tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91900019118629581012024-03-05T09:46:46.245-08:00Pedaling EastSharon Hawley has finished her bicycle trip in Canada for this summer. She hopes to complete the adventure in another year. Please follow her winter adventure at http://sharonswinter.blogspot.com/Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-90197315605246614982009-07-06T13:07:00.000-07:002009-07-06T14:14:55.400-07:00A Tour of Winnipeg<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpVGOSAvsMIr6pCWmJUQr-QMaEWcVZVnK5MmrMVavX3yysSQ7e-p9N7y7qkYCCgNth6KpoQpufg_q6oyKL1Qi7Pui4XQ0ei4OW6Qxd7lXoirWZQOnx4TTTrWGhER-biaNoRwGJ5NTQWys/s1600-h/100_2724+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 211px; height: 158px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpVGOSAvsMIr6pCWmJUQr-QMaEWcVZVnK5MmrMVavX3yysSQ7e-p9N7y7qkYCCgNth6KpoQpufg_q6oyKL1Qi7Pui4XQ0ei4OW6Qxd7lXoirWZQOnx4TTTrWGhER-biaNoRwGJ5NTQWys/s320/100_2724+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355457244328931266" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />2724 St. Mary’s Cathedral on York Street, in view from my hotel window<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbEwa2LS6FstnIZ3vMNXfJ_pcE0ymgSgtkGcFoaTMecQnoC4Pyh_cIpDvLRerZ-6U7pCDbvTZ9OoJQSHuv2FBv0EYhdIYv2fRla5bWababuRKbYQ29AuNopbSPYi0ZzF2o-kj2YDFtW-Y/s1600-h/100_2726+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 118px; height: 243px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbEwa2LS6FstnIZ3vMNXfJ_pcE0ymgSgtkGcFoaTMecQnoC4Pyh_cIpDvLRerZ-6U7pCDbvTZ9OoJQSHuv2FBv0EYhdIYv2fRla5bWababuRKbYQ29AuNopbSPYi0ZzF2o-kj2YDFtW-Y/s320/100_2726+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355456754159773122" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Statue of the Hindu deity, Ganesha, in front of the East India Company restaurant on York Street<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMcdwmvmFBMou7fuzZU0lUFx0kVjCODO8OuoEwkf1wKgDo40pyQYDss4NZdxj7ChZqUeVbUKEv6MXZC_KgQXp4tgj9mjxB-b49ewt9fNlTegDZ2H7Nbk2ljdqvGdD2yrd0Q5X6KHofeT4/s1600-h/100_2740+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 204px; height: 153px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMcdwmvmFBMou7fuzZU0lUFx0kVjCODO8OuoEwkf1wKgDo40pyQYDss4NZdxj7ChZqUeVbUKEv6MXZC_KgQXp4tgj9mjxB-b49ewt9fNlTegDZ2H7Nbk2ljdqvGdD2yrd0Q5X6KHofeT4/s320/100_2740+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355456016633859554" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />A classy-looking restaurant flung out over the Red River, attached to the side of the Esplanade Riel a footbridge.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCAPL0fUviVuMKiCbPSro3PzQl_rNQTT_RgaGijxngNYbG6Q6X8bKsCjpk9zLkpFPSPJ0tlGFffzTUf8B0WtDKgPLrofU83oPyXTnagsKf1j1FfVE3k1GCqzWxkyC-dAkb25DHFvcQiFc/s1600-h/100_2744+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 203px; height: 152px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCAPL0fUviVuMKiCbPSro3PzQl_rNQTT_RgaGijxngNYbG6Q6X8bKsCjpk9zLkpFPSPJ0tlGFffzTUf8B0WtDKgPLrofU83oPyXTnagsKf1j1FfVE3k1GCqzWxkyC-dAkb25DHFvcQiFc/s320/100_2744+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355448064621109570" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Legislative Building for the Province of Manitoba<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi85790isz-72HSqd_DGd-1DmhXUCkEEYNKnYbSQ_K9v6StlXRrRzTFk16YNMVq6mWVfJMVs-hPaNCejT28Vmg1C7-zZ0MpO7VS-k4Lbv1pIkHcdj-aZCMP9LjkA8A9sBb1vCQ1jxtlFtI/s1600-h/100_2747+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 219px; height: 164px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi85790isz-72HSqd_DGd-1DmhXUCkEEYNKnYbSQ_K9v6StlXRrRzTFk16YNMVq6mWVfJMVs-hPaNCejT28Vmg1C7-zZ0MpO7VS-k4Lbv1pIkHcdj-aZCMP9LjkA8A9sBb1vCQ1jxtlFtI/s320/100_2747+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355446377580696274" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Government House, residence of the Lieutenant Governor of Manitoba, 1883 .<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHuYCWIvYAPKc8rodjg6AiyAAgtmleHG_GvZypIN6iuhO3rwYtGirnljr1bFVEotXvEKrs7hmDFiXDjgvtOoS-cIeZXnAsomD6uGvv7AF8O9LDpsQKYsjsln5il4r4U0oin8JNk15uql0/s1600-h/100_2750+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 208px; height: 156px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHuYCWIvYAPKc8rodjg6AiyAAgtmleHG_GvZypIN6iuhO3rwYtGirnljr1bFVEotXvEKrs7hmDFiXDjgvtOoS-cIeZXnAsomD6uGvv7AF8O9LDpsQKYsjsln5il4r4U0oin8JNk15uql0/s320/100_2750+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355445770135803330" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Government House, Legislative Building in background.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh93x_bh40EHkWaB0NEowLDwZm4a81Z4hQdCXV_KAx_m0KIWgsJ7P83GnOqQfUTGur4VJ94kAKU7EgFDTNpCkBbSTl-9-nWXqeGWMN9Pbg4FVYlY2ifap7vZrU9PER1FHGmUgSDAPOFBcU/s1600-h/100_2751+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 211px; height: 158px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh93x_bh40EHkWaB0NEowLDwZm4a81Z4hQdCXV_KAx_m0KIWgsJ7P83GnOqQfUTGur4VJ94kAKU7EgFDTNpCkBbSTl-9-nWXqeGWMN9Pbg4FVYlY2ifap7vZrU9PER1FHGmUgSDAPOFBcU/s320/100_2751+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355445150861116194" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />“Bears on Broadway” polar bear sculptures by Helen Toews, “Because we care.” Canadians are very conscious about the environment.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtQNa4jFD4lim2pd-2nftWcACbFishwdyK8_KVVrmUntU9BzxAEwFt95Sxuy_fjPVWNXwb1af4e4ZZAmHiV9dcyH5COzAONNvPGV8EUUGc6hX7mlxrwarhKpnaOkmdxYuBlGiY3fHv70Q/s1600-h/100_2755+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 176px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtQNa4jFD4lim2pd-2nftWcACbFishwdyK8_KVVrmUntU9BzxAEwFt95Sxuy_fjPVWNXwb1af4e4ZZAmHiV9dcyH5COzAONNvPGV8EUUGc6hX7mlxrwarhKpnaOkmdxYuBlGiY3fHv70Q/s320/100_2755+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355444518688447842" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Louis Riel 1844-1885, leader of the Metis people of the Prairies, president of the nation of Red River, a Canadian folk hero. He is honored here with the Legislative Building in the background.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihcI9ktaCZ2MKEbD_dLgF86WmdD_qenZUtiCQa9zERwzICklmpHkZ2y8XxpYrwLukb-i41lC6Khqx4AwWXWdOJGXGjpmspSJNcJSFlOL7zemu9CPfuZSZsjeE5hJhNcON2m6xunsAhJJY/s1600-h/100_2760+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 167px; height: 222px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihcI9ktaCZ2MKEbD_dLgF86WmdD_qenZUtiCQa9zERwzICklmpHkZ2y8XxpYrwLukb-i41lC6Khqx4AwWXWdOJGXGjpmspSJNcJSFlOL7zemu9CPfuZSZsjeE5hJhNcON2m6xunsAhJJY/s320/100_2760+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355444171327510114" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Elm trees. Dutch elm disease, which has destroyed most of the elms in the United States is still being actively resisted in Canada. Everyone is encouraged not to use elm firewood or to transport its lumber very far.