Until Next Time

Derek and I set out with a quicker pace in mind from Little Current on August 14. We had our eyes set on Thessalon, where Derek spent three months (as part of a Canadian youth program called Katimavik) working in the town office in 2006. We spoiled ourselves with one rest day, and were off once again toward Sault Sainte Marie, intent on finding a bike shop.


In the Soo we found a shop without much hassle. The bike shops guys asked us the usual questions about where we were headed and where we planned to sleep. Answers: Vancouver and no idea. They said there was another bike shop nearby that offered free hospitality for touring cyclists, a place called Velorution. Excellent! With directions and hopeful spirits, we were off in search of camping in the city.


We arrived at the camp scene to find a girl sitting at a picnic table. I looked incredulously at her for a second before delivering my opening line: "Hey, same colors," motioning from her outfit to mine. We were wearing almost the exact same clothes. She happened to be the first solo touring female I had come across, and it was trippy because she looked just like me. Her name was Sydney from New Brunswick. She had started in Vancouver a month and half prior and was more than halfway home.


A "superior" beach we later stumbled upon:



Dinner time:

When we reached Nipigon on August 22, I had a conversation with my Mom that changed my plans. Due to a number of factors, mainly the time constraints and inhospitable weather that Derek and I would be faced with while trying to reach Vancouver by October 1, my Mom convinced me to come home. :(


Seeing as the end of my trip was approaching, we decided to splurge and get a motel room that night. We agreed on a sixty dollar maximum. A couple of kilometers after Nipigon, we came upon a motel and decided to try our luck. Derek stayed outside while I went in to ask about a price. "Seventy-eight dollars," the man said.


I said, "Thank you anyway," and turned to leave.


"Wait," he said. "How much were you looking to spend?"


I told him. He said it could be arranged.


The next day, we made it into Thunder Bay, found the Greyhound station, and I purchased a ticket to New York. It had been fifty-six days since I left Pawling, and I'd come 1,930 miles, (what if we called it 2,000? could we?) which was nearly double my initial goal. This should have felt like an extraordinary achievement, yet all I could think about was riding alone on a bus, looking at a long separation from my great cycling companion, Derek. Instead of feeling sad, I'm trying to look forward to our next bicycle adventure, which will be no doubt be all the more fantastical, eh? That is what I'm telling myself. In a Canadian accent.

Thank you--family, friends, internet folk, everyone who has read this blog! It made the tour even more exciting to know that whether luck was on my side or not, ya'll would still be expecting an update. Derek is still out there, so head over to his blog--the link is on your righthand side.


Signing off guys... 

until next time......

Dirt Roads to Six Knots

DEREK
Following our last post in Huntsville, Ontario, we were unfortunately overcome by the unbearable stench of cycle touring and committed to spending the money to stay at a nearby campground for the night. The Deer Lake RV Resort and Campground was just a few kilometers outside of town, and conveniently in the direction we were headed. Around 7:30 p.m. we rolled up to the office to inquire about available tent sites, and by 7:45 we were on our way back out, with the owner of the campground behind us, threatening to call the police. How did this happen, you ask? Well, we were not quite sure, but we figure he just carried a hatred for cyclists. I guess the best thing to do would be to put it into dialogue…


“Hi there, we have a small tent and two bicycles, how much for the night?” was our opening line.


“Wow, look, bicycles, that doesn’t impress me at all. That really doesn’t impress me. Thirty-two dollars, plus GST.”


“Oh wow, okay, just a moment,” I looked over at Erika to see what she thought of the price.


“Thirty-two dollars! Thirty-two dollars! If you can’t afford thirty-two dollars, I suggest you go home right now and get a job, or go live in the bush where you belong.” He was talking serious. Baffled, we began to leave.


I said, “Hey, if you don’t want us here just say so, there’s no need to be rude.”


An explosion of foul words and pointing fingers quickly ensued, and he then threatened to call the police. We were back on the road in need of a place to sleep before sunset.


ERIKA
Feeling dismayed and bewildered, we resorted back to our usual stealth camping. We ended up the evening hidden in a patch of trees inside a skate park/ball field that even had bathrooms and clean water–a better setup than we likely would have found at Deer Lake.


