After watching the All Black victory in the kiwi-aussie bar in Seattle, I didn't begin my trip south in the best of conditions. On that Saturday, pitcher after pitcher followed the Badger football game as we mourned the loss and 'prepared' for a house/dance party we'd been invited to. At 12:30am, after more drinks at the party and dancing in the crowded basement, I dipped out and rode over to the bar for the start of the rugby world cup final between France and New Zealand. The bar had reached its capacity, so I found a spot in the crowd outside with a decent view of the game through the word 'Aussie' on the window. The game was relatively uneventful, but painful to watch with the All Blacks barely scraping by to claim the world title 8-7. Getting back to Kaytlyn's with a pint of chocolate ice cream and lying down on the couch at 3:30am would prove to be a poor decision as I woke up a few hours later to find myself still on the couch, hungover, with the pint of now melted ice cream still in my hand which I immediately dumped all over myself. Against all odds, however, I was on the 1:30pm ferry that day, leaving Seattle on my way across the Puget Sound and with nothing in my way to get to San Diego!!! I managed to pedal 50 miles that afternoon before the sun set at 6pm.
The rain that I expected of the Pacific Northwest held off for me and gave me sunny skies. I had a goal set to ride long and hard and get down the coast to where warm weather awaited me. Three 100 mile days was my target; I've done many 'century' rides on the trip, but something has always come up and I've never been able to do two in a row. The Pacific coast proved to be no exception... The high mileage days are difficult, especially now that the sun sets around 6pm every night. It comes down to time spent on the bicycle - the more little rests that I take, the more bakeries and ice cream shops I stop at, the more miles I lose for the day. But I wanted to see as much of the coast as I could while the weather remained good, so I pushed my legs onward. The next day I made it 110 miles to Long Beach, WA, where I finally arrived at a coast with real ocean waves crashing into the sand and I pitched my tent near the water. It was a beautiful night, one of the first nights it wasn't cloudy and the stars were finally visible. Nothing compared to the stars of Montana, but one can't complain about nights spent under the stars on a beach...
The next day found me pedaling across the Colombia River on a 5 mile long bridge into Oregon. I spent some time in a little coffee shop I found in Astoria, the Three Cups Coffee House which roasts its own coffee on premise as the Columbia River Coffee Roaster. After a lengthy stay in the shop enjoying the atmosphere, warm drinks and baked goods, I was in the saddle again with a second century in mind. Alas, as it was getting dark with only 4 miles to complete my century and I was outside of Tillamook (where I stopped for my second ice cream of the day at the famous creamery there). There, a truck pulled up to me offering help and recommending a house to knock on for water. I was soon welcomed into the house and before I knew it was in a hot shower and my exhausted body was falling asleep in one of the comfiest beds of my trip!
On my way to attempted century number three, the beauty of the coast and my worn out body started to slow me down. As I approached 80 miles for the day it was sunset and I found myself biking down a side road out to the coast. The only business with its lights on was "The Flying Dutchman Winery" - a small winery that advertised wine tasting and had its door open. Just around the block from the winery was a small green spot, with a public restroom, and no "no camping" signs, so I figured I had my campsite pretty well figured out. After some conversation inside and being in the right place at the right time, I walked out with a bottle of Pinot Noir to top off my 1.5pint bottle of strong, craft beer I purchased earlier in the day. What evening can go bad when you have a whole bottle of good wine to finish yourself? So I sat in the pretty little green spot and cooked up some shrimp I had from the store with veggies and spices and wine!
More fine weather awaited me the next day and by the end of the day, despite a slower morning, I had 85 miles behind me. I was in Reedsport, OR, with nowhere to stay so decided to give the churches a try. I had heard that if you're ever in need of a spot to crash, a church lawn is a good one to pick. As I biked by the Methodist church, I saw people going inside so decided to see what they thought. I was quickly ushered inside and shown to the kitchen where I could cook my dinner. It was singing worship night and I was invited to join in. I found myself in a position I never expected to be; singing 'Jesus' songs with elderly folks in a church. I don't think of myself as a 'follower' of Jesus and hence, not a christian, so some of the lyrics were hard to sing out... but then again, I reasoned, I sing along to vulgar and trashy songs that offend me when I think about them, but with a little filter the songs become alright. I was welcomed into my first church of the trip and had a great spot for my tent outside on the lawn, and was questioned by the church goers, 'where do you sleep when you don't sleep at churches???'
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
On the Road again...
...I just can't wait to get on the road again. Since leaving Vancouver about 2 weeks ago, life on the road has resumed its event-filled pace. Evan and I took the ferry to Vancouver Island, not arriving to Nanaimo until quite late because we missed our initial ferry. Instead of hitting the road, we had to instead head out in search of a Nanaimo Bar - a chocolate cookie based with a vanilla custard filling and melted chocolate on top. When we asked at the natural food store where the best place to find these coveted treats was, we were directed to an ice cream store which sold the Nanaimo Bar Sundae - nanaimo bar ice cream with the chocolatey bars stuck in the top. Our insides were reeling post-sundae experience and we quickly looked for a place to stay in town.
We found ourselves on the edge of a lake at a boat launch in a small park. There was just enough shade from the trees, shrubs and nearby forest to convince us to pitch a tent there for the night and wake up early so as not to get 'caught.' We were told, however, that a fenced in area about 1/2 mile away from us around the lake was the provincial penetentiary facility - a large jail/prison from which we could hear announcements over the loudspeakers on a sporadic basis. The fence in front of the forest held a sign "no trespassing, motion detection system in place." Throughout that long night, every stick that cracked from the forest between us and the prison, every rustle in the woods, was the sound of a recently escaped inmate, on the verge of running into our tent and taking advantage of the first sign of the outside that he ran into.
I spent 3 more nights on the island, trying to see as much as I can but with an overwhelming feeling about me of the need to get south to warm weather. Evan left due to knee pains, so I was left to my own thoughts of warm San Diego beaches and a daily weather forecast of 70 and sunny, trying not to think of the rain and cold I would have to brave before then. Fortunately, the weather treated me spectacularly on the island, and I managed to make it south to Seattle to stay with Kaytlyn and Ely just in time for the beginning of the rain.
I still made time for distractions, however, and found myself on Whidby Island, about 40 miles north of Seattle, at a farm in front of a sign that read "Community Potluck 19, Everyone Welcome 5pm." I looked at my watch, and indeed it was the 19th, approaching 4pm. I stopped at the little cafe to get a piece of pie and inquire about the potluck and was invited with welcoming arms. What I discovered was an amazing community powered food system, wonderful people, and a table-full of homemade chili, quiches, curries, salads, pies, cookies, home-grown veggies and meats... too much for a room full of about 50 people to eat (even if there was a bike tourist there)!!!
Greenbank Farm is a community owned organic farm that supports an apprenticeship program - an intense 7 month course of study in all things related to starting, running, and managing a small organic farm - weekly CSA baskets to community members, and several small shops including a cafe, pie, cheese and wine shops. I was stunned at the wealth of friendly people and incredible community that the community farm was able to create with its focus on fresh, local, organic food. That night I was welcomed into the home of Ed and Carol who lived on a couple of acres with their chickens, cattle, dog and cat, and large vegetable garden. Conversations ensued about my route down the pacific coast, global water problems and the future of water consumption around the nation, and the Occupy Wall Street movement which appears the historically recurrent struggle of the poor vs. the rich; the fight against greed.