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX89sdHkD0Vf2UfwZ0zkPvlGK6t1VQlVcwnjV2RajPQGzoWpslET_Qi0aULKrpvxumegPRmiSA8K6P-JWRitVdnastzoTeaqcjbn6nB9d3ZRpZS_kQnnHrapNHzzns9VlF3ttYm4qoOfg/s1600-h/100_2762-63+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 210px; height: 174px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX89sdHkD0Vf2UfwZ0zkPvlGK6t1VQlVcwnjV2RajPQGzoWpslET_Qi0aULKrpvxumegPRmiSA8K6P-JWRitVdnastzoTeaqcjbn6nB9d3ZRpZS_kQnnHrapNHzzns9VlF3ttYm4qoOfg/s320/100_2762-63+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355443527105790018" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Assinboine River, looking upstream from the Osborne Bridge. Many of the great cities can say “A river runs through it." The Red river and the Assinboine run through Winnipeg.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxVAaxV69XjdFCOl3KPSSwhQMX0eqMLKRMrA67s3t_-Pxv6vDhyphenhyphenkX6sVjp27SPqpzY5jde7Hw5GJvKnPJq3JBZzoTX2AFctzwAJwPSRJ-Ocgy8B204SgLB3Vs7TeVJ3uV2rRDh9nqm0cU/s1600-h/100_2767+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 179px; height: 211px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxVAaxV69XjdFCOl3KPSSwhQMX0eqMLKRMrA67s3t_-Pxv6vDhyphenhyphenkX6sVjp27SPqpzY5jde7Hw5GJvKnPJq3JBZzoTX2AFctzwAJwPSRJ-Ocgy8B204SgLB3Vs7TeVJ3uV2rRDh9nqm0cU/s320/100_2767+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355443095678360674" border="0" /></a>Ukranian Canadians were imprisoned in Winnipeg during World War I, simply because of their race. Now, after the nationrepented, their leader is honored in front of the Legislative Building. The United States did not so honor the Japanese after their internment based or race during World War II.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-25210322928257530252009-07-04T18:55:00.000-07:002009-07-24T09:33:54.857-07:00Units of Measure<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwzCYiQGmdAzdlJXZa5V4uyEnK5s-xt2y1nzKltHDzbm0lnXBk-p4EuxTr_iQhr7H2C__cwivm_RkM0LHXRVjM6Sd1m9FCHtwbfkA5tb2uqBqUMPFwazEdheMQ8NQ8vDznJ5Pcs5dH_Eo/s1600-h/100_2712+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwzCYiQGmdAzdlJXZa5V4uyEnK5s-xt2y1nzKltHDzbm0lnXBk-p4EuxTr_iQhr7H2C__cwivm_RkM0LHXRVjM6Sd1m9FCHtwbfkA5tb2uqBqUMPFwazEdheMQ8NQ8vDznJ5Pcs5dH_Eo/s320/100_2712+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354790126964686642" border="0" /></a>Canadians buy gasoline for about one dollar a liter. But they talk about fuel efficiency in miles-per-gallon. If you ask an old-timer for the distance to somewhere, he’s just as likely to give it in miles as in kilometers, sometimes adding with a smile, “I’m from the old school.” All the signs show distances in kilometers, save the occasional advertising sign that tries to seem old.<br /><br />Farmers talk of wheat yields in bushels per acre—100 on average. When they get $1.60 per bushel, as it seems they will, they complain that fertilizer costs $100 per acre. Farmland sells for $50 to $100 per acre, an impossibly high price if buying it for wheat crops.<br /><br />I entered the prairie at elevation 900 meters above sea level on June 11. Twenty-two days later I am near its edge at elevation 200 meters in the richest farmland the Canadian prairie offers. Many different crops grace the fields here, even corn, that commonest of grain, but the first I’ve seen of it in Canada. You can see in the picture that it will not be ready for the Fourth of July, like mine was in Tennessee, if I planned right and was lucky. Grain has built the lifestyle of this prairie, mostly wheat, <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj12p-SQMgE_i0Oo0uzMJZEqzThYN6ObnQKyCet7_bK_biV-Wgcp6UOmxyYVyR9yRaAZKd4AIRa-5VoFdpMsd3t899gMFUZ_FpevIGKMLEDuIyWBVbSgMpOGYFrA5NqNcskoTn9ZoMfAGg/s1600-h/100_2719+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 215px; height: 161px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj12p-SQMgE_i0Oo0uzMJZEqzThYN6ObnQKyCet7_bK_biV-Wgcp6UOmxyYVyR9yRaAZKd4AIRa-5VoFdpMsd3t899gMFUZ_FpevIGKMLEDuIyWBVbSgMpOGYFrA5NqNcskoTn9ZoMfAGg/s320/100_2719+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354789870279785858" border="0" /></a>mostly spring wheat. Grain has driven the economy for many years.<br /><br />And the hub of Grain is Winnipeg. I felt sucked into the city on the only road you can take eastward through eastern Manitoba—the Trans-Canada Highway; and even it has a gravel shoulder. Imagine the I-10 Freeway having a gravel shoulder. I avoided it where possible by taking some frontage road or riding on the left side if that shoulder was paved. But mostly I trudged ahead, drawn to the edge of a prairie and a lifestyle.<br /><br /><br /><br />I felt drawn out of normal life as the city closed in around me, into a place where the order of things has changed. It’s still my life and I recognize it, but people and places have changed. Big businesses live here—car dealerships, computer stores, office buildings—things that seem strangely foreign, even tho<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwFsA0mls7ajZOHs244kKeqiNNWD784snsJzF4NMRiGm8iPTaR9hOZyhiATmB7C6ISZyn_6eedOqMHmxMjmPxsO4yhVX1x5bWuRWYhPyJxNkP1GtvD4WIGIGtQ-AXmpyBkHLjAKSy9WOw/s1600-h/100_2722+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 224px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwFsA0mls7ajZOHs244kKeqiNNWD784snsJzF4NMRiGm8iPTaR9hOZyhiATmB7C6ISZyn_6eedOqMHmxMjmPxsO4yhVX1x5bWuRWYhPyJxNkP1GtvD4WIGIGtQ-AXmpyBkHLjAKSy9WOw/s320/100_2722+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354789622126355202" border="0" /></a>ugh I used to walk by them almost every day. Drivers honk at each other when annoyed, something you never hear in a small town; he could be your coffee-mate tomorrow morning. Their horns sound like people screaming at each other.<br /><br />Refined young women flaunt their sophisticated nonchalance. I understand refinement as a point of view but have been away from it so long it irks my sensibilities. I feel like a shoot of spring wheat, insignificant in a field of millions, all just the same. In small towns, people stand taller than wheat shoots.<br /><br /><br /><br />I will stay in Winnipeg until Tuesday when I fly home.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb5ZPY9ZrAgifj-m_z-2cbpxQp1NGVuhJ9UsDuvxPM6qcxDnx4u49020UHDopn3Ftrr7p12JjDwTAGnjqzQBQ6OzzLT1UUr4DuvnQuJvwfYwNhtwI4UhBibxXFNX718Rh0630-hR351U4/s1600-h/100_2730+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 209px; height: 189px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb5ZPY9ZrAgifj-m_z-2cbpxQp1NGVuhJ9UsDuvxPM6qcxDnx4u49020UHDopn3Ftrr7p12JjDwTAGnjqzQBQ6OzzLT1UUr4DuvnQuJvwfYwNhtwI4UhBibxXFNX718Rh0630-hR351U4/s320/100_2730+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354791083127538658" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> The ubiquitous raven lives in Winnipeg tooSharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-8352394598428837702009-07-02T15:01:00.000-07:002009-07-02T15:41:24.350-07:00GravelLight rain met me at the motel door before sunrise in Neepawa. This is the day I would ride to the very doorstep of Winnipeg, stopping for the night in Portage La Prairie, leaving only an 80km day to the end of a long trek. The air was comfortably cool, the wind was nil, and no woman-eating insects came strafing.