Two days later we were off to Magnetawan, where Derek planned to meet his friends Tony and Elaine.


When we rolled into charming little Magnetawan, we didn’t know where we would stay for the night. We decided to shop in the General Store for dinner eats, and figure it out afterward. We hadn’t been in the General Store for ten minutes before Carey approached us.


"Are you the bikers?" he asked excitedly.


That would be us, we said. We got to talking, and before long, we were being invited to his stay at his lakefront property for as long as we needed. This was great news because we needed to stay in town for a few days before we could meet up with Tony and Elaine.


DEREK
Artist, actor, and postman, Carey was a colorful character. He led us to his lakefront property three kilometers out of town. He visits his property only twice a year on the weekends, so naturally, the place was unkempt and overgrown, but charming nonetheless. He offered his musty trailer for sleeping quarters but we decided to pitch the tent instead. We enjoyed Carey’s company for three days of fun, including swimming, paddle boating, sunset gazing, and several fantastical conversations around a campfire. We chatted about music, movies, traveling, and how to go about building an enormous and excessive tourist resort in Magnetawan, a scheme to become filthy rich. The "Shim Sham Shoo Resort" may be opening soon. Northern Ontario’s first all-inclusive resort including golf course, spa, boat-in movie theatre, nightly live music and dance floor, underwater tunnel, airline excursions, ATV and snowmobile tours and its very own cruise line on Whalley Lake, all endorsed by Tiger Woods himself! Aside from the delusional conversations, we enjoyed a canoe trip up a canal to a nearby waterfall where we soaked in the current and enjoyed a snack.

Our spot with Carey:



As peculiar as he was, we were sad to see Carey leave. He offered his property for as long as we needed, and took off, back to his stomping grounds in Toronto.


ERIKA
Now that Carey was gone, who would enthrall us with tales of foreign imprisonment to conclude his months of backpacking around Europe, and the joys and woes of life as a postie in Toronto?


Luckily, Tony and Elaine arrived on schedule. Derek had first met them in Bacalar, a small town on the Yucatan Peninsula in Mexico, earlier on his tour.


DEREK
Following four months of cycling through three countries I was reunited with my friends from Mexico. Tony and Elaine were my hosts, swimming partners, and a source of entertainment during the two weeks I rested my legs in Bacalar. They had traveled to Magnetawan to attend a wedding. We met up for a schnitzel dinner to catch up on each others’ adventures, spent the night in a local motel, and enjoyed breakfast the next morning. We had an amazing time Tony and Elaine, thank you, thank you, thank you for everything and I know I’ll see you again soon!


ERIKA
Thanks from me too, Tony and Elaine!


We got a late start on the day out of Magnetawan, 2 PM. Looking at the map, it appeared that our best way to get to our next stop was to take a series of back roads toward Sudbury until we reached the highway. Judging from previous patterns, we were fairly certain the roads would be dirt or gravel. Neither of us were thrilled about this, especially not me.


So far on this trip, the most intolerable nuisance has not been mosquitoes or deer flies or headwinds or rain–but dirt roads, especially unmaintained ones. They can be especially frustrating when using a lot of energy and strategy to climb a hill, and just when you think you are making progress, the rear wheel spins in place because it cannot grip the dirt, in effect causing some of your exertion to be for nothing. This–as much as the uncomfortable bumpiness and the inability to enjoy downhills for fear of taking a spill from sand, loose gravel, or unexpected potholes–is the reason I despise dirt roads.


I was not looking forward to it, to say the least. Derek guessed we would have to deal with dirt roads for about fifteen kilometers. After that, he said, we’d be home free, no more dirt roads all the way to Vancouver. I thought, okay, I can handle that.


We’d only been pedaling for a few kilometers before the road diverged. Straight ahead, a goat path. To the right, an under maintained but passable road. I looked at rocky stretch, sure that it couldn’t possibly be the road we had to take. We were following a road map that was meant for cars, after all. I would have been impressed to watch one surmount the hill ahead. And yet, forward we went.