Although the road was becoming more and more interesting, and the wealth of community that I had just discovered at the farm re-ignited my urge to continue my travels - to stay outdoors on my bicycle and see the world inspite of the cold, I was happy to finally arrive in Seattle. I had decided to go straight to highway 101 and stay on the coast for my entire trip south - bypassing cities that I still want to see such as Eugene, Portland, and Corvalis. It's the rural life, small towns, artisans and farmers that I have appreciated the most on my trip. Although cities draw me in with their promises of food, site-seeing, and 'culture,' it's much easier to experience real life, real culture, and real food in the small towns.
Yet, Seattle drew me in for 3 days, and through my great hosts, showed me its beauty though the sun never really showed its face. Although its hills were daunting for riding a bike, and rainy days were ominous, bicycle commuters were out and about and the city was enjoyable to get around in on two wheels - inspite of the charged politics against bicycles and the difficutly in promoting bicycles as a sensible form of transportation that Willie Weir talked about. Ely and Kaytlyn treated me to a TGR premier, "One for the Road," with Ian McIntosh and Dana Flahr, as well as a salmon bake (so many different kinds of cooked salmon!), and the Badger's depressing hail mary loss to MI State (win or lose, we still b....). At least the All Blacks won the rugby world cup.
Biking down the Oregon coast has had its own plethora of stories... currently in Bandon, OR almost to California.
We found ourselves on the edge of a lake at a boat launch in a small park. There was just enough shade from the trees, shrubs and nearby forest to convince us to pitch a tent there for the night and wake up early so as not to get 'caught.' We were told, however, that a fenced in area about 1/2 mile away from us around the lake was the provincial penetentiary facility - a large jail/prison from which we could hear announcements over the loudspeakers on a sporadic basis. The fence in front of the forest held a sign "no trespassing, motion detection system in place." Throughout that long night, every stick that cracked from the forest between us and the prison, every rustle in the woods, was the sound of a recently escaped inmate, on the verge of running into our tent and taking advantage of the first sign of the outside that he ran into.
I spent 3 more nights on the island, trying to see as much as I can but with an overwhelming feeling about me of the need to get south to warm weather. Evan left due to knee pains, so I was left to my own thoughts of warm San Diego beaches and a daily weather forecast of 70 and sunny, trying not to think of the rain and cold I would have to brave before then. Fortunately, the weather treated me spectacularly on the island, and I managed to make it south to Seattle to stay with Kaytlyn and Ely just in time for the beginning of the rain.
I still made time for distractions, however, and found myself on Whidby Island, about 40 miles north of Seattle, at a farm in front of a sign that read "Community Potluck 19, Everyone Welcome 5pm." I looked at my watch, and indeed it was the 19th, approaching 4pm. I stopped at the little cafe to get a piece of pie and inquire about the potluck and was invited with welcoming arms. What I discovered was an amazing community powered food system, wonderful people, and a table-full of homemade chili, quiches, curries, salads, pies, cookies, home-grown veggies and meats... too much for a room full of about 50 people to eat (even if there was a bike tourist there)!!!
Greenbank Farm is a community owned organic farm that supports an apprenticeship program - an intense 7 month course of study in all things related to starting, running, and managing a small organic farm - weekly CSA baskets to community members, and several small shops including a cafe, pie, cheese and wine shops. I was stunned at the wealth of friendly people and incredible community that the community farm was able to create with its focus on fresh, local, organic food. That night I was welcomed into the home of Ed and Carol who lived on a couple of acres with their chickens, cattle, dog and cat, and large vegetable garden. Conversations ensued about my route down the pacific coast, global water problems and the future of water consumption around the nation, and the Occupy Wall Street movement which appears the historically recurrent struggle of the poor vs. the rich; the fight against greed.
Although the road was becoming more and more interesting, and the wealth of community that I had just discovered at the farm re-ignited my urge to continue my travels - to stay outdoors on my bicycle and see the world inspite of the cold, I was happy to finally arrive in Seattle. I had decided to go straight to highway 101 and stay on the coast for my entire trip south - bypassing cities that I still want to see such as Eugene, Portland, and Corvalis. It's the rural life, small towns, artisans and farmers that I have appreciated the most on my trip. Although cities draw me in with their promises of food, site-seeing, and 'culture,' it's much easier to experience real life, real culture, and real food in the small towns.
Yet, Seattle drew me in for 3 days, and through my great hosts, showed me its beauty though the sun never really showed its face. Although its hills were daunting for riding a bike, and rainy days were ominous, bicycle commuters were out and about and the city was enjoyable to get around in on two wheels - inspite of the charged politics against bicycles and the difficutly in promoting bicycles as a sensible form of transportation that Willie Weir talked about. Ely and Kaytlyn treated me to a TGR premier, "One for the Road," with Ian McIntosh and Dana Flahr, as well as a salmon bake (so many different kinds of cooked salmon!), and the Badger's depressing hail mary loss to MI State (win or lose, we still b....). At least the All Blacks won the rugby world cup.
Biking down the Oregon coast has had its own plethora of stories... currently in Bandon, OR almost to California.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Stagnation
I spent two weeks in Vancouver. Fourteen full days in a house with carpeted floors, sleeping in the same plush bed every night, eating food I could store in a refrigerator and connecting to the internet several times a day.
On the road, waking up at the beginning of the day is full of excitement for the possibilities of the day - until I realize that I have to go to the bathroom. This involves getting out of my sleeping bag and sheet, maybe putting some warm clothes on if I'm not feeling like braving the cold, unzipping tent and fly and stepping out onto the dew-soaked ground to find a tree or a bush... or a soft patch of ground I can pierce with my shovel if I really have to go... Then begins the slow process of preparing for the day. I get into my often still damp, sometimes a bit smelly biking clothes. I pack up my clothes into one pannier, sleeping bag and pad into another and get everything out of my tent. I take down my tent which is cold and wet with dew or rain, numbing my fingers throughout the process. Next, I get out my stove, fire it up, and wait for my oatmeal to cook. If I feel like I really need a warm, caffeinated drink (and I have some coffee grounds), I'll cook up a pot of cowboy coffee. 15 minutes later or so, I'm eating my hot porridge and possibly drinking a cup-o-jo. Just when my fingers have finally warmed up, I've finished breakfast and need to wash dishes before beginning the journey for the day. With dishes washed, my fingers numb again, I load my bike and am finally ready to start pedaling for the day...
On the other hand, when I stay indoors it's a the dream life of luxury! In Vancouver in the morning I would stumble upstairs and make myself a latte from the espresso machine. I would use a real bathroom without ever having to leave the warmth of the dwelling, the only discomfort coming from having to cross the cold tile floor with my bare feet. Breakfast came from the fridge and a frying pan, hot water from a tea kettle, and maybe even bacon from the freezer. Dishes were put into the dishwasher and forgotten about. Nothing was packed away, and my fingers would never become numb.
This is a lifestyle that I can only dream about while on the road biking. And the first several days of it are absolute bliss. The mere comfort of a roof above my head and insulated walls protecting me from the cold wind and rain outside being a royal luxury. My metabolism runs at its high biking-accelerated levels, converting everything I eat to chemical fuel my body thinks it will need. My thoughts are on food and of the different ways I can nap, sit, and relax the day away. Beers get opened once noon hits and afternoon cocktails and glasses of wine are consumed as I wonder what I'll eat for dinner (okay, maybe I'm exaggerating just a little bit, especially since liquor prices in Canada were suuuuper high). While in Vancouver, I expanded my culinary abilities making my first pie crust, my first chicken pot pie, quiche, cinnamon rolls, and seared halibut with broccoli.