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxxF0k1nU-RyfBfkV-Yexd8Qst8b56m-e6K0hWztMR3EPDtFRz-2BWCI_-gK0HDkXC6l-oGYMuU3RUUjO4IR1f2vaHDIEjfN9TZ570f8EDLHtGusDmw3A9HZlLHezn51YuCMFvoBUy3MU/s1600-h/100_2688+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 247px; height: 185px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxxF0k1nU-RyfBfkV-Yexd8Qst8b56m-e6K0hWztMR3EPDtFRz-2BWCI_-gK0HDkXC6l-oGYMuU3RUUjO4IR1f2vaHDIEjfN9TZ570f8EDLHtGusDmw3A9HZlLHezn51YuCMFvoBUy3MU/s320/100_2688+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353989586748679170" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqXn2Huf3tJ8Ps0A6110v6MuOLe1K73m5nMN81uJ5cYxBlhIsDsVDYfWJk8wXGKbx_E_DjTOEQ-V0mlsQyDO1n8LwhEGp6G8Xj0pm7CVLX2LXCGxzL2A3J30y7PEn52PNMKV0k5LbPbdk/s1600-h/100_2693+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 218px; height: 163px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqXn2Huf3tJ8Ps0A6110v6MuOLe1K73m5nMN81uJ5cYxBlhIsDsVDYfWJk8wXGKbx_E_DjTOEQ-V0mlsQyDO1n8LwhEGp6G8Xj0pm7CVLX2LXCGxzL2A3J30y7PEn52PNMKV0k5LbPbdk/s320/100_2693+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353990631482990994" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Sunrise over Manitoba Plain refracted a rainbow against a drizzling cloud.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsUUpPqbiUTw4xj1DgQhhOxnIzt6m0uNFNeiyP7-sOYr768XIzIMFuXxfYrV97Rygk2Z4lvWN2QPg_w_dJ8a_wYYFf7PwYUSwcgqCTk0zVQrPPUTzd9NYSJczGmAKcjM5cjoyegc6aIEY/s1600-h/100_2695+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 161px; height: 151px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsUUpPqbiUTw4xj1DgQhhOxnIzt6m0uNFNeiyP7-sOYr768XIzIMFuXxfYrV97Rygk2Z4lvWN2QPg_w_dJ8a_wYYFf7PwYUSwcgqCTk0zVQrPPUTzd9NYSJczGmAKcjM5cjoyegc6aIEY/s320/100_2695+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353989119741266610" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />A sign of little consequence to the motoring public. Everyone I had asked about this road said it has a good paved shoulder all the way to Winnipeg.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJHsPeJANQA0N3tzzs6oDQfWQDbYMRs76c85ddsro5E4UZKe1TrhTivzjqXYGjAMXlNJferZc5LwKsv_UKhFH46EPDEqMf8iGRGcZiRMCtp3lq4yQYz0q9QliRepEAjucOAENgi_g_IiY/s1600-h/100_2704+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 207px; height: 155px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJHsPeJANQA0N3tzzs6oDQfWQDbYMRs76c85ddsro5E4UZKe1TrhTivzjqXYGjAMXlNJferZc5LwKsv_UKhFH46EPDEqMf8iGRGcZiRMCtp3lq4yQYz0q9QliRepEAjucOAENgi_g_IiY/s320/100_2704+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353988267218912946" border="0" /></a>Most of the gravel was compacted and smooth, causing onl<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggc1-T3XtipfqcJxfWd3_XcPgsfuNuLTFukiNSL-oSf0IwYjF84uvzYzoBq1tVWuZk54NHG9Ts_kJIflyprlsXNfeJOdP96GECAvewpIUgn616DfaepxLXmDAtUvbv8Bbk49OtgUE0peM/s1600-h/100_2706+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 198px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggc1-T3XtipfqcJxfWd3_XcPgsfuNuLTFukiNSL-oSf0IwYjF84uvzYzoBq1tVWuZk54NHG9Ts_kJIflyprlsXNfeJOdP96GECAvewpIUgn616DfaepxLXmDAtUvbv8Bbk49OtgUE0peM/s320/100_2706+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353988600723701234" border="0" /></a>y a 50% reduction in speed. But where the grader had recently worked it, the surface of round rocks was like a floor covered with marbles. See the track where I lost control and the bike where I got up, thankful not to be going fast.<br /><br />It’s a kind of wilderness experience, riding on rock marbles. Intensely aware of potential soft places, ready to swerve at the first lean of a tire, the first sink of a wheel. I suppose it’s the kind of close watching that soldiers exercize when the enemy could be lurking anywhere. But right beside me, cars and trucks swish by on the smooth pavement, modern luxury traveling beside a jungle nomad.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqfdJd2cIsOxZV0OIfejhVzm6eZxSzmLiBUw34RIseoE-gi2hdFiaN0I5NzWeCKWMW-zsXJe_rySa0xYB3ApUbsPQx8KhApaF0b0Tswzx2FjEnbYAOzUrShzYOCayW4Rj2jlkCAjpXnKk/s1600-h/100_2711+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 196px; height: 193px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqfdJd2cIsOxZV0OIfejhVzm6eZxSzmLiBUw34RIseoE-gi2hdFiaN0I5NzWeCKWMW-zsXJe_rySa0xYB3ApUbsPQx8KhApaF0b0Tswzx2FjEnbYAOzUrShzYOCayW4Rj2jlkCAjpXnKk/s320/100_2711+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353987864078308274" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Wildlife came to join me whenever I stopped to rest. They even liked to ride along with me, darting about my face and legs. Since my speed was reduced by the gravel, they could keep up and seemed to enjoy a traveling feast.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8d1g8oTQ3rRMRv7AD4NnAncLJ6cAbk0ksjqVYjc7I7B8gbblPD6kbvL6_heRGi3tArjpnRk9Bhy6Q4CXeHYL0sFnucK30OHCCx9h6FujlVS0CzoupG70UmEKALvev7Hk0Gc2_Tq0NaDs/s1600-h/100_2700+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 259px; height: 195px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8d1g8oTQ3rRMRv7AD4NnAncLJ6cAbk0ksjqVYjc7I7B8gbblPD6kbvL6_heRGi3tArjpnRk9Bhy6Q4CXeHYL0sFnucK30OHCCx9h6FujlVS0CzoupG70UmEKALvev7Hk0Gc2_Tq0NaDs/s320/100_2700+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353987409246207074" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />This is the richest farmland in Manitoba. See how much taller the wheat is here than in previous pictures I posted. See how green everything is.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Gravel-riding lasted all day, and the mosquitoes mostly gave up after I put on a dose of deet. But the wind was mild, the rain was not heavy, and all the cars stayed off of my gravel shoulder.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-11959418893625878242009-06-30T17:46:00.000-07:002009-07-24T09:36:13.782-07:00Wind<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitOEu9xSoSzx2goYE-4j88zvqu-G-oR_pN7djgvZ_BolPqE1klfcgnwe5wCdoanZ-EuYQotZ8enP_JbZUavOdls7XEnzrDceIWJJaktLknx3H_1dIF8DAKg1NpBGhPZSScjPuxqVYSt8I/s1600-h/100_2658+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 155px; height: 280px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitOEu9xSoSzx2goYE-4j88zvqu-G-oR_pN7djgvZ_BolPqE1klfcgnwe5wCdoanZ-EuYQotZ8enP_JbZUavOdls7XEnzrDceIWJJaktLknx3H_1dIF8DAKg1NpBGhPZSScjPuxqVYSt8I/s320/100_2658+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353287156497589298" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The Yellowhead Highway (Canada 16) has been a friendly path since I joined it at Yorkton. Its wide paved shoulder has provided plenty of safety and easy riding. On Sunday, traffic was light, although it doesn’t need to be light for pleasant riding. As long as I have my cherished shoulder, riding is unmolested. I assumed it would last all the way to Winnipeg.<br /><br />I rented a room in Russell, and in the early morning of departure, entered again my private shoulder, my exclusive lane on this major highway, a place on the earth to which I acquired a prescriptive right and on which nobody else rides. I have seen no long-distance cyclists in many days, none since the German back on the Icefields Parkway in British Colombia.<br /><br />Then the unthinkable happened. My rightful property was confiscated. My paved shoulder turned to gravel. I was deprived of what I had come to expect as a cycling visitor to Canada. At first it didn’t matter very much, before traffic really began. I rode in the driving lane, stopping or veering onto the gravel only when cars came in both directions at the same time. But as the day brightened and traffic increased, I was excluded from the pavement and sentenced like a criminal to the loose gravel shoulder.