The "road" had started out a little wider than a regular car. Kilometer after agonizing kilometer, it narrowed and became increasingly rough, mixed with random intervals of sand, which were hard to spot without paying close attention, and were even more hazardous than riding on stones. It was relentlessly hilly.


To add some variety, we occasionally came across large puddles of overflowed swamp water which required the removal of shoes and the carrying of bikes across. This was actually more a highlight than a hassle.

We started to question whether we were actually on a mapped road. If we were, then according to the map, the ATV trail we were maneuvering was no different than other well-paved, well-shouldered roads we had cycled on. We had no choice but to continue on, and hope that we wouldn’t have to back-track. I was incredibly frustrated by the extremely poor condition of the "road." My only consolation was that it was almost over. Only a few kilometers to go until we reached an intersection. I could handle it.


About thirty minutes later, we came to an intersection. Another dirt road. Derek had come to it first. His body language told me something was wrong. "We have to turn around," he said.


But we had already gone more than fifteen kilometers. My patience was wearing thin. Nonetheless, we set off back in the opposite direction. It seemed unimaginable that we would encounter any more roads like the first rough one. And yet, at the next intersection, we were diverted onto yet another. :/


I should mention here that Derek did not seem to mind these roads. He even asserted that they were "fun." Hm, well, if by "fun" you mean insanely challenging, unpredictable, and injury causing, then yes, loads of fun.

Roughly five kilometers from the end (and by "end" I mean the haven of pavement we had taken for granted), a man named Dave in a pickup truck descended from heaven and stopped to ask us if we wanted a place to stay, offering to drive us out to the pavement in the morning. Then we were bouncing along, bikes in the back, toward showers, food, and comfy beds.


Later I calculated we had come nearly fifty kilometers on dirt that day. Now I’m holding you to your word, Derek. No more dirt roads, ever!


DEREK
All right, all right...I promise...I guess. But you can’t say that wasn’t an adventure, and any adventure is a good one if you escape with all digits intact. I too was glad when Dave rolled up in his truck.


Dave is a cyclist as well, hence the immediate offer for food and shelter for the night. He’s spent most of his life in the bush in northern Ontario, living for the endless list of outdoor activities that this rural, lake-abundant region offers, all the while timber framing for money. His wife, Linda, lives the same way.


We were given the grand tour, fed a delicious dinner, exchanged stories, and fell into a deep sleep on a proper mattress for the night. The following morning we were given a ride out to the pavement and were on our way. Thanks Dave and Linda!





Westward we cycled on paved highway towards Lake Huron and Highway 69. Following advice from Dave and Linda, we opted to take a seventy-kilometer detour to the town of Killarney, which sits on the shores of Georgian Bay on Lake Huron. This area offers some remarkable scenery, "World Famous" fish and chips, and all with a relaxing small town feel. Since the only access to Killarney is a single road, and we weren’t keen on backtracking, we rolled into town with a plan to hitch a ride on a boat to Manitoulin Island. On our second day we had some luck.


Derek and Mr. Frog (can you find him?):

Looking out on Georgian Bay:

ERIKA
By the docks in Killarney, we sketched out a plan for how we would get across. Tourists were everywhere milling about near the fish and chips. We sat there with our bikes, debating how we were going to manage to convince a stranger to take us on their boat to Little Current, assuming we found a stranger, with a boat, who was going to Little Current.

We sat there next to our loaded bikes, conspicuously. (I think this was part of the plan.) Before we knew it, groups of people were approaching us, asking us what we were doing, where we were going, and commenting in their predictable way, “You rode a bicycle from where?!” With each encounter, we made a point of asserting our angle:


“We’re trying to get to Little Current. We were hoping to find a boat going there that would take us along.” Every time it seemed they weren’t going there or they didn’t have a boat. I was feeling hopeless about the situation and decided to distract myself by going to retrieve our clothes from the laundromat.


I took my time getting there, pulling the clothes out, folding, stewing about how it probably wasn't going to work and we’d have to ride sixty-seven kilometers back out to the highway, and then go through Sudbury, which we wanted to avoid. A woman standing by the washer began talking to me, and I was answering her absently. My ears perked up when she mentioned she had a boat. Bingo. I gave my speech, and ten minutes later I was trotting triumphantly back to the dock, fresh laundry in hand, to tell Derek the good news.