But after a couple of days, my metabolism regained is usual sedentary levels and I was forced to consider if I was getting enough 'exercise' each day... Doing the mixing of a batch of cookie dough by hand doesn't really seem to count as the necessary exercise to justify eating the quantity of cookies that would result.
My metabolism wasn't the only thing that dropped, but my general mood became more stagnant. No longer were my days filled with unknown adventures. I knew everyday when I woke up where I would sleep that night. Although there's a lot to see in Vancouver, I lacked the motivation to continuously venture out into a city I'd been in and explored already for a few days. All parts of cities seem the same to me-the same shops, the same style buildings, and the same hills to go up and down. I yearned for mountains to hike and hills to climb. Fortunately, there was a popular hiking mountain very close to the house. Upon trying to climb the mountain, however, I was infuriated by the fact that the trail closed at 4pm, AND that, while it was free to hike up, it was mandatory to take the gondola back down to the bottom-a mandatory $10 gondola ride.
So my days fell into stagnation and while I was happy to have the luxury and comforts of a house, I grew tired of experiencing the same thing day in and day out and yearned for the adventure and unknown that only the road could give me. The road is upon me once again and, while it has taken a bit to get used to, new experiences hit me everyday, and I have one month to get to San Diego before Thanksgiving. Cheers to all!
On the road, waking up at the beginning of the day is full of excitement for the possibilities of the day - until I realize that I have to go to the bathroom. This involves getting out of my sleeping bag and sheet, maybe putting some warm clothes on if I'm not feeling like braving the cold, unzipping tent and fly and stepping out onto the dew-soaked ground to find a tree or a bush... or a soft patch of ground I can pierce with my shovel if I really have to go... Then begins the slow process of preparing for the day. I get into my often still damp, sometimes a bit smelly biking clothes. I pack up my clothes into one pannier, sleeping bag and pad into another and get everything out of my tent. I take down my tent which is cold and wet with dew or rain, numbing my fingers throughout the process. Next, I get out my stove, fire it up, and wait for my oatmeal to cook. If I feel like I really need a warm, caffeinated drink (and I have some coffee grounds), I'll cook up a pot of cowboy coffee. 15 minutes later or so, I'm eating my hot porridge and possibly drinking a cup-o-jo. Just when my fingers have finally warmed up, I've finished breakfast and need to wash dishes before beginning the journey for the day. With dishes washed, my fingers numb again, I load my bike and am finally ready to start pedaling for the day...
On the other hand, when I stay indoors it's a the dream life of luxury! In Vancouver in the morning I would stumble upstairs and make myself a latte from the espresso machine. I would use a real bathroom without ever having to leave the warmth of the dwelling, the only discomfort coming from having to cross the cold tile floor with my bare feet. Breakfast came from the fridge and a frying pan, hot water from a tea kettle, and maybe even bacon from the freezer. Dishes were put into the dishwasher and forgotten about. Nothing was packed away, and my fingers would never become numb.
This is a lifestyle that I can only dream about while on the road biking. And the first several days of it are absolute bliss. The mere comfort of a roof above my head and insulated walls protecting me from the cold wind and rain outside being a royal luxury. My metabolism runs at its high biking-accelerated levels, converting everything I eat to chemical fuel my body thinks it will need. My thoughts are on food and of the different ways I can nap, sit, and relax the day away. Beers get opened once noon hits and afternoon cocktails and glasses of wine are consumed as I wonder what I'll eat for dinner (okay, maybe I'm exaggerating just a little bit, especially since liquor prices in Canada were suuuuper high). While in Vancouver, I expanded my culinary abilities making my first pie crust, my first chicken pot pie, quiche, cinnamon rolls, and seared halibut with broccoli.
But after a couple of days, my metabolism regained is usual sedentary levels and I was forced to consider if I was getting enough 'exercise' each day... Doing the mixing of a batch of cookie dough by hand doesn't really seem to count as the necessary exercise to justify eating the quantity of cookies that would result.
My metabolism wasn't the only thing that dropped, but my general mood became more stagnant. No longer were my days filled with unknown adventures. I knew everyday when I woke up where I would sleep that night. Although there's a lot to see in Vancouver, I lacked the motivation to continuously venture out into a city I'd been in and explored already for a few days. All parts of cities seem the same to me-the same shops, the same style buildings, and the same hills to go up and down. I yearned for mountains to hike and hills to climb. Fortunately, there was a popular hiking mountain very close to the house. Upon trying to climb the mountain, however, I was infuriated by the fact that the trail closed at 4pm, AND that, while it was free to hike up, it was mandatory to take the gondola back down to the bottom-a mandatory $10 gondola ride.
So my days fell into stagnation and while I was happy to have the luxury and comforts of a house, I grew tired of experiencing the same thing day in and day out and yearned for the adventure and unknown that only the road could give me. The road is upon me once again and, while it has taken a bit to get used to, new experiences hit me everyday, and I have one month to get to San Diego before Thanksgiving. Cheers to all!
Monday, October 10, 2011
"I just ate a big ice cream sundae and now I'm ready for the road"
-the motto of my trip. Or, as it has been in Canada, "I just at a cinnamon roll with a coffee and now I'm ready for the cold again." The cold and impending winter freeze became a part of the tour in the north. Upon leaving Jasper, I crossed the continental divide with relative ease and sunny forecasts for the ride through eastern BC. At the pass, I started talking to a guy taking a cigarette break from his drive.
"Not much of a pass, eh?"
"This is the second lowest pass in the Canadian Rockies."
The pass was a mere bump in the road, un-identifiable from the mountain valleys and snow crested peaks; a small rise in the road compared to the routes I was imagining through the jutted, rocky pinnacles that surrounded me. But a small amount of work going up a pass usually means a small amount of coasting going downhill. So instead of the high speed euphoria that I usually experience after a summit, I was presented with relatively flat terrain and a need to pedal to make any progress for the day. Slowly, I made my way down from the pass and into British Colombia.
At Moose Lake I saw hundreds of little splashes along the shore. Equipped with a small spinning fishing rod - an old rod that Ben Rosemeyer broke in half and, still being usable, was passed on to me for my trip - I found a spot right next to the road and fished for an hour, hoping to catch some free dinner. My plan was to catch a fish, find a small pullout on the side of the road to pitch my tent, cook dinner, and have an early night. Instead, I didn't catch anything and got back on my bicycle. When I arrived at the pullout for Overlander Falls - a short 20 minute hike to see a historic waterfall - a familiar looking SUV vehicle pulled up next to me and a guy stepped out.
"I don't believe in fate, and I don't believe in coincidence either," he said, "but you seemed like a cool guy back at the pass, do you want to go camp with me tonight?"
Still grasping to figure out that this was the same guy I spoke to at the top of Yellowhead Pass, about 50 miles back, I accepted his offer. It took a little bit to find an acceptable campsite; it's much easier to camp in the woods for free when the only thing you need to hide is a tent and a bicycle - hiding a car is much more work. Fortunately, Rich knew some people with property on the Fraser river and we camped on a sandbar in the middle of the river underneath an unclouded and picturesque Mt. Robson - the highest mountain in the Canadian Rockies. Rich proceeded in unpacking his car camping equipment which consisted of a gigantic tent, a full queen size blow up mattress, a camping stove powered by a tank of propane, and full kitchen equipment. After having a brief conversation with me on top of Yellowhead Pass, he had driven the 60 miles back from Jasper to find me because he felt like camping with "the crazy biking tourist he had just met." We had a fire and drank beer as we watched the stars and the trains pass by us until late in the evening. I couldn't understand why he made such a big drive back to find me but was happy for the unexpected good cheer and company
The next morning, the sunny forecast that I was expecting turned a complete 180 and clouded over. After a late start I made it about 20 miles before getting to a bakery I'd heard a lot about. "The Swiss Bakery" was young in age, but its reputation was already reaching far distances. After a coffee, a small callah loaf, a sausage pastry roll, and a little chocolate pastry (remember, it's easy to eat a lot when you're biking, ahem, 80+ miles, aheeeem, a day... cough cough cough), the sky was really darkening with clouds and I was reconsidering biking any further for the day.