<br /><br />I decided to inquire at Foxwarren, which boasts a café and hotel on the internet. But on arriving, I learned that neither exist. I came to the intersection with Highway 83 where the gravel became so loose that riding was impossible. I could walk some unknown distance to where a good shoulder resumed, or I could turn south on 83 and lengthen the ride by going to a road that would continue east. At least I would be away from the heavy traffic. The choice was not pleasant, but it was easy. I went south.<br /><br />At the town of Birtle, I found an open café and went in. The strangely dressed stranger raised hardly a glance—nobody cared that a cyclist had joined their little circle. When I finished a lonesome breakfast and came out to the bike, the wind had started, and not from the west as forecast—wind pressed into my face from the east.<br /><br />I rode toward to Shoal Lake, pedaling as slowly as reasonably possible. Wind pressure is lowered with lower riding speed, and to go slow saves energy. Occasionally, the wind would decrease, and I could up-shift to increase speed for a few minutes or seconds before the blast took me back to a cowering velocity.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsVZilAkjV9f_hx6WpggeiogY-StzY3kPfx7k4kt0tFqkbDk3sZIuoipYyGzAHCOFBwPCPsgdfb2RkhF-zjWiId2mwOVj9JnzcjPV_dnel88QI04QLPw9pG24ovMRxZHbaAe0Plz6PcVo/s1600-h/100_2671+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 238px; height: 178px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsVZilAkjV9f_hx6WpggeiogY-StzY3kPfx7k4kt0tFqkbDk3sZIuoipYyGzAHCOFBwPCPsgdfb2RkhF-zjWiId2mwOVj9JnzcjPV_dnel88QI04QLPw9pG24ovMRxZHbaAe0Plz6PcVo/s320/100_2671+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353289347399890946" border="0" /></a>I came finally to Strathclair, very tired and hoping for a room. The internet shows a hotel, and this time it existed. Otherwise, I would have camped in some field, protected only slightly from wind and mosquitoes.<br /><br />The Strathclair Hotel was not bad. I carried everything upstairs, above the bar, which they call the beverage room in this part of Canada. My room had a bed and a sink. There was a shower across the creaky-floor hall. I went down to the bar for a beer and a sandwich, and could hardly stay awake to learn that crops are dry, that unless rain comes soon, a lot of money will not be made. Then I lay down on the bed for a few minutes and did not wake up until daybreak. I looked out the window and saw no wind. Surely, I thought this will be a wind-free day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqm5Vpn_E4VYatpfvbjH4piy1E7VyBw5Tl1N_bZBUvGnnmIx3-6tXa1x_seWZiS8WZzzhLWt-uRxpwskBpJDM_HgtTAskXmvXoIHJSyITA-STSCkzfs6KI0o03m77_WOnLKTd89YRwza0/s1600-h/100_2674+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 183px; height: 111px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqm5Vpn_E4VYatpfvbjH4piy1E7VyBw5Tl1N_bZBUvGnnmIx3-6tXa1x_seWZiS8WZzzhLWt-uRxpwskBpJDM_HgtTAskXmvXoIHJSyITA-STSCkzfs6KI0o03m77_WOnLKTd89YRwza0/s320/100_2674+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353289053861706642" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic3NJF8q_piANxN2U33Az38zjdwQoU1RFRBPuCQV_Xj5W6yP-AxSzHhIL2D6Ik9Q5LEhG2HyaoRJeYfD5UT69ACEpPhB0W6flWGzrjcsqOJRRloq2_AC0wDiUL_wCXyzLJOdNh1aC-hw4/s1600-h/100_2675+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 275px; height: 102px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic3NJF8q_piANxN2U33Az38zjdwQoU1RFRBPuCQV_Xj5W6yP-AxSzHhIL2D6Ik9Q5LEhG2HyaoRJeYfD5UT69ACEpPhB0W6flWGzrjcsqOJRRloq2_AC0wDiUL_wCXyzLJOdNh1aC-hw4/s320/100_2675+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353288612066324786" border="0" /></a>The dawn mist formed in tendrils, undulating along the prairie in layers, leaving spaces between them—delicate fabrics that melted in the rising sun. Such lacework does not form in even the slightest wind. The lakes still fluttered with birds, the air full of their conversation, the deer never far from view.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj55s2omVVPIcw4v8DZJKsqDOhDhwsbdzD49IzXzsbtbPPoqkclRtL8b2IhML1w_6iJ3XCqurDg-cMfSuOQ9hAE7gSbc0DUifv5lNXKZ-VUvh-Rz3O0au7VCaBWpo8Cl8p-kmf3NvPIUYM/s1600-h/100_2677+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 238px; height: 179px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj55s2omVVPIcw4v8DZJKsqDOhDhwsbdzD49IzXzsbtbPPoqkclRtL8b2IhML1w_6iJ3XCqurDg-cMfSuOQ9hAE7gSbc0DUifv5lNXKZ-VUvh-Rz3O0au7VCaBWpo8Cl8p-kmf3NvPIUYM/s320/100_2677+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353288344784216402" border="0" /></a>But it was not to be. When I began this trip I could not have <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsKrvS8WBwJojVkfKuFP3-IAzZE6fKbRKd1b6czm342lmX4S-0Q4KiG90t6IGoU8VA7zhRGCdXXqH36PzYSPC11W2KoHY93y-hS9oUCoiIOBIBCp9_YJBMEO_gnspU3KeOypIgcykpsJ4/s1600-h/100_2680+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 191px; height: 161px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsKrvS8WBwJojVkfKuFP3-IAzZE6fKbRKd1b6czm342lmX4S-0Q4KiG90t6IGoU8VA7zhRGCdXXqH36PzYSPC11W2KoHY93y-hS9oUCoiIOBIBCp9_YJBMEO_gnspU3KeOypIgcykpsJ4/s320/100_2680+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353288012214167362" border="0" /></a>ridden today. The second day of continual pushing into headwind would have stopped me. Even when I tried to rest beside the road today, I became food to be landed on and consumed by mosquitoes. But over the past six weeks on the road, my body has become tuned for this, and now the trip is almost over. At the start, I would have been in trouble, but now it seems that whatever comes is what I deal with—whatever. I am fortunate to have no physical pains or ailments.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHeMLaocVn8-MXWYGYWGRjJdEZC6LWJJh9nyOGx_zGZHz2EZedX68Sd4G0JHGeOvGneqD3tkebsvXHNtSttRW3b4tQjTznuavdY9UvuXMLousOdBX58st1jsmucNGEkmDSYOLSeHT5b58/s1600-h/100_2665+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 132px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHeMLaocVn8-MXWYGYWGRjJdEZC6LWJJh9nyOGx_zGZHz2EZedX68Sd4G0JHGeOvGneqD3tkebsvXHNtSttRW3b4tQjTznuavdY9UvuXMLousOdBX58st1jsmucNGEkmDSYOLSeHT5b58/s320/100_2665+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353289657177726434" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />This flower traps small insects in its bowl, scented to smell like me. I thanked it for its kind help along the road.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1FtwMX_yM6qrNRpTE8ESavE9YjqWWmsdRtnTuzchd3eLdqlTF2y6p0qUiVpMZlZyzkwieQLiC6huJBjCBrt_3Sk_3SDryoETC3hTXRTq2fyeA5POvYXAAktuxFv233UBJhZHhEnHTvBg/s1600-h/100_2683+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 243px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1FtwMX_yM6qrNRpTE8ESavE9YjqWWmsdRtnTuzchd3eLdqlTF2y6p0qUiVpMZlZyzkwieQLiC6huJBjCBrt_3Sk_3SDryoETC3hTXRTq2fyeA5POvYXAAktuxFv233UBJhZHhEnHTvBg/s320/100_2683+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353287460830473074" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />The wheat is much taller here than it was back west. Still they say it needs rain soon ar the harvest will be scant<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I came to Neepawa and took a motel. Tomorrow is Canada’s biggest holiday, July 1. Everything will be closed. I went to the store and stocked up, planning to stay right here until it’s over. I look forward to a relaxing room with lots of internet and no wind.