DEREK
Where was Erika? She had been gone for over a half-hour, and just to retrieve our laundry that was a few doors down. Meanwhile, I had a myriad of visitors bombarding me with questions, and none of them were piloting a boat to Little Current. There were moments during this half-hour that I had an audience gathered around me, listening to the facts of my journey, and asking the same questions repeatedly. Not long before my vocal chords withdrew from the conversation and left me to act out my story, I glimpsed Erika gleefully skipping back with the bag of clean clothes. “Did you have any luck?” she asked.


“No, but I think the whole town knows we’re here and looking for a ride.”


“Well, I have one definite ride,” was her reply.


“Oh…what? Fantastic!”


Frank and Terry from the boat “Frankly Terryfic” were offering a ride to Little Current if we were willing to join them on a one day excursion into Baie Fine, a long narrow bay on the north end of Lake Huron, not far from Manitoulin Island.


We loaded our bikes onto Frankly Terryfic and were on our way, weaving through the coastal islands and inlets of northern Lake Huron at six knots, the fastest our boat could jog. By the end of the day, we had arrived at the northern tip of Baie Fine, where we dropped an anchor and jumped in for a swim.

Frank and Terry have been living on their boat for three years, and have been traveling "The Great Loop" for the past year. The route takes them from the southern tip of Florida, up the east coast, inland via a series of locks to the Great Lakes, through Lake Michigan, down the Mississippi and the Tennessee Rivers to Mobile, Alabama, and back along the Gulf of Mexico to Florida.

We chatted about our travels as we enjoyed dinner while anchored in Baie Fine, a finer experience I could not imagine. It was shortly after dinner that we were visited by a lake monster so horrifying that Erika vowed never to swim in a lake again…EVER!


ERIKA
I’d like to take this moment to remind you, Derek, of all the times you’ve assured me about the safety of lakes. All the times you’ve watched me with a puzzled expression as I floated with quiet apprehension, stealing nervous glances at the darkness below. Less than an hour after our swim, we were paid a visit by exactly the kind of creature that I imagine lurks just inches beneath my pinky toe: a snapping turtle.


Rah!!!

After two days of fabulous boating, we have arrived in Little Current, ON, at the tip of Manitoulin Island. From here we plan to pick up our pace considerably, and we are psyching ourselves up to tackle the rest of northern Ontario, and then through Manitoba, Saskatchewan, Alberta, and finally British Columbia. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover, and not much time to cover it before snow starts falling on the Rockies, possibly in late September or early October.

And Beyond

DEREK
Into the void we cycled–Algonquin Park is canoeist heaven. It seemed as if there was more lake area than land area. With so many ideal swimming holes, it was a shame that the weather remained uncooperative. When cycling through thunderstorms in wet clothes, swimming loses its appeal. So we blasted onward, stopping for a brief celebration when Erika reached one thousand miles on her odometer, thus completing her benefit ride for the Alzheimer’s Association! But she’s not ready to stop riding yet.



ERIKA

After twenty-nine days and only one day without cycling, I reached one thousand miles since Pawling, NY!

If You Don't Know, You Wilno

DEREK
We were relaxing on the deck of the Pickles and Quilts quilt shop and deli in Wilno, Ontario, catching up on emails, enjoying some coffee, groovin’ to some music, playing cards, reading books, and waiting to build up an appetite for dinner, when Helene, the owner, approached us with a proposition. She offered us dinner, laundry, a hot shower, and beds for the night in her lakefront home if we were willing to endure a twenty-minute drive with a couple of errand stops along the way. How could we say no?





We heaved our bicycles into her shop and vaulted ourselves into the car. Twenty minutes later, we rolled up to her lakefront paradise known as "The Answer." We were given the grand tour and our choice of any of the five queen-sized beds on the top floor. As soon as her husband, Kirk arrived from work, burgers were on the grill and the party was underway.