Although I had stayed under a roof a mere two nights ago and had promised myself to cover some serious miles before taking advantage of other rainproof refuges, the feeling of humidity in the air and the dark, overcast skies made me think twice. I biked by the only house in Valemount, that was on warmshowers.org - a hospitality site similar to couchsurfing.org except exclusively for bicycle tourists. Fortunately for my body and unfortunately for my milage promise, the owner of the house was outside. After a brief conversation of bicycle touring stories, I quickly realized that it would be a better to stay under a warm roof with a warm meal than to forge onwards in the quickly dimming daylight and darkening skies.
It turned out into a wonderful evening conversing with my host, Thomas, a woodworker and ex-monk-turned-bike tourist/backcountry skier. We talked about life as a monk and the transition to starting a new life - a 50 year old ex-monk living the dream life of a 20 year old. We discussed the mountains and land ownership. Snowmobiles are taking over, he told me, and there is a continuous fight between the sledders and heli-ski companies in the area for usable terrain. Unfortunately, the self propelled folks-the alpine ski tourists who hike everywhere-don't get their say very much and they're left with difficult-to-access slopes. In many cases, it's a long trek into the mountains to access the heli-ski slopes where snowmobilers aren't allowed to play. I guess it would be pretty cool to wake up early though, tour up to the top of a mountain and get there before a heli-ski operation - giving the helicopter a wave as it passes by before you shred the coveted line of the day.
New pictures from Jasper to Vancouver are HERE!
"Not much of a pass, eh?"
"This is the second lowest pass in the Canadian Rockies."
The pass was a mere bump in the road, un-identifiable from the mountain valleys and snow crested peaks; a small rise in the road compared to the routes I was imagining through the jutted, rocky pinnacles that surrounded me. But a small amount of work going up a pass usually means a small amount of coasting going downhill. So instead of the high speed euphoria that I usually experience after a summit, I was presented with relatively flat terrain and a need to pedal to make any progress for the day. Slowly, I made my way down from the pass and into British Colombia.
At Moose Lake I saw hundreds of little splashes along the shore. Equipped with a small spinning fishing rod - an old rod that Ben Rosemeyer broke in half and, still being usable, was passed on to me for my trip - I found a spot right next to the road and fished for an hour, hoping to catch some free dinner. My plan was to catch a fish, find a small pullout on the side of the road to pitch my tent, cook dinner, and have an early night. Instead, I didn't catch anything and got back on my bicycle. When I arrived at the pullout for Overlander Falls - a short 20 minute hike to see a historic waterfall - a familiar looking SUV vehicle pulled up next to me and a guy stepped out.
"I don't believe in fate, and I don't believe in coincidence either," he said, "but you seemed like a cool guy back at the pass, do you want to go camp with me tonight?"
Still grasping to figure out that this was the same guy I spoke to at the top of Yellowhead Pass, about 50 miles back, I accepted his offer. It took a little bit to find an acceptable campsite; it's much easier to camp in the woods for free when the only thing you need to hide is a tent and a bicycle - hiding a car is much more work. Fortunately, Rich knew some people with property on the Fraser river and we camped on a sandbar in the middle of the river underneath an unclouded and picturesque Mt. Robson - the highest mountain in the Canadian Rockies. Rich proceeded in unpacking his car camping equipment which consisted of a gigantic tent, a full queen size blow up mattress, a camping stove powered by a tank of propane, and full kitchen equipment. After having a brief conversation with me on top of Yellowhead Pass, he had driven the 60 miles back from Jasper to find me because he felt like camping with "the crazy biking tourist he had just met." We had a fire and drank beer as we watched the stars and the trains pass by us until late in the evening. I couldn't understand why he made such a big drive back to find me but was happy for the unexpected good cheer and company
The next morning, the sunny forecast that I was expecting turned a complete 180 and clouded over. After a late start I made it about 20 miles before getting to a bakery I'd heard a lot about. "The Swiss Bakery" was young in age, but its reputation was already reaching far distances. After a coffee, a small callah loaf, a sausage pastry roll, and a little chocolate pastry (remember, it's easy to eat a lot when you're biking, ahem, 80+ miles, aheeeem, a day... cough cough cough), the sky was really darkening with clouds and I was reconsidering biking any further for the day.
Although I had stayed under a roof a mere two nights ago and had promised myself to cover some serious miles before taking advantage of other rainproof refuges, the feeling of humidity in the air and the dark, overcast skies made me think twice. I biked by the only house in Valemount, that was on warmshowers.org - a hospitality site similar to couchsurfing.org except exclusively for bicycle tourists. Fortunately for my body and unfortunately for my milage promise, the owner of the house was outside. After a brief conversation of bicycle touring stories, I quickly realized that it would be a better to stay under a warm roof with a warm meal than to forge onwards in the quickly dimming daylight and darkening skies.
It turned out into a wonderful evening conversing with my host, Thomas, a woodworker and ex-monk-turned-bike tourist/backcountry skier. We talked about life as a monk and the transition to starting a new life - a 50 year old ex-monk living the dream life of a 20 year old. We discussed the mountains and land ownership. Snowmobiles are taking over, he told me, and there is a continuous fight between the sledders and heli-ski companies in the area for usable terrain. Unfortunately, the self propelled folks-the alpine ski tourists who hike everywhere-don't get their say very much and they're left with difficult-to-access slopes. In many cases, it's a long trek into the mountains to access the heli-ski slopes where snowmobilers aren't allowed to play. I guess it would be pretty cool to wake up early though, tour up to the top of a mountain and get there before a heli-ski operation - giving the helicopter a wave as it passes by before you shred the coveted line of the day.
New pictures from Jasper to Vancouver are HERE!
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Canadian Impressions
Canada. That country to the north. It may seem like there's nothing further north in the United States save the endless barren steppe of North Dakota, or the mosquito filled lakes and wetlands of Minnesota; where areas that boast even a meager population density are rare. But cross this little line painted on maps - some places you may cross it without even knowing while in others large control buildings and gates have been constructed to control access - and you enter a completely different country, encounter huge population centers, and find some of the most vast and wild areas of North America.
When it comes to the outdoors, Canada has it all. The Canadian Rockies jut for miles and miles from the American Glacier National Park to the north. Just outside of Calgary, the Rockies are home to 5 Canadian National Parks, all but one of them sharing a border with eachother. Together, they make up one of the largest wilderness reserves on the planet. Within 2 days of crossing the border, we had seen 3 black bears - one that burst from its berry bushes between the bike trail we were on and the main road, almost taking Brint along with him. As I biked through Jasper National Park, a lone cayote meandered along a floodplain. I stopped to watch and in doing so, attracted cars passing by to stop and check out the scene, scaring the animal into the bushes. In Jasper, late in the evening as I biked back into town from a hike, I heard elk bugling from the trees on either side of the road. I rode to what I deemed to be a safe distance from the calls of the bull elk in rut before I began to look for him in the trees. Cars whizzed by me; people encased in a sound resistant metal shell oblivious of the things going on in the forest around them. All of a sudden, a cow popped out of the forest and crossed the road. She was closely followed by a huge bull with fully developed antlers. The magic of having first heard the elk, then seen them appear into view as they crossed the road made me very glad I was on a bicycle and not in a car.