<br /><br />Wind is Taoist<br />it makes me like water that bends around rocks<br />it’s a man who never lets up<br />where you make do and take the lulsSharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-35674442179288182962009-06-26T15:34:00.000-07:002009-07-24T09:40:39.674-07:00Obstacles<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW6P03MGB6lcw9c29XgQzZrXm9dRl903AvEgD0yhO_cYPbLRmBBU_zpEifActcYj1ytw5HTCqwe4eHU_ztCtVqbXJpYWzbfTmC_I37-Nt8qfC_cZwy8BWBR5WIAPSoPnoFCEyfPRDsKnE/s1600-h/100_2594+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW6P03MGB6lcw9c29XgQzZrXm9dRl903AvEgD0yhO_cYPbLRmBBU_zpEifActcYj1ytw5HTCqwe4eHU_ztCtVqbXJpYWzbfTmC_I37-Nt8qfC_cZwy8BWBR5WIAPSoPnoFCEyfPRDsKnE/s320/100_2594+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351776485708617714" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDy0kGemYJnCvY2Y0oild27iyh3SirmzgC7c4IetQKf17EdPDsNUVJNPnfDD_KMmc6i9vMj2GfyOpHOupaYVHq3TBTE0TkHwtl5mIkJkxBv-0W4ZTGZJGxGCv2mtMbdruxOZE6pBHzwjQ/s1600-h/100_2600+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 199px; height: 184px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDy0kGemYJnCvY2Y0oild27iyh3SirmzgC7c4IetQKf17EdPDsNUVJNPnfDD_KMmc6i9vMj2GfyOpHOupaYVHq3TBTE0TkHwtl5mIkJkxBv-0W4ZTGZJGxGCv2mtMbdruxOZE6pBHzwjQ/s320/100_2600+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351776269887648434" border="0" /></a>Back in Saskatoon I booked the last low-cost seat on an Air Canada flight to LAX. Since then my face has been set for Winnipeg and the 820 kilometers of sparsely populated prairie between. I planned no forced march, but gave plenty of days for rest and unforeseen difficulties.<br /><br />I avoided the Trans Canada Highway, diverting southerly through the farmland and small towns, ending in Watrous on the first day since making that decision. The next day I swam in the murky waters of Manitou Lake, which most of you thought looks more like cesspool water than the golden healing dip that has lured visitors since the Indians ruled these lands. Having soaked in the healing fluid, I proceeded southeasterly on another fine day, and the wind was not from the east.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHFHeiP1BINi70Z4S8WH3oQ2r98o1V-XM7Cl66ypFWR1RQVSTg3WxAtcIHD0AFsWkcN0OdrxHR5HemdaiQfWbCy01_4sKNhCTUdOZ7krKDslztWR4O-I2zy6LQFLs-gv3_7L1rXxzuIAE/s1600-h/100_2609+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 77px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHFHeiP1BINi70Z4S8WH3oQ2r98o1V-XM7Cl66ypFWR1RQVSTg3WxAtcIHD0AFsWkcN0OdrxHR5HemdaiQfWbCy01_4sKNhCTUdOZ7krKDslztWR4O-I2zy6LQFLs-gv3_7L1rXxzuIAE/s320/100_2609+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351775943785213938" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhPF9MGEHxj_OhZTCQ1XMN6XiQgZhp6gBmJxbtEducrrBwcRNiAyRsfRpi7v7enfoWMky7Njv1zYKf-OxH5hdhByKjA9Qie5BF2m-fLGSxTbflocFwMbl8gAGuiB9K0_5TeGsNG2Ku4ZM/s1600-h/100_2622+chaqnged.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 131px; height: 247px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhPF9MGEHxj_OhZTCQ1XMN6XiQgZhp6gBmJxbtEducrrBwcRNiAyRsfRpi7v7enfoWMky7Njv1zYKf-OxH5hdhByKjA9Qie5BF2m-fLGSxTbflocFwMbl8gAGuiB9K0_5TeGsNG2Ku4ZM/s320/100_2622+chaqnged.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351774980069441954" border="0" /></a><br />The glacier that made Manitou Lake left many others for my pedaling <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtlkwlDsjkYDec66t8zdEfq9i-FCzZWDReJ38tSsZ29kqwh0fIEOFZKD8lE7EWKIsXILAVgmy0xku0x3M9S8eQYqv92xP2iwwi874lEldu-IXc4jaTj9m2XdEBM3WXW29XLZtAACVcC9k/s1600-h/100_2620+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 164px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtlkwlDsjkYDec66t8zdEfq9i-FCzZWDReJ38tSsZ29kqwh0fIEOFZKD8lE7EWKIsXILAVgmy0xku0x3M9S8eQYqv92xP2iwwi874lEldu-IXc4jaTj9m2XdEBM3WXW29XLZtAACVcC9k/s320/100_2620+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351775280877295298" border="0" /></a>enjoyment along the way. Waterfowl rose all around me from the marshes as I approached them on roads that see hardly a car. Lakes and ponds dot this part of the prairie, and sounds of the birds who live there or visit there ring in the air. Their calls mix in a kind of harmony, older then instruments. Some birds are curious about the strange new thing entering their territory. They fly circles about my path. Others won’t let me get within photo distance.<br /><br /><br /><br />Where the earth rises above the wetland, farmers have planted traditional crops of wheat and newer ideas like lentils and canola.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4IbD-3jw84srCxjDpfmi53-qDwv9TnDCFhnCVjnE0a4MEXa2c6_Gh15nNRbPZEoozbwWDT7IZ8VW7vxpVOj0MKKg5DCuWnBIor6k6nn6YRDpxtMLa4I25sDhY57PTN4Y3CrFcfGng04I/s1600-h/100_2603+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 229px; height: 172px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4IbD-3jw84srCxjDpfmi53-qDwv9TnDCFhnCVjnE0a4MEXa2c6_Gh15nNRbPZEoozbwWDT7IZ8VW7vxpVOj0MKKg5DCuWnBIor6k6nn6YRDpxtMLa4I25sDhY57PTN4Y3CrFcfGng04I/s320/100_2603+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351774340890762594" border="0" /></a>Winter wheat, which you can see headed out in the picture, <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJIAg3FD4_EPWNOaOvrVDO2CcTRu70MwN8Z6qSnajUhyphenhyphenfKE1HjDpVifImRO-nX2eCHTtlK4NYJBlIwQxs97K20mhEMnmaz-zGE2C80S-92j32ZwNNDjrMY5obmC7mHNMoFEyg5Yk3_SH8/s1600-h/100_2589+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 216px; height: 163px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJIAg3FD4_EPWNOaOvrVDO2CcTRu70MwN8Z6qSnajUhyphenhyphenfKE1HjDpVifImRO-nX2eCHTtlK4NYJBlIwQxs97K20mhEMnmaz-zGE2C80S-92j32ZwNNDjrMY5obmC7mHNMoFEyg5Yk3_SH8/s320/100_2589+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351774647983637058" border="0" /></a>was planted after last year’s harvest and before the ground froze. It came up a little last fall, then lay dormant under snow in hard frozen ground. At the first sign of spring it started growing again. Spring wheat was planted this spring and it still looks like grass, just a few inches tall.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOlcBopKtdUlRpYeh1ecVOj9uU5y4J1l7UjLLdGb6y208n4yGWqmTGvQ8HUTNyH_JU1o3uqXTluAk49jd6v3bTI0V7_EqH1nE_bfZCOM-5Z5qjGtyv61F3zWvGfKsk9S_bcmGcN4Oz-aY/s1600-h/100_2596+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 163px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOlcBopKtdUlRpYeh1ecVOj9uU5y4J1l7UjLLdGb6y208n4yGWqmTGvQ8HUTNyH_JU1o3uqXTluAk49jd6v3bTI0V7_EqH1nE_bfZCOM-5Z5qjGtyv61F3zWvGfKsk9S_bcmGcN4Oz-aY/s320/100_2596+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351773494800303650" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Canola looks like a weed, but its oil is good for cooking. Canadian cooks don’t care much about its healthy qualities, they use other oils, but canola brings a good price and provides a diversified crop in this cold north farmland.