Unfortunately, the weather wasn’t cooperating and we decided to skip out on a cruise on their pontoon boat. Instead, we took a ride back into Wilno and joined the party at the local pub, where we enjoyed some live music and dancing.


Local artist "Dancing Andy," sketched our picture in the pub while the musicians rocked out nearby.

ERIKA
We had first noticed Dancing Andy when he got up to hang a woman’s portrait on the pub's bulletin board. I was impressed by how lifelike it was. Andy was dynamic: not a minute had passed by after he tacked up the portrait before he was grooving like a pro on the dance floor.


Helen and Kirk suggested that Derek and I be drawn. Dancing Andy was keen and took his work very seriously. We sat still together for half an hour.





DEREK
After a few more drinks and songs, we cruised back to the lake for a snug night’s sleep on a real mattress, with sheets and blankets to boot! The following morning was made complete with a satisfying and sizable breakfast. We were then chauffeured back to our awaiting bicycles at Pickles and Quilts, where Helene hooked us up with some Wilno t-shirts and drinks to go. Fantastic! Thanks to all the people of Wilno for showing us a good time!


We said our goodbyes and were off, refreshed and ready to take on Algonquin Park. But our plans took a sudden change as we cycled alongside Bark Lake. We were crossing a bridge when we took notice of a family laughing and hollering at the waterfront not far from the highway.


ERIKA
Rope swing! I thought as I rolled across the bridge watching some folks swinging into the water. A glance at the sky showed dark clouds, and an all-too-familiar feeling in the air said rain was coming soon. This is what happens when you go an entire month with only one rain-free day. You can smell it miles away; you can tell it like a clock.


We pulled into the dirt road by the lake, intending to find a place to pitch the tent. As we passed the clearing with the rope swing, we saw that the family was clearing out. There weren’t any private property signs, and no one was around except the occasional canoeist on Bark Lake. We ate dinner and jumped into the tent just as the rain started. Our timing was perfect.


Our quiet and rainy night went undisturbed by neither partying teenagers nor disgruntled property owners, and in the morning we waited for the clouds to part so we could swing in the sun. Sure enough, the sun came out and we were soon swinging like monkeys.


The setup was fantastic: a huge tree with massive roots sticking out in all directions sat high up, leaning out toward the water’s edge. A ladder had been built for climbing the six feet or so from the water level to the ground. We were having a blast.








After so many swings, I was ready for something more daring. I told Derek I was going to swing out as far as possible, as the rope was very long with a lot of potential for distance. I needed to get some momentum to do this, so I jumped up on the tree root I was standing on, intending to curl up and hold on while I was propelled far out onto the lake.


I did everything too fast, and hadn’t accounted for my hands being slippery with lake water. The extra force incurred on my hands was too much for them to hold on, so I swung a short curve before my hands slipped off and I fell, face down, SMACK onto the water, narrowly missing the edge of the bank.


DEREK
10! 10! 10! A perfect score six-foot belly flop complete with a resonant smack. At first I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or jump in and help. I couldn’t keep the laughter down as she waded back to the ladder, cracking up with embarrassment at what just happened. Slightly dazed and traumatized, we enjoyed a few more swings before departing towards Algonquin Park.


ERIKA
Later at a picnic table, an extremely gregarious squirrel approached us who seemed to want to say he liked our bikes. His name could only be Gunther. We forfeited the peanut butter he sought. Ask and you shall receive.

Gunther very much enjoyed the PB!

DEREK
We’re continuing westward, dodging the daily violent thunderstorms to the best of our ability, enjoying the remote beauty of the Muskoka region, at war with the mosquitoes, and hopeful for an improvement in the weather and a safe ride through northern Ontario.

Battle of the Blogs

ERIKA
Derek and I have decided to combine blogs, especially since we are now spending nearly every moment in each other’s company. After two days of rest in Ottawa, and a brief visit at the Otesha House, an organization that Derek was a part of for two months last summer, we began our venture into the back roads of northern Ontario. I've come to find out that this area is infested with mosquitoes, deer flies, and countless other flying and crawling things that when flying around one's head and landing on one's face can render a person incapable of performing even the simplest task. Each day, it is us versus them.