It seems that when Canadians aren't enjoying the wealth of natural beauty, they are playing hockey. Upon leaving Calgary, we made it to Canmore - a small town located 30km south of Banff and just outside the park gate. The town, surrounded by a plethora of mountains, is a haven for outdoorsy folks who participate in activities like hiking, mountain biking, backcountry and resort skiing, cross-country skiing, hangliding and parasailing, and anything else imaginable in the mountains. Of course, the town would not be complete without a hockey rink. I stumbled upon the rink at the end of the day just as two teams in uniform were beginning a game of street hockey - no skates and no pads, just shoes, sticks and a ball. Apparently, the summer streetball season was coming to a close and this was the first game of the playoffs. Upon learning this, I gave up hope of joining in on the game, until one of the team captains burst out, "You wanna play? You shoot left? Here, you can use this stick." He got me a shirt and just like that, I was running around the seasonally flooded outdoor hockey rink after a ball in a playoff game. I ended up with one goal in my team's first playoff victory. "Come back again tomorrow night!" I was told. If I would have returned, however, I knew Canmore would have marked the end of my journey. Game after game I would have stayed for and probably ended up with a job in the small mountain town with "Help Wanted" signs posted on nearly every shop window.
As the NHL regular season comes to a start and hockey is becoming a topic of conversation, the weather has taken a drastic turn. As we biked through Banff and Jasper along the 200+km Icefields Parkway, we would constantly wake up to frigid mornings. My fingers would be numb every morning by the time my gear was packed and I was ready to leave. The temperature sunk to below freezing in the early morning hours, and it wouldn't be until 11 or noon when things finally warmed up. On some occasions, the day never warmed up; we found ourselves in the middle of a snow storm on the last mountain pass before Jasper.
By the time I hit Jasper, I was cold and ready for the comforts of a house. After an hour or so walking the streets of the small mountain town, I began a short conversation with a middle aged man, Roy, and was promptly invited to put my tent in his yard and eat dinner with him. I gladly agreed, and after a visit to one of the local coffee shop/bakeries, I was seated inside Roy's warm house drinking tea and talking about the mountains. In total, I spent 3 nights and four days with Roy and Jacinta and their son David. I would wake up early in the morning, go to the bakery for a coffee and cinnamon roll (The Bear's Paw if you're ever in Jasper), and read the paper for an hour or so, before taking off to climb one of the many peaks that surround the town. In the afternoon I drank tea and enjoyed the warmth and community that only roof and insulated building can provide.
You could say I became a little soft during my stay in Jasper. I began to yearn for a roof of my own. A warm bed I could crawl into everynight. Cups of warm tea all day. A kitchen full of spices and veggies and meat and baking supplies. A comfy couch to read stories of adventure and travel, geology and nature. As David left for school every morning, I realized how happy I was to be done; the daily chore of waking up to go to class and study a completed phase in my life. I even thought of work and jobs and my warm house at the end of the day. The cold weather was driving me inside and I knew I had to leave and get south!
So to the south I embarked and currently am in Lillooet, BC, a couple days ride through rain and headwinds to Vancouver. Comments are well appreciated if you are reading, and you can see pictures from Banff and Jasper here. Thanks for reading!
When it comes to the outdoors, Canada has it all. The Canadian Rockies jut for miles and miles from the American Glacier National Park to the north. Just outside of Calgary, the Rockies are home to 5 Canadian National Parks, all but one of them sharing a border with eachother. Together, they make up one of the largest wilderness reserves on the planet. Within 2 days of crossing the border, we had seen 3 black bears - one that burst from its berry bushes between the bike trail we were on and the main road, almost taking Brint along with him. As I biked through Jasper National Park, a lone cayote meandered along a floodplain. I stopped to watch and in doing so, attracted cars passing by to stop and check out the scene, scaring the animal into the bushes. In Jasper, late in the evening as I biked back into town from a hike, I heard elk bugling from the trees on either side of the road. I rode to what I deemed to be a safe distance from the calls of the bull elk in rut before I began to look for him in the trees. Cars whizzed by me; people encased in a sound resistant metal shell oblivious of the things going on in the forest around them. All of a sudden, a cow popped out of the forest and crossed the road. She was closely followed by a huge bull with fully developed antlers. The magic of having first heard the elk, then seen them appear into view as they crossed the road made me very glad I was on a bicycle and not in a car.
It seems that when Canadians aren't enjoying the wealth of natural beauty, they are playing hockey. Upon leaving Calgary, we made it to Canmore - a small town located 30km south of Banff and just outside the park gate. The town, surrounded by a plethora of mountains, is a haven for outdoorsy folks who participate in activities like hiking, mountain biking, backcountry and resort skiing, cross-country skiing, hangliding and parasailing, and anything else imaginable in the mountains. Of course, the town would not be complete without a hockey rink. I stumbled upon the rink at the end of the day just as two teams in uniform were beginning a game of street hockey - no skates and no pads, just shoes, sticks and a ball. Apparently, the summer streetball season was coming to a close and this was the first game of the playoffs. Upon learning this, I gave up hope of joining in on the game, until one of the team captains burst out, "You wanna play? You shoot left? Here, you can use this stick." He got me a shirt and just like that, I was running around the seasonally flooded outdoor hockey rink after a ball in a playoff game. I ended up with one goal in my team's first playoff victory. "Come back again tomorrow night!" I was told. If I would have returned, however, I knew Canmore would have marked the end of my journey. Game after game I would have stayed for and probably ended up with a job in the small mountain town with "Help Wanted" signs posted on nearly every shop window.
As the NHL regular season comes to a start and hockey is becoming a topic of conversation, the weather has taken a drastic turn. As we biked through Banff and Jasper along the 200+km Icefields Parkway, we would constantly wake up to frigid mornings. My fingers would be numb every morning by the time my gear was packed and I was ready to leave. The temperature sunk to below freezing in the early morning hours, and it wouldn't be until 11 or noon when things finally warmed up. On some occasions, the day never warmed up; we found ourselves in the middle of a snow storm on the last mountain pass before Jasper.
By the time I hit Jasper, I was cold and ready for the comforts of a house. After an hour or so walking the streets of the small mountain town, I began a short conversation with a middle aged man, Roy, and was promptly invited to put my tent in his yard and eat dinner with him. I gladly agreed, and after a visit to one of the local coffee shop/bakeries, I was seated inside Roy's warm house drinking tea and talking about the mountains. In total, I spent 3 nights and four days with Roy and Jacinta and their son David. I would wake up early in the morning, go to the bakery for a coffee and cinnamon roll (The Bear's Paw if you're ever in Jasper), and read the paper for an hour or so, before taking off to climb one of the many peaks that surround the town. In the afternoon I drank tea and enjoyed the warmth and community that only roof and insulated building can provide.
You could say I became a little soft during my stay in Jasper. I began to yearn for a roof of my own. A warm bed I could crawl into everynight. Cups of warm tea all day. A kitchen full of spices and veggies and meat and baking supplies. A comfy couch to read stories of adventure and travel, geology and nature. As David left for school every morning, I realized how happy I was to be done; the daily chore of waking up to go to class and study a completed phase in my life. I even thought of work and jobs and my warm house at the end of the day. The cold weather was driving me inside and I knew I had to leave and get south!
So to the south I embarked and currently am in Lillooet, BC, a couple days ride through rain and headwinds to Vancouver. Comments are well appreciated if you are reading, and you can see pictures from Banff and Jasper here. Thanks for reading!