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtSDk01ACP7tQiHyTscT6CsFtnFu_na87eYdwX50e85sqhx1K_U9DiHQrsE-LIhr_cBbpwvx-ZqHcJTKUeLWIgIqfFdiBw5vowPkl7LfoISJAsikChx2m3rCAgaYKLaPUk7t7i426Hrn0/s1600-h/100_2586+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 121px; height: 171px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtSDk01ACP7tQiHyTscT6CsFtnFu_na87eYdwX50e85sqhx1K_U9DiHQrsE-LIhr_cBbpwvx-ZqHcJTKUeLWIgIqfFdiBw5vowPkl7LfoISJAsikChx2m3rCAgaYKLaPUk7t7i426Hrn0/s320/100_2586+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351773879877728770" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Lentil plants are tiny and will produce seeds for lentil soup.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I came to Nokomis, the first place with a bed for rent, and checked into the Nokomis Hotel. I unloaded the bike and carried everything up the stairs to my room over the bar. I’m getting used to these old hotel/bars with their bathrooms down the hall. I settled in, took a shower, and went down for a beer. I sat at a long dining room table where half a dozen old-timers were chatting over beers or coffees. They looked at me with suspicion. Canadian small-town people are not curious like their counterparts in the US. When riding across America, I had only to pull up on a bike and the questions came. Here, I have to initiate conversation or read my book alone. I was feeling lonely in Nokomis, without internet, in an old hotel on a gravel road called “Main Street.” Then in walked a farmer in coveralls.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnYDwsJcMzLNnpPMiccFsyC67FuXcuFhgmnFyR5cJMbZMV80ZazM49IeIXQ9i8S5EA9WThWilHOjtJ0HWszYvjUcX73dAxkSZw8vjM0iKcHsqzDTqIqIMtW7M3r0yjCm06sj2IgnNyuAc/s1600-h/100_2625+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 259px; height: 177px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnYDwsJcMzLNnpPMiccFsyC67FuXcuFhgmnFyR5cJMbZMV80ZazM49IeIXQ9i8S5EA9WThWilHOjtJ0HWszYvjUcX73dAxkSZw8vjM0iKcHsqzDTqIqIMtW7M3r0yjCm06sj2IgnNyuAc/s320/100_2625+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351773123832579010" border="0" /></a>“Been spraying,” he said to nobody in particular.<br />“Wheat?” I asked.<br />“Yes.”<br />“I saw a lot of it as I rode the bicycle from the west,” I ventured.<br />“Don’t ride tomorrow,” he said pouring a cup of coffee from the pot on the bar.<br />Taken aback, I didn’t how to respond. Of course I asked why.<br />“We get the shortwave from ‘Environment Weather’ on our tractors.”<br />“I saw the TV report—nothing unusual there,” I said.<br />“Don’t believe the TV.”<br />I waited, worried, hoping he’d explain.<br />“Wind from the southeast at 40 tomorrow, gusting to 60,” he said in a casual, but understanding voice.<br />“That’s the worst possible condition for riding,” I said.<br />“Thought you’d like to know.”<br /><br />I checked the TV again and discovered that the forecast had changed, and what the farmer had told me was no joke. The smart choice was clear. I had budgeted a few extra days. I should not ride tomorrow, but wait in Nokomis, hoping for change.<br /><br />But I was lonely, and did not want another day of loneliness. The next known bed was 130km away. After some soul-searching, I called the Ituna Hotel and made a reservation. They didn’t even take a credit card number; most of these old hotels don’t.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGMzAzXunjppxAo0oP9cdyVfa6wYYOXaznkawD5nSfmLiP9QizpJt9gFcHnPu0rF-Lecfw4tOLIlUx6T6nuvMCx_PtZM4KgxjkegQLfFpj6TvqTrjtSm45nDsYS3TB0IIa9GxUY9OMPQg/s1600-h/100_2648+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 220px; height: 165px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGMzAzXunjppxAo0oP9cdyVfa6wYYOXaznkawD5nSfmLiP9QizpJt9gFcHnPu0rF-Lecfw4tOLIlUx6T6nuvMCx_PtZM4KgxjkegQLfFpj6TvqTrjtSm45nDsYS3TB0IIa9GxUY9OMPQg/s320/100_2648+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351769956006510210" border="0" /></a>I hoped to beat some of the wind by starting early, and to defeat the rest of it by shear determination. At 3:30am the alarm sounded, and by four, I was on the road in first light. Wind was calm, and I made good time to Raymore, where with 87km to go, it seemed the forecast might be wrong. They are often wrong. In the calm morning, birds called and rose from the lakes and marshes when I came too close. A few deer crossed the road, a fox, but no cars.<br />A barricade presented itself across Highway 15, telling me that construction demands I go on another road and gave me an arrow. The detour went to off somewhere to a vanishing point in the wrong direction. I decided to ignore it and rode around the barricade. It turned out that some construction was ongoing, but today, nobody was working, and I rode through unhampered.<br /><br />Then Highway 15 turned to gravel, and my speed reduced for its marble-like rocks. But after a few kilometers, all there was to hinder my riding was wind.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIEo_tIovN_S3gyQtOYLdxhG15V33agDM8xfWQsYmAinGoLj-azMibw5668zKnHO5k5abq6dr1znJrztwbEBSL8eo19TWHZWf9cXFgNFR6a_6PirMRhQNizlJE9SCLUBWrwRpc2jSm7Yo/s1600-h/100_2634+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 235px; height: 177px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIEo_tIovN_S3gyQtOYLdxhG15V33agDM8xfWQsYmAinGoLj-azMibw5668zKnHO5k5abq6dr1znJrztwbEBSL8eo19TWHZWf9cXFgNFR6a_6PirMRhQNizlJE9SCLUBWrwRpc2jSm7Yo/s320/100_2634+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351769638283550802" border="0" /></a>When the wind began today, it was gentle from the southeast. I pedaled into it with easy downshifting. When the wind strengthened, it pushed on my face like a hand saying, You can do it but it’s going to be hard. When the wind blew strong from the southeast, and after it had blown hard for an hour, I came upon the Muskowekwan Restaurant with the realization that I could not make the remaining 40km to Ituna. I asked about rooms and learned that in Leross, just ten kilometers further, there is a bar and also a motel.<br /><br />Oh, another thing, I had been harassed by huge flies whenever I had stopped. They look like houseflies, but are much bigger. And they sting. At least in the restaurant I was free from them and enjoyed a meal before pushing on.<br /><br />I came to Leross and turned into its dirt street, looking for the motel. I heard a voice behind me say, “You thirsty?” I turned back to a man holding a door open to the bar.<br /><br />“I’m looking for the motel,” I said.<br />“This is it.” I looked and saw only a sign for the Bar T Saloon.<br />“Just roll your bike in here and I’ll fix you up.” The man was sloppily dressed, long beard, red hardhat, and spoke with a slur.<br /><br />I was too tired to go much further. I had ridden 99km, most of it into the wind. Camping would mean putting up those terrible flies, probably mosquitoes too. I figured I could at least go inside the bar and then decide. As I passed close to the man, a strong alcohol smell increased my suspicion. It turned out that he runs the bar and five or six rooms attached. I could rent one very cheaply and probably be the only tenant tonight. I decided to risk it and to blockade the door of my room with a chair. I paid him and went to bed without dinner.