The first night after leaving Ottawa, we found a great spot by a lake where we could cool off for an evening dip. Little did Derek and his Dad know, I harbor an irrational fear of lakes. I went in anyway, as one of my countless futile attempts to overcome this fear. Derek plunged right in, swimming way out, wondering why I stuck close to the shore. When my pride got the best of me, I decided to forge bravery and hitch a ride on Derek’s back. Unfortunately, I nearly drowned him.

DEREK
With Erika in tow, I paddled with power and grace, effortlessly delivering her safely to shore. Following a gourmet Kraft Dinner meal, we partook in a stone skipping contest, in which my Dad was the undisputed champion.


We set up for a waterfront campfire, and just as the flames grew high, the mosquitoes arrived in a bloodthirsty happy hour frenzy. The flames were immediately extinguished and we sprinted to the safe haven of our tents.


My Dad had come to the conclusion that he had seen enough of the country and it was time for him to catch a plane back to Vernon. In the morning we said our goodbyes and parted ways. See you in a couple months Dad, thanks for the company!

ERIKA
Derek and I set out west, with our sights set on a small town not far past Algonquin Park called Magnetawan, where we plan to meet up with two of Derek's friends. We have about two hundred and fifty miles to cover in ten days, which leaves us a lot of slack.


While cycling on one of many back roads, the scent of nearby strawberry fields got us in the mood for fresh fruit. We stopped at a berry farm for an hour-long, quart-sized berry gorge. Just when we couldn’t think of eating another morsel, the owner of the farm started asking us about our loaded bikes. Amazed by our journey, she treated us to another pint of raspberries, which we graciously accepted.

DEREK
Quiet farm roads the following day led us to the Bonnechere Caves, a little-known tourist destination. For a small fee we joined a tour group that we followed ninety feet underground into the "young" 12,000 year-old abyss. In the claustrophobic darkness we traveled through the history and tales of the caves.

As fascinating as the caves proved to be, what we were more interested in was the rocky waterfalls that churned and crashed nearby.


As we enjoyed the scenery, I noticed how the rock shelves bordering the river would made an ideal platform for a tent. It was an opportunity that couldn’t be passed. Following our spelunking expedition, we stopped to visit the falls and have a snack. 

We washed up in a surprisingly warm pool of water at the edge of the river while trying to stay out of view from the waves of camera toting tourists passing by on the opposite side. Our original plan of laying out our sleeping bags directly on the rock shelf, and spending the night tent-free, was foiled. True to their schedule, out came the mosquitoes with an aching hunger, and we were driven back into the safety of the mesh. But luckily, we were still able to enjoy the stars, as the sky was open and the tent fly remained rolled up. Mosquito issues aside, we still had the pleasure of a nearly perfect night.

ERIKA
The following day, we supposed we would zip through Eganville, but the rain had other plans for us. We made a pit stop at the Country Store, where we drank coffee and hung out on the couch. After a sufficient rest, Derek said, "Ready to go?" A look out the window showed rain, lots of it. We decided to wait it out. But how would we occupy ourselves?


Derek trying out the Inversion Table at the Country Store in Eganville:



It didn’t take long before "Popeye the Good News Man, Ambassador for Jesus," selected us as his new students. With no escape route in sight, we were made to listen to tales of his truck-driving days in New York, stories involving armed robberies and thieving prostitutes.

DEREK
Maintaining a conversation with someone like Popeye is simple enough. With a bit of eye contact, the occasional nod, and a few affirmative grunts, the one-sided discussion can flow for hours. But in time, this becomes draining and we begin searching for an escape route. "Wow, look at the time!"


But as luck would have it, a man with a striking resemblance to Willie Nelson stepped in and took over for Popeye. With what started as a conversation about camp stoves quickly escalated into a full-on demonstration of how to properly wash windows, with a piece-by-piece explanation of every tool needed to make a storefront display window shine and sparkle like crystal.


What I was really hoping to see was not clear glass, but clear skies. Although this seemed doubtful, there was a break in the rain, so we jumped on our bikes and fled Eganville as quickly as possible. It was imperative that we put some distance between ourselves and this exceedingly verbose village. We needed some peace and quiet.