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Trust Humanity
From time and time again on this trip, I'm constantly reminded of the vast amount of wonderful people that exist in this world. Whether this reminder comes from a brief conversation with someone in a gas station, or spending an evening and a morning with a group of people, I come to the same conclusion. People are inherently good, they mean good and want to do good deeds to others. The only thing holding people back from these good deeds is the fear that is spread by society via the media of bad experiences that select people have. Fear is spread through societies in the form of horror stories, pictures, and the news. People are lead to believe that there are very few other people that can actually be trusted.
After four magical days in the back-country with Christa I said goodbye to her on a Sunday morning at the train stop in West Glacier. The night prior, we were 3 miles away from our intended campsite. The site was the result of the thoughtfulness of a man who, not only had given me a ride with my bike and multiple bags of groceries into the park 5 days prior, but had also lent me his whitewater kayak and shuttled me up river for an 8 mile run down the middle fork of the Flathead River. I stuck out my thumb in the pitch black of the moon-less evening and immediately a truck pulling a boat with two scuffy looking men pulled over. After a brief conversation, Christa climbed inside, and I pedalled like mad after the car that carried my girlfriend to our intended meeting place 3 miles down the road. Upon arrival, I saw the truck in a parking lot and glimpsed Christa walking into the only bar in West Glacier. I walked in and was confronted with a jubilant Saturday night atmosphere in what turned out to be the local whitewater rafting and kayaking, trekking, backcountry skiing, adventurer bar. The guys who had helped us out had offered us free beer and we were soon laughing, joking, and having a grand time with the locals that had at first given me a fright. Later, Christa managed to convince me that she really did have a train to catch the next morning and that we shouldn't accept our new friends offers for a round of shots at around 11pm.
After a short nights sleep, a quick breakfast, and an even faster goodbye as Christa was hurried onto the east-bound train, I finally got underway on my bike again the next morning at 9:30am. I was headed east on the Going to the Sun Road towards the divide through Glacier National Park. The road possessed certain restrictions to bicycles, I would have to summit the pass before 11am, an estimated 3 hour ride from the location I began. I got underway, and by 11am I had made significant progress, but was still about 1.5 hours from the top. It was clear to me why the restrictions were in place - the non-existence of a shoulder and the twisted winding road with a constant 6% grade uphill made it a difficult road for inexperienced tourist drivers and especially dangerous for bicycles. The traffic jams on the Sunday of Labor Day Weekend caused by a careless biker going 7mph would create many unhappy vacationers as they tried to drive the extraordinarily scenic road to the top of Logan Pass.
Before 11am and the beginning of the bicycle restrictions, I was completely aware of these problems I could cause, so was fully conscious of my need to get off my bike and stand aside when large streams of cars would pass me. I took care not to upset the hundreds of cars that passed me while protecting myself from careless drivers at the same time. The comments I received from drivers as they passed me, or as I passed them stopped on the side of the road were nothing but positive. "You can do it," "We're with you, glad it's you and not me biking," "We believe in you!"
When 11am came and went, I decided I wasn't causing traffic jams and people enjoyed seeing me biking, so I continued up the pass. My presence, however, was not appreciated by the law enforcement personnel in the park and a mere 2 miles from the top of the pass, I was stopped by an officer. There was no way to avoid the $125 ticket. "That's 2 weeks of food for me, I wasn't causing any problems it was the tourists driving slowly, parked in the middle of the lanes that caused the traffic jams, I constantly stopped to let cars around me as they came up! Isn't there anything I can do? Could I work for a couple days for the park? Anything???" "I'm saving your life," was the reply from the %&#$ officer.
The day was quickly going downhill. The descent of the pass was not at all gratifying like pass descents should be. The usual overwhelming flood of endorphins and accomplishment that I usually felt after summiting a pass was replaced by remorse, sadness, homesickness, and anger. It was my first time in about 2 weeks on my own again and I missed the companionship of my friends and especially my girlfriend. A quick phone call with Brint however gave me hope. He had just crossed the Canadian border and would wait for me at a campsite a mile or two away from the line. I pedalled with a renewed pace of ambition out of the park and across the Blackfoot reservation north toward the border.
14 miles shy of the border, however, I had the idea to get my passport and everything in order for the officials. It quickly dawned on me that my passport was not in the place it had been everyday of my trip. I had moved it into my backpacking backpack which Christa had brought out to me for our trip together; my passport was with her on the Amtrack, by this time somewhere in North Dakota, headed away from me and back to Wisconsin at 60 miles an hour.
I was devastated. The weight of the day took over my entire being. I was completely alone, missing Christa and my friends terribly, feeling even worse because of the ticket, and my only glimmer of hope at crossing the border and being reunited with Brint had been dashed out by my own forgetfulness. I sat in the ditch in the middle of the grassy ranch land on the reservation with my head between my legs. A car stopped next to me and an asian tourist with limited english got out and asked me if this was the way to the border. In desperate need of a person to talk to to share my pains with, I hoped he would see the distraught look in my face, but after answering his question, he was back on the road, speeding toward the border I could not cross.
My phone was my only connection with my friends and family that could comfort me, but it was soon out of battery and I was completely done; out of energy and an emotional wreck. As I biked back toward Glacier, the tears flowed freely down my face and I cried out in anguish at the flood of negative emotions I was feeling. I needed a bed, I needed some dinner, I needed a friend to talk to.
A campground that advertised warm showers and laundry among other things sparked my attention and I pulled off the road to test my luck. "$20 is the cost," I was told by the native that sat at the entrance in a lawn chair. "Glacier would charge me only $5 for a site..." I told him, and he agreed with my price. I pedalled over to the site I was directed to and started up a conversation with my neighbors, the only people in my proximate vicinity.
My neighbors were a elderly native couple, Mary and Tiny, recent grandparents. Mary was taking care of three younger children that ran back and forth between the lake and their camper and offered me dinner. As I sat around their fire eating hot dogs and talking with Tiny, my sadness slowly flowed away. I told them about my day and about my trip, about Christa and about the ticket and my passport. They told me about their recent trip to Jasper, about life on the reservation and the problems that the Native American community faces in today's world. I was invited back the next morning for breakfast. By the morning I was feeling significantly better, and after a bacon, sausage, pancake, egg breakfast I was treated to, all my problems had washed away. Listening to a phone message from Brint about the probability of me being able to cross the border without a passport added to my increasing mood, and I set out for the Canadian border, refreshed, with a new light inside of me of love for Mary and Tiny, love for the Blackfeet people, and love for humanity in general.
While there are bad people that will rob you, steal from you, and perhaps hurt you, the majority of people are good; willing to give what they can for the assistance to another human and the betterment of society in general.
I crossed the border at noon, and reunited with Brint headed for Waterton National Park in Canada. By Friday, we had made it to Calgary and the hospitality and shelter of Anthony's old room mates and friends. The goodness of people has been the saving and most beneficial grace of my entire trip, and my faith is in humanity.
