire route, it would not have quite the glimmer.
    Yuric and Andrea, who over a period of 10 years had ridden almost every major cycling trail in the world, confided that none measured up to this one. It truly was marvellous, and I felt the same. As far as I was concerned, riding the KVR was the best thing I'd ever done, next to hitchiking across Canada when I was 16.
    As the hours passed and the light dimmed, we continued our discussion. Both Andrea and Yuric suggested I should link up with Bert and offer trail guiding services.
    "You and Bert are cut from the same clothe," said Yuric, surprising me with his suddenly perfect English.
    I took it as a high compliment. We had earlier agreed that Bert, his horses, and his Horse Motel, was one of the best parts of the trip.
    To further convince me to give the idea of trail guiding a serious effort, Andrea pulled out a brochure they'd been carrying with them since they left Germany. It was a full colour fold-out that offered 10 day to two week guided tours of the KVR. The cost, $2500 per person, did not include travel to the trail head, air fare from Germany, or accomodation after the trail was completed. The $2500 covered food and accomodation along the trail, which was all back country tenting except for a night at the Coalmont Hotel, and another at the HI in Penticton. As far as I could figure, the guides were making no less than $2000 a person.
    I scoffed at the idea, although hooking up with Bert and helping him out was attractive to me. There was no way I was going to let myself be responsible for a troupe of rich Europeans, or get into milking people of unreasonable sums to do what I personally enjoyed doing. There was just something about that idea that repulsed me.
    Another thing the brochure said was, as long as you could ride a bike you could do the trail. We laughed at that. I personally had visions of some out of shape 40-year-old trying to haul his bike and gear down the Trout Creek bypass, or up the steep detours along the Coquihalla Subdivision. The guide on that adventure would need nitro to restart the hearts of a few of his customers!
    We talked more, at one point devising several cruel and unusual punishments for members of the trail crew. In the end we decided the best sentence would be to make them ride up the Coquihalla Subdivision with loaded panniers.
    Bert's, we agreed, had been the high point of the trip, although my time with Peelee and Orla at Link Lakes ran a close second. At one point the three of us gave lip service to the idea running back up to Bert's to wind down.
    Yuric and Andrea were due to fly out of Vancouver in four or five days and were looking for a way to end the trip on a high note, although they'd pretty much decided to go into Vancouver and do some shopping. I had no idea what I would do next.
    Yuric and Andrea were packed and ready to go when I pulled myself out of my sleeping bag. I offered to cook them breakfast but they had already eaten. Then I offered them coffee, which they also resisted, until I let a very sad look come over my face and they relented.
    I made coffee while they did some last minute packing. We talked some more about the trail and how good it felt to complete it. Yuric and Andrea also talked about what they were going to do in the city, rent a nice hotel room, go out to dinner, maybe a concert, do some serious shopping at the Mountain Equipment Co-op.
    They asked what I planned to do and I was unable to say.
    "I'll probably have to stay here another day and think about it," I told them. "First I'll try to find a bike shop and do some internet stuff, then I'll decide."
    They seemed amused I had no plan, and said I was lucky not to have a plane to catch or a job to return to. I agreed!
    "I have made one decision though," I said, surprising myself with the level of certainty in my voice. "Next year I'm going to buy a BOB and ride across Canada for my fiftieth birthday!"
    This announcement surprised them as much as it did me. I hadn't really thought much about it. I remembered telling David and Kim the same thing, but it was more fantasy than an actual plan. Now, as the words echoed in my mind, I was able to visualize it.
    "That'll be a great trip," said Yuric. "I'd like to do that but it would take a long time."
    "Yeah," I replied. "I'll give myself the whole summer."
    What a moment before had been whimsical idea was now a definitive plan, as if I'd been giving it serious consideration all along.
    "I figure I'll start out in May," I went on. "I can either fly out to St. Johns, Newfoundland and come west, or just take the bike to the coast and go east. May is a pretty good month here. I'll likely go west to east. At least that way most of it will be downhill."
    Yuric, who was getting antsy to leave, laughed. He understood the theory but knew it was flawed.
    "Well, it may not really be downhill, but at least you'll have the wind at your back," he said, smiling, hoping I'd get the joke, which I did. The morning was moving on and we all knew the time had come to say goodbye.
    "We're going to try to ride Highway 7 to Port Coquitlam," explained Yuric. "If the head wind is not too strong. We'll ride to Aggasiz and decide. If you want, we can leave a message at the tourist bureau in Aggasiz to tell you which way we went."
    Part of me wanted to go with them, but I knew our time together was done. There was no way I was heading into the city. I'd promised myself I would stay away from any town bigger than Penticton.
    "Go ahead if you want," I replied. "I may just go that way myself, later on."
I suggested they avoid the highway and find a way to travel to Van on the south side of the Fraser River. They pulled out their maps and I showed them a route I thought would be more enjoyable.
    Yuric also talked about going the Harrison Hot Springs and Harrison Lake. There was a "nice hotel" and place they could rent canoes. I told them the place would be crawling with tourists and wasn't anywhere I would go.

    Andrea seemed sad and wasn't talking a lot. Neither of them wanted to admit they liked me, and were sad we were parting. Of all the German people I'd met in recent years, these two were definitely the most talkative and emotional, although, like most of their countrymen and women, they were reluctant to express it.
    I sensed Andrea just wanted to ride away and be done with it. The longer she hung around the more difficult it got.
    Finally we finished our coffee and they got up to go. Once again we all crowded around and shared a big hug.
    "Three times lucky," said Andrea, trying to impress me with her knowledge of English coliquialisms.
    "Three is a lucky number," I told her, "and there's three of us and this is the third time we hugged. Three times three is nine. Nine's a real big number, the biggest! We call it a power number."
    It was too late to start talking about numerology and besides, I didn't really know enough about it to talk long.
    Yuric and Andrea got on their bikes as I sat down to write. Yuric rode off while Andrea just stood there. Finally I looked up, wondering why she hadn't left. She was looking right into my eyes, smiling.
    "Good bye Will," she said, heartfelt with the hint of a tear in her eye. "Thank you, and have a good trip whatever you decide to do."
    I stood up again, reached around her, and gave her a one armed hug.
    "You too," I told her, "you too!"
    Yuric rode back into the campsite and said something in German. Andrea answered and pedalled off after him. I never saw or heard from them again.
    For a good long while I sat alone in the quiet camp, looking up at the big trees, trying to decided what to do next. In the end, there was only one thing I could do, only one thing I wanted to do. I had to keep going, beyond Hope!

    Thanks for coming along. Hope you enjoyed the ride.