Now we’re relaxing in the town of Wilno, famous for carrying the title of "Canada’s first ever Polish settlement." Here’s a shout out to all you people of Poland.

DERIKA
Bye for now!

Oh Canada

The scope of the trip has changed since I met up with Derek and his Dad in Lévis, a small city across the river from Québec city. Since then, we've been cycling forty to seventy miles every day until today...hence why I haven't posted until now. 

At a campground a few nights ago, we were all set up and the sky was nearly black. I was treated to a haircut by Derek Scissorhands who tackled my wig with but a tiny pair of folding scissors, and I was examining my new trim when Derek said, "Hey, there's a cat!"


My eyes darted in the darkness and landed on a small, pale figure slinking about our camp. At first our visitor seemed shy, but we were too interested to let her off the hook. This was not a mangy stray with matted fur or a foamy mouth. This was a healthy, beautiful kitten.


It didn't take much coaxing before she was in Derek's arms purring. We were bemused. Where did she come from? Her coat was soft, and she wasn't thin, but no collar. With so many other folks staying at the campground, so many possibilities of an owner, we didn't know what to do with her.




I've long dreamed of finding a pet out on the road that could to ride with me on bicycle tours. As I sat there stroking this precious, purring ball of fur, I imagined this kitten, Derek and I traveling through Québec farm country with Kitty riding in a basket on the handlebars, ears flapping in the breeze--


Derek snapped me out it. "We can't keep her. Maybe we should leave her by the bathrooms. Hopefully someone might adopt her."





I reluctantly trudged with them to the bathrooms where Derek set her down in a lit area. We watched as she sniffed the grass and rolled in the dirt. She seemed okay. Derek pulled me away before I could change my mind.

At one campground after passing through Montréal, we were pleasantly surprised to find lovely riverside accommodations. After hiding in our tents during a short downpour, we stepped outside to find a FULL RAINBOW right in front of us, resting on the Saint Lawrence River.

(Sorry, I can't find the other half, but I swear it was a FULL rainbow.) 




So far we have visited three of the biggest cities in Canada: Québec, Montréal, and Ottawa. Floundering in French has been fun. Now in Ottawa, where everything is half French, half English, I find myself missing the chaos and confusion of trying to get by in a land where I don't speak the language. Derek mainly misses the poutine.

It's has been a different kind of experience cycling with two others. There are pros and cons to it, but mostly I feel safer and more secure because I know that no matter where we end up, we'll be together.

From Park Bench to Room Service

On Thursday I passed through the U.S.-Canadian border at Rouses Point, which is situated at the northern tip of Lake Champlain, where New York and Vermont meet. My introduction to Canada was less than hospitable.


I queued up with the cars and crawled forward, waiting to approach the border guards. I wasn't worried. Who would suspect I was hiding something when I barely had enough room my panniers for peanut butter?


"Pazzeport, please," said the young, French, male border guard who, little did I know, would soon become intimately acquainted with my personal life. By the look in his eye, it seemed he was not accustomed to (and perhaps not fond of) twenty-year-old girls bicycling alone across his border.


I delivered my passport, and after some scrutinization of my setup, he asked me if I had any weapons. I told him I carried a few different knives, plus pepper spray. The pepper spray raised an eyebrow.


"Zat is illegal in zis country. Step aside please. Go over zer," he said, pointing to what looked like an empty car wash stall. I wasn't worried. I had nothing to hide. He told me to empty all of my bags onto the table, which was quite a hassle, but everyone knows you don't argue with someone who speaks another language, because, well, you can't.


Seemed like a lifetime before he came to check my belongings. In the meantime, he had taken my pepper spray. I was not happy about it. That small piece of plastic with some mystical ooze in it gave me a great sense of security oftentimes while riding through certain areas. I always kept it clipped onto my shirt, and more than once I had grabbed it when I heard a dog barking at me and thought it was going to come chasing after me. Thankfully, I never had to use it.