New pictures
https://picasaweb.google.com/forrest9/MontanaAndIntoCanada?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCO34h-uigpXqJQ&feat=directlink
After four magical days in the back-country with Christa I said goodbye to her on a Sunday morning at the train stop in West Glacier. The night prior, we were 3 miles away from our intended campsite. The site was the result of the thoughtfulness of a man who, not only had given me a ride with my bike and multiple bags of groceries into the park 5 days prior, but had also lent me his whitewater kayak and shuttled me up river for an 8 mile run down the middle fork of the Flathead River. I stuck out my thumb in the pitch black of the moon-less evening and immediately a truck pulling a boat with two scuffy looking men pulled over. After a brief conversation, Christa climbed inside, and I pedalled like mad after the car that carried my girlfriend to our intended meeting place 3 miles down the road. Upon arrival, I saw the truck in a parking lot and glimpsed Christa walking into the only bar in West Glacier. I walked in and was confronted with a jubilant Saturday night atmosphere in what turned out to be the local whitewater rafting and kayaking, trekking, backcountry skiing, adventurer bar. The guys who had helped us out had offered us free beer and we were soon laughing, joking, and having a grand time with the locals that had at first given me a fright. Later, Christa managed to convince me that she really did have a train to catch the next morning and that we shouldn't accept our new friends offers for a round of shots at around 11pm.
After a short nights sleep, a quick breakfast, and an even faster goodbye as Christa was hurried onto the east-bound train, I finally got underway on my bike again the next morning at 9:30am. I was headed east on the Going to the Sun Road towards the divide through Glacier National Park. The road possessed certain restrictions to bicycles, I would have to summit the pass before 11am, an estimated 3 hour ride from the location I began. I got underway, and by 11am I had made significant progress, but was still about 1.5 hours from the top. It was clear to me why the restrictions were in place - the non-existence of a shoulder and the twisted winding road with a constant 6% grade uphill made it a difficult road for inexperienced tourist drivers and especially dangerous for bicycles. The traffic jams on the Sunday of Labor Day Weekend caused by a careless biker going 7mph would create many unhappy vacationers as they tried to drive the extraordinarily scenic road to the top of Logan Pass.
Before 11am and the beginning of the bicycle restrictions, I was completely aware of these problems I could cause, so was fully conscious of my need to get off my bike and stand aside when large streams of cars would pass me. I took care not to upset the hundreds of cars that passed me while protecting myself from careless drivers at the same time. The comments I received from drivers as they passed me, or as I passed them stopped on the side of the road were nothing but positive. "You can do it," "We're with you, glad it's you and not me biking," "We believe in you!"
When 11am came and went, I decided I wasn't causing traffic jams and people enjoyed seeing me biking, so I continued up the pass. My presence, however, was not appreciated by the law enforcement personnel in the park and a mere 2 miles from the top of the pass, I was stopped by an officer. There was no way to avoid the $125 ticket. "That's 2 weeks of food for me, I wasn't causing any problems it was the tourists driving slowly, parked in the middle of the lanes that caused the traffic jams, I constantly stopped to let cars around me as they came up! Isn't there anything I can do? Could I work for a couple days for the park? Anything???" "I'm saving your life," was the reply from the %&#$ officer.
The day was quickly going downhill. The descent of the pass was not at all gratifying like pass descents should be. The usual overwhelming flood of endorphins and accomplishment that I usually felt after summiting a pass was replaced by remorse, sadness, homesickness, and anger. It was my first time in about 2 weeks on my own again and I missed the companionship of my friends and especially my girlfriend. A quick phone call with Brint however gave me hope. He had just crossed the Canadian border and would wait for me at a campsite a mile or two away from the line. I pedalled with a renewed pace of ambition out of the park and across the Blackfoot reservation north toward the border.
14 miles shy of the border, however, I had the idea to get my passport and everything in order for the officials. It quickly dawned on me that my passport was not in the place it had been everyday of my trip. I had moved it into my backpacking backpack which Christa had brought out to me for our trip together; my passport was with her on the Amtrack, by this time somewhere in North Dakota, headed away from me and back to Wisconsin at 60 miles an hour.
I was devastated. The weight of the day took over my entire being. I was completely alone, missing Christa and my friends terribly, feeling even worse because of the ticket, and my only glimmer of hope at crossing the border and being reunited with Brint had been dashed out by my own forgetfulness. I sat in the ditch in the middle of the grassy ranch land on the reservation with my head between my legs. A car stopped next to me and an asian tourist with limited english got out and asked me if this was the way to the border. In desperate need of a person to talk to to share my pains with, I hoped he would see the distraught look in my face, but after answering his question, he was back on the road, speeding toward the border I could not cross.
My phone was my only connection with my friends and family that could comfort me, but it was soon out of battery and I was completely done; out of energy and an emotional wreck. As I biked back toward Glacier, the tears flowed freely down my face and I cried out in anguish at the flood of negative emotions I was feeling. I needed a bed, I needed some dinner, I needed a friend to talk to.
A campground that advertised warm showers and laundry among other things sparked my attention and I pulled off the road to test my luck. "$20 is the cost," I was told by the native that sat at the entrance in a lawn chair. "Glacier would charge me only $5 for a site..." I told him, and he agreed with my price. I pedalled over to the site I was directed to and started up a conversation with my neighbors, the only people in my proximate vicinity.
My neighbors were a elderly native couple, Mary and Tiny, recent grandparents. Mary was taking care of three younger children that ran back and forth between the lake and their camper and offered me dinner. As I sat around their fire eating hot dogs and talking with Tiny, my sadness slowly flowed away. I told them about my day and about my trip, about Christa and about the ticket and my passport. They told me about their recent trip to Jasper, about life on the reservation and the problems that the Native American community faces in today's world. I was invited back the next morning for breakfast. By the morning I was feeling significantly better, and after a bacon, sausage, pancake, egg breakfast I was treated to, all my problems had washed away. Listening to a phone message from Brint about the probability of me being able to cross the border without a passport added to my increasing mood, and I set out for the Canadian border, refreshed, with a new light inside of me of love for Mary and Tiny, love for the Blackfeet people, and love for humanity in general.
While there are bad people that will rob you, steal from you, and perhaps hurt you, the majority of people are good; willing to give what they can for the assistance to another human and the betterment of society in general.
I crossed the border at noon, and reunited with Brint headed for Waterton National Park in Canada. By Friday, we had made it to Calgary and the hospitality and shelter of Anthony's old room mates and friends. The goodness of people has been the saving and most beneficial grace of my entire trip, and my faith is in humanity.
New pictures
https://picasaweb.google.com/forrest9/MontanaAndIntoCanada?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCO34h-uigpXqJQ&feat=directlink
Saturday, September 10, 2011
The Mighty Gallatin River
In the most southern reaches of Montana, on the border of Yellowstone National Park, high up in the smoldering volcanic cinders of the fuming mountains, there exists a small wetland with a little stream running through it. The wetland consists of rodents and waterfowl, raptors circling overhead, and black bears and grizzly bears meandering in search of trout that fill the waters of the river and berries that line its shores. The wetland's green, grassy expanses are strikingly different than the mountainous sides that erupt on either side. The stream, that begins as a mere trickle, soon turns into a gurgling flow as it leaves Yellowstone and becomes the Gallatin River. Grassy fields line its shore and the river supports vibrant ecosystems and ranches for more than 100 miles as it gains more volume until it reaches Three Forks and joins forces with the East Gallatin and the Madison River to become the Missouri River.
The Gallatin is like any mountain stream; during the spring melt its banks become flooded as the icy snowpack turns to its liquid form and rushes to the ocean. During this flood phase when the water is high, it carries debris as far downstream as possible before becoming en-snagged and stopped due to lowering water levels. Fully grown, downed trees are transported for miles; sticks and branches get thrown high up on shore, and the rocky, meandering river bed gets completely changed as boulders get pushed downstream by the force of the high flow. Boating the Gallatin during high flow must be an entertaining experience; one that many whitewater kayakers took full advantage of this past spring and into the summer as the enormous snowpack of the previous winter melted away.