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisPzY51Uq6qGvTYlIeeGv0QAfpwP4J4-m5fXqYVdq7L2Qa2aAHSdjpneM3wAunXB-YqbrRxLuodofvrPumMohOSUxEULII9z_bxJqZpEaSt8h4HiCMzc9q1nqMnUxifUvnVmxNvUSR7PM/s1600-h/100_2644+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 162px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisPzY51Uq6qGvTYlIeeGv0QAfpwP4J4-m5fXqYVdq7L2Qa2aAHSdjpneM3wAunXB-YqbrRxLuodofvrPumMohOSUxEULII9z_bxJqZpEaSt8h4HiCMzc9q1nqMnUxifUvnVmxNvUSR7PM/s320/100_2644+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351769343494165618" border="0" /></a>I left the Bar T Saloon at four in the morning without a weather forecast, with only a look at the sky and a feel for the wind. I had another hundred kilometers to make Yorkton, a large town that would have regular motels. If only the wind would stay favorable.<br /><br />The wind did not stop me today. It blew from west or north, having none of that terrible southeast direction. And so in Yorkton, in a good motel, I give you this report.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-45324221376849820862009-06-23T14:13:00.000-07:002009-06-23T14:19:26.710-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPCQa8ewYwpTnjAdjDlXXUn01I2U5GTEFIhUFynbdNGMMa3P3ETry-XhYnzzp5CH9392CYO9Aq6zQQEYWAZAPx_78Yl1GGPd6MkRajTIHqRKsK1UOyXZS-33I45WPDLKou1R08O41e414/s1600-h/100_2576+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 259px; height: 194px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPCQa8ewYwpTnjAdjDlXXUn01I2U5GTEFIhUFynbdNGMMa3P3ETry-XhYnzzp5CH9392CYO9Aq6zQQEYWAZAPx_78Yl1GGPd6MkRajTIHqRKsK1UOyXZS-33I45WPDLKou1R08O41e414/s320/100_2576+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350635579347082242" border="0" /></a><br />Little Manitou Lake, looks just like the many other lakes I’ve seen dotting the plain since Saskatoon. But its murky waters are three times saltier than the ocean and denser than the Dead Sea. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_AGWotqcniz5RPl5fXK1aRFACqfyG96rhyphenhyphenB0WiiMBy3wZ3P1t-SLTtaEk7cjnKwUwc-8T-bojsggu2QgLV5Pvuk5F7Xsq-B8SY6wJH-RQnDoimqJ6AVY7xDraC0ET2ZQweIqxDd_sf6c/s1600-h/100_2584+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 247px; height: 185px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_AGWotqcniz5RPl5fXK1aRFACqfyG96rhyphenhyphenB0WiiMBy3wZ3P1t-SLTtaEk7cjnKwUwc-8T-bojsggu2QgLV5Pvuk5F7Xsq-B8SY6wJH-RQnDoimqJ6AVY7xDraC0ET2ZQweIqxDd_sf6c/s320/100_2584+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350635157044433986" border="0" /></a>The lake has long been known for its healing properties. Even by the Indians called it “lake of the healing waters.” Even I can float without paddling in its yellow odiferous water. But I did so not believing in the power of these waters to remove obstacles to health.<br /><br />I headed north from Watrous to the tiny, rather ramshackle resort town of Manitou Beach on the lake’s south shore to relax and bathe in the heated indoor pool supplied with lake water. It was a treat to myself for having come this far and having decided that Winnipeg will be my final destination. Neither of these acts deserve a reward, but a half-day of luxury was irresistible.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVi3bTMgAcBJ67DpumVl5Hl8a42zeg9qp1mO7litzpmuQDnIIR4hUjP0gAFrRDAqRHmezABchiQMiNopIX-iaW-IPxp5CpzfvBfsGJ_wQBxNQ5dlLpTqVMhhLkRlfnyfFOoIPq13AfZGY/s1600-h/100_2581+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 236px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVi3bTMgAcBJ67DpumVl5Hl8a42zeg9qp1mO7litzpmuQDnIIR4hUjP0gAFrRDAqRHmezABchiQMiNopIX-iaW-IPxp5CpzfvBfsGJ_wQBxNQ5dlLpTqVMhhLkRlfnyfFOoIPq13AfZGY/s320/100_2581+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350634928781659218" border="0" /></a>It seems an icefield came here from the north and proceeded to melt about twelve thousand years ago. It left pockets and piles on the otherwise level land, like an ancient sand-and-gravel operation. The pockets became lakes, and most of them have mingled their waters with the stream water and groundwater, acting like good lakes should. But Matitou Lake did not mingle. It refused both input from streams and groundwater. It hoarded all the water that came to it from the sky. Over the long time since the ice melted, it has selfishly received and has given only as required by evaporation. But it did not give up the minerals that came with the rain. So, minute as their quantities might be, it has added them all together for twelve thousand years to produce a saline brine in which humans like me come to soak. And I did soak in its yellow, smelly water, and feel better for it.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA1JO2Ie8yHebYEyMxCCLLOZlnGU7uke1TBpUkVS5Qtj_yMuOILoNaZiMo9ohXiURRsgZpcWACctnHiWIomnsBOkQefdMnpC2gVdbYpIaJ2MjHrDn29jbeAyx6NM6c_5hQGEhf4vocBUw/s1600-h/100_2583+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 138px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA1JO2Ie8yHebYEyMxCCLLOZlnGU7uke1TBpUkVS5Qtj_yMuOILoNaZiMo9ohXiURRsgZpcWACctnHiWIomnsBOkQefdMnpC2gVdbYpIaJ2MjHrDn29jbeAyx6NM6c_5hQGEhf4vocBUw/s320/100_2583+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350634469380665250" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Can you interpret this sign at the yellow-water pool?Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-1517714081448776382009-06-22T19:52:00.000-07:002009-07-24T09:43:23.829-07:00Remover of Obstacles<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-hdnmvdPLmgM56IELHGBdDgrGQyY_jGRJBIGelqGqIBR88HEY7Ksz5kA-2-43njmH081_GQKGqF1-sS3bKKnbK0ITz27fXUHNHZf7lYsuWK-XaIUoFUe9oyguZQdukyr98Q8hmTcyGv0/s1600-h/100_2561+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-hdnmvdPLmgM56IELHGBdDgrGQyY_jGRJBIGelqGqIBR88HEY7Ksz5kA-2-43njmH081_GQKGqF1-sS3bKKnbK0ITz27fXUHNHZf7lYsuWK-XaIUoFUe9oyguZQdukyr98Q8hmTcyGv0/s320/100_2561+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350352329395742546" border="0" /></a><br />I took a day off in Saskatoon, and it rained almost the whole day. Those farmers back in Delsie, the ones complaining about the draught, wondering about the biker woman who held up a pea plant in their midst and kept asking city-folk questions—I wonder if they’re in the same café asking what sort of goddess came among them and how she left on that loaded bicycle just before the needed rains fell. Is she, like Ganesha, a remover of obstacles to their harvest?<br /><br />Meanwhile, as I rode away from Saskatoon this morning, the clouds still hung heavy over the prairie. I stopped in another café, this time in Clavet, where another cadre of old-temers surveyed the results of yesterday’s storm—35mm in Saskatoon, enough to set the peas in high gear. And it rained widespread in Saskatchewan, enough to get all the crops excited.