When he returned to hand me a receipt for the destruction of my pepper spray, he took the liberty of shuffling through all of my belongings. It turned out the item of greatest interest to him was my journal. He flipped through the pages with increasing eagerness, eventually settling on a date I guessed to be about a week beforehand. We then stood there in silence for several minutes as he read my journal.


I sort of giggled to myself. I thought, a French Canadian border guard is reading my private thoughts, and there is nothing I can do about it. 


When all was said and done, he asked me if I had a map of Québec.


"I don't," I said.


"You are very unprepared," he sneered, but didn't give me a map. On that note, I was set free into the marvelous Québec countryside. Free, but feeling a lot less safe without my pepper spray.

I made it to Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu, QC by evening, where I rolled around, lost, until about 11 PM when I crossed a bridge and came upon a park in Iberville. I sat on a bench facing the river, the city lights casting a beautiful reflection on the water.





With no one in the vicinity and feeling relatively safe, I lay my head on the bench and contemplated the stars. This must be what it feels like to be homeless, I thought, and closed my eyes.


At 4:30 AM, with birds chirping and the sky beginning to light up, I awoke. I was freezing, mostly because and my legs were covered in dew. A cold sweat coated the inside of my jacket. Yuck. Looking around, the only sign of life I could see was an ambulance parked about twenty feet away. Someone inside was watching a movie on a laptop. I wondered if they might have thought to look out for me. Teeth chattering uncontrollably, I pedaled out of the park in search of something hot to drink, and to find a bus stop.


An hour later, cured of the chills, I took a seat on the sidewalk at a bus stop, to wait for a bus that would hopefully come, that would hopefully be able to carry my bike, that would go to the central bus station, where I would take another bus to Montréal, where I would catch another bus to Québec city. I had made the decision to take a shortcut and join paths with Derek sooner than we had originally planned.


Three hours later, the bus came. The driver spoke no English, but made it clear that I was not allowed to put my bike on the bus. He drove away, and I stood there, helplessly, wondering what to do next. A minute later, a retirement-aged couple rolled past on bicycles. "Excusez-moi! Parlez-vous Anglais?" I said.


"Oui!"


After a sorry explanation of my situation, they told me that the central bus station was confusing to get to, but not to worry, they would take me there. What a relief. We rode several kilometers to the station. Once we were there, I went in to get a ticket. Just when it seemed everything was going to work out, the woman at the counter told me that their buses do not transport bikes, but the ones out of Montréal do.

I thought, well, Montréal can't be too far.


I went outside to relay this to the couple, who were waiting like saints to make sure everything turned out okay. They replied, no problem, they would lead me to a direct road toward Montréal, which would connect with a bike path into the city. It sounded easy enough. I followed them a few more miles before we parted ways, thanking them for going so far out their way for me, and waving enthusiastically until they disappeared from view.


Twenty kilometers later, after some confusion (and redirection from yet another stranger), I found the bike path. Almost there! I thought. I soon came to a directional sign: "Montréal, 17 km." Hm...well, okay. No problem.


Two kilometers later on the path, I came to a closed gate. It appeared that the bike path ended there. I could not believe it. I stood there, wondering what to do next. One minute later, a man on a bicycle came around the closed gate from the side that was closed and said something in French. Then, sensing my confusion, in English, "This path is closed."


"But," he said, "we can go over the bridge and ride on the other side."


I said, "I'll follow you."


He let me cycle with him (or perhaps he had no choice) the remaining distance, nearly into Montréal. It was a good thing, too, because I am certain I would have gotten lost with the numerous twists and divergences from the path that only someone familiar with the area would know how to navigate. He knew the way to the bus station in Longueuil, from which I could get to Québec City. He was even so kind as to go right up to the ticket counter with me. He did all the talking, and after transactions were completed, a firm handshake, and an earnest thank you, I was so relieved and grateful for my luck, for these angels who appeared to assist me.


After a lively conversation with my Mom, detailing the events of the day, she convinced me to get a hotel room. Within a few hours after reaching Québec, I found a room at the chic Hotel Pur, near the river.


Then this morning, I ordered breakfast in bed. Picked the Frenchest thing off the menu. Whatever it was, it was delicious.