My second or third day in Bozeman, Ben's idea was to float this river in his canoe. Of course it would be an easy float, he explained to me. We would bring a cooler with beer, our fishing rods, and have a grand old time lazily floating down the 6 mile stretch of river in the late afternoon. We put on the river around 5 or 6, with about 3 hours of daylight left ahead of us. We were dressed in shorts and t-shirts - typical summer wear for the season and just barely sufficient for the evenings and nights that were beginning to be cooler as the fall season approached.
By this time in the season, the water was about five vertical feet below the spring levels Ben had last seen it, and we followed the river slowly, lackadaisically looking for fishing spots and finding the route downstream. We were in Ben's old, heavy, aluminum canoe - a canoe he had found discarded in Hyalite Reservoir close to Bozeman. An excellent find and a vessel that had served him well, in spite of the lesser handling ability and heavy, plow-through-the-rapids type build. We had a cooler with beer, three fishing rods, a jar of peanuts, Ben in front, his room mate Brett in the middle, and me steering the boat in the stern. We seemed to be set up for success and a great afternoon.
Yet the streams tight curves, vast quantity of dead wood, and completely different path than expected yielded challenges we weren't expecting. "Huh, this is waaay different than I remember it," exclaimed Ben as we narrowly avoided scraping up on rocks and beaching the old canoe. I had just steered the canoe down a route through a rapid putting us in precariously close vicinity to some dead trees, but remaining in the swift current and avoiding the shallow rocks a couple of inches from the draft of the boat.
"You sure you got this," questioned Ben?
"This isn't really what I was expecting, we might have to put the fishing aside for a while and really paddle," I replied.
A couple of rapids later, we were confronted with a bend to the right in the river. The setting sun cast a glare into our eyes, blinding us from the river left bank that the stream carried us towards before cutting right. A shallow rocky shore blocked our path from cutting straight down the river; in order to follow the channel we would have to stay high then cut hard downstream to avoid hitting the river left bank. But, if we happened to crash into the left bank, whatever trees and strainers that existed there would surely push us downstream and we would be okay. It may get a little hairy, I thought, but in the end we would be sent straight downstream and avoid danger.
As our speed picked up and we entered the shade of the trees, the far bank revealed itself to us. As we speed towards it sideways trying to shoot ourselves downstream, razor sharp tree trunks jutted out perpendicularly to the water flow - the work of friendly beavers. These dead trees weren't harmless wood that would merely push us downstream, they would impale us if we came too close and stop our progress down the river with a painful and bloody shove.
As the boat came around, Ben in the front cleared the danger. Brett saw it and swerved around it. But as the spike came at my torso, I couldn't do anything about it. The only choice was to lean away from it - leaning upstream at the current - and in a second we were swimming in the water, beer cans and fishing poles floating away from the boat in the chilly melt water.
After the debris had been collected and we were drying off on the shore of the river assessing the damage we were at a loss for words. Was it my fault, I asked myself? Maybe Ben could have paddled a little bit harder and we could have hit the route as I had intended. But if Ben would have been in the stern, he argued, he would have taken the easy way around, beaching the canoe in the shallows, walking the boat and avoiding danger all together.
What would have been done, given differing circumstances will never be known. As for the rest of the trip, Ben took over in the stern, and with my guidance from the bow we commandeered the canoe down the rest of the river avoiding danger the entire way.
Beware, the spring flood waters change rivers. Easy float trips become challenging, technical rapids full of dead wood and unexpected death traps - in our case, razor sharp, beaver shaved, tree trunks of death...
The Gallatin is like any mountain stream; during the spring melt its banks become flooded as the icy snowpack turns to its liquid form and rushes to the ocean. During this flood phase when the water is high, it carries debris as far downstream as possible before becoming en-snagged and stopped due to lowering water levels. Fully grown, downed trees are transported for miles; sticks and branches get thrown high up on shore, and the rocky, meandering river bed gets completely changed as boulders get pushed downstream by the force of the high flow. Boating the Gallatin during high flow must be an entertaining experience; one that many whitewater kayakers took full advantage of this past spring and into the summer as the enormous snowpack of the previous winter melted away.
My second or third day in Bozeman, Ben's idea was to float this river in his canoe. Of course it would be an easy float, he explained to me. We would bring a cooler with beer, our fishing rods, and have a grand old time lazily floating down the 6 mile stretch of river in the late afternoon. We put on the river around 5 or 6, with about 3 hours of daylight left ahead of us. We were dressed in shorts and t-shirts - typical summer wear for the season and just barely sufficient for the evenings and nights that were beginning to be cooler as the fall season approached.
By this time in the season, the water was about five vertical feet below the spring levels Ben had last seen it, and we followed the river slowly, lackadaisically looking for fishing spots and finding the route downstream. We were in Ben's old, heavy, aluminum canoe - a canoe he had found discarded in Hyalite Reservoir close to Bozeman. An excellent find and a vessel that had served him well, in spite of the lesser handling ability and heavy, plow-through-the-rapids type build. We had a cooler with beer, three fishing rods, a jar of peanuts, Ben in front, his room mate Brett in the middle, and me steering the boat in the stern. We seemed to be set up for success and a great afternoon.
Yet the streams tight curves, vast quantity of dead wood, and completely different path than expected yielded challenges we weren't expecting. "Huh, this is waaay different than I remember it," exclaimed Ben as we narrowly avoided scraping up on rocks and beaching the old canoe. I had just steered the canoe down a route through a rapid putting us in precariously close vicinity to some dead trees, but remaining in the swift current and avoiding the shallow rocks a couple of inches from the draft of the boat.
"You sure you got this," questioned Ben?
"This isn't really what I was expecting, we might have to put the fishing aside for a while and really paddle," I replied.
A couple of rapids later, we were confronted with a bend to the right in the river. The setting sun cast a glare into our eyes, blinding us from the river left bank that the stream carried us towards before cutting right. A shallow rocky shore blocked our path from cutting straight down the river; in order to follow the channel we would have to stay high then cut hard downstream to avoid hitting the river left bank. But, if we happened to crash into the left bank, whatever trees and strainers that existed there would surely push us downstream and we would be okay. It may get a little hairy, I thought, but in the end we would be sent straight downstream and avoid danger.
As our speed picked up and we entered the shade of the trees, the far bank revealed itself to us. As we speed towards it sideways trying to shoot ourselves downstream, razor sharp tree trunks jutted out perpendicularly to the water flow - the work of friendly beavers. These dead trees weren't harmless wood that would merely push us downstream, they would impale us if we came too close and stop our progress down the river with a painful and bloody shove.
As the boat came around, Ben in the front cleared the danger. Brett saw it and swerved around it. But as the spike came at my torso, I couldn't do anything about it. The only choice was to lean away from it - leaning upstream at the current - and in a second we were swimming in the water, beer cans and fishing poles floating away from the boat in the chilly melt water.
After the debris had been collected and we were drying off on the shore of the river assessing the damage we were at a loss for words. Was it my fault, I asked myself? Maybe Ben could have paddled a little bit harder and we could have hit the route as I had intended. But if Ben would have been in the stern, he argued, he would have taken the easy way around, beaching the canoe in the shallows, walking the boat and avoiding danger all together.
What would have been done, given differing circumstances will never be known. As for the rest of the trip, Ben took over in the stern, and with my guidance from the bow we commandeered the canoe down the rest of the river avoiding danger the entire way.
Beware, the spring flood waters change rivers. Easy float trips become challenging, technical rapids full of dead wood and unexpected death traps - in our case, razor sharp, beaver shaved, tree trunks of death...
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