<br /><br />I rode on the wide paved shoulder of the Yellowhead Highway, a fine biking lane that could lead me safely all the way to Winnipeg. But traffic was heavy, and I wanted to get away from transportation and into the farming country. I wanted to become, for a few days, a part of the Prairie Casino, where bets are placed on huge tracts of land, bets that rain will water the crops, that hail will not trample them<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgXfgxTn3_3c1TcMDKElQCzKtzaBlhjw_-CZSl2j6CcTUrqmozwn-IWcKh9XJnFwIXp5YalodLsvpUJCZIgoAS8RsOeKl6dRBBDDfN5psy8iudV3BdhTqbZrPz6hDG2-HjDEDvO7YeYC4/s1600-h/100_2564+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 283px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgXfgxTn3_3c1TcMDKElQCzKtzaBlhjw_-CZSl2j6CcTUrqmozwn-IWcKh9XJnFwIXp5YalodLsvpUJCZIgoAS8RsOeKl6dRBBDDfN5psy8iudV3BdhTqbZrPz6hDG2-HjDEDvO7YeYC4/s320/100_2564+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350352039315333986" border="0" /></a>, and that the price will hold.<br /><br />So after Calvet, I turned south onto a narrow paved road headed for Bradwell and enjoyed its quietude. I would follow such roads all the way to Yorktown, I thought, sleeping several nights in small villages along the way. But after Bradwell the pavement stopped and I swerved in loose gravel. A grader came along smoothing the road, (you can see its windrow of newly moved gravel in the photo) taking advantage of the recent rain, which had softened the surface. But the rain had also left muddy places, which I had to maneuver around. It seemed an obstacle removed from the farmers’ path to a good harvest had became an obstacle to my progress.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix_3FkWH6o8hIKOSgSKEy_ZkZzWhH05T68RutRYJLFUIuH8sbT6HLrZypFfPMcuPatNhV9j9dIYhnETZ0zMZC6QUciVHcm3ESTeHU0sQPCKc5fFf_Ar6wHosLf9Pj3uBLnMrTT28EDUnQ/s1600-h/100_2570+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 284px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix_3FkWH6o8hIKOSgSKEy_ZkZzWhH05T68RutRYJLFUIuH8sbT6HLrZypFfPMcuPatNhV9j9dIYhnETZ0zMZC6QUciVHcm3ESTeHU0sQPCKc5fFf_Ar6wHosLf9Pj3uBLnMrTT28EDUnQ/s320/100_2570+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350351671448024786" border="0" /></a>I came to the village of Allen, where a more major road joins, and where I was certain the pavement would return. But gravel continued another 24km to Young. Something about a long straight gravel road, narrowing to a vanishing point far away on the prairie, often sinks my spirit, as if saying there is no end unless you make one. But after two hours it did end, and I joined a good paved road leading to Watrous, where I write this. It is pouring rain outside, and the No-Vacancy sign has turned on at the motel.<br /><br />I am leaning toward flying home from Winnipeg around July 9 and deferring the second half of Canada to another year. I am five days behind schedule, and it seems I will not get there by winter. But that is mostly an excuse. Really, I am getting tired and feel homesick. I am part loner and part lover, and maybe the lover is winning out.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-36954183051561938222009-06-20T18:59:00.000-07:002009-07-24T09:46:06.562-07:00Unfulfilled Fear<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP064v69Qa_Uy8sR2Um1OSSzl1Yf1p4xV4DFdZOGfwFwjbusnuhbfvHClGsr9RPlU2O9Cnm2YxjE2OA2VUsQeT65jwkjt4Y6LKd99PWCjADFUuzvfMzBkO3UOLtRMGwJsAU90DLc5s3Xc/s1600-h/100_2518+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 264px; height: 284px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP064v69Qa_Uy8sR2Um1OSSzl1Yf1p4xV4DFdZOGfwFwjbusnuhbfvHClGsr9RPlU2O9Cnm2YxjE2OA2VUsQeT65jwkjt4Y6LKd99PWCjADFUuzvfMzBkO3UOLtRMGwJsAU90DLc5s3Xc/s320/100_2518+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349596566670143154" border="0" /></a><br />I feared the day’s ride from Rosetown to Saskatoon because my heading would be northeast. O<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs4E-H6L9F0RFs6l-91FeevzL524aRS2ly2XxpJGOZ8s_5MSmeJktgAC15hATr2NykaTuKvkNuV9jhuyHxyeOMdhEhVxyFcpuHmFnPhGD_5bnn9xSkIM_LavYlnfYea-TjxXyEK9u28lQ/s1600-h/100_2517+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 268px; height: 202px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs4E-H6L9F0RFs6l-91FeevzL524aRS2ly2XxpJGOZ8s_5MSmeJktgAC15hATr2NykaTuKvkNuV9jhuyHxyeOMdhEhVxyFcpuHmFnPhGD_5bnn9xSkIM_LavYlnfYea-TjxXyEK9u28lQ/s320/100_2517+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349596719957499266" border="0" /></a>n previous days, wind would begin the morning pressing lightly on my back from the west and then swing around to the north by noon. Today that would be headwind, so I rose earlier than early and started riding soon after first light. But it was a stormy morning, not raining where I was riding, but I could see rain falling from several small storms all around me. As the morning progressed, the wind stopped its fickle storm-related spats and settled in to constant direction, hard and steady. The astounding aspect of this is that it came from the southwest. I was traveling northeast with wind directly on my back at about 20km/hr, a direction I have never felt on the prairie until today, and it was coming whe<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv1FQ34lh0vRt4-vByRm40WPqHuMlF-TWkf-6WXsVShvt-5IrfjHz66orxyjo7us06LBt14oy_nRdm6zfzYsnrduH_XJs-WCmgy2A6ImgadTi1zhIohXqdUupQyenJJyjcogka9TuaQQo/s1600-h/100_2523+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 255px; height: 191px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv1FQ34lh0vRt4-vByRm40WPqHuMlF-TWkf-6WXsVShvt-5IrfjHz66orxyjo7us06LBt14oy_nRdm6zfzYsnrduH_XJs-WCmgy2A6ImgadTi1zhIohXqdUupQyenJJyjcogka9TuaQQo/s320/100_2523+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349596324307889250" border="0" /></a>n I wanted it most. I feel blessed beyond all deserving. Someone wrote a comment on facebook, I think it was, quoting the old Irish expression, “May the wind be always on your back.” But why me?<br /><br />Storms rained all around me, but they never came directly overhead; they rained on all the land it seemed except my little moving patch of ground. They seemed playful as children, darting around me as if to say, “Come run with us.” And ru<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMsWTBTekfzCLfMnHTnAEyXN-NShpaVR6egToGNAk1kp5ZzFVCO9yBJDVVM2Uagq_nTdAunzARn0VNPt1MYcdI7YNZnWcP0TabmlWgw2ifUITC6b_5oK6DFED6uudbVN-Abcc8xcjgXz4/s1600-h/100_2529+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 245px; height: 184px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMsWTBTekfzCLfMnHTnAEyXN-NShpaVR6egToGNAk1kp5ZzFVCO9yBJDVVM2Uagq_nTdAunzARn0VNPt1MYcdI7YNZnWcP0TabmlWgw2ifUITC6b_5oK6DFED6uudbVN-Abcc8xcjgXz4/s320/100_2529+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349595972220733170" border="0" /></a>n I did, at some 30 km/hr, fairly sailing across the land like a schooner, a prairie schooner.<br /><br />I stopped at the first eating place I found, in Delsie, and sat at a table near the old-time men. It was easy to see who they were by the overalls, caps that say “Co-Op,” leather shoes where boots used to be before they retired. Their kind are more talkative in Kansas than Saskatchewan, so I held up a plant I had picked from a field, and looked at it with puzzlement.<br /><br />“Peas,” said one of the men at long last.<br />“They’re planted as far as I can see, for miles” I said.<br />“Snow brought ‘em up. We ain’t had no rain.”<br />“Snow?”<br />“We had fourteen inches of snow. Planted in April. Them<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0qbXVr7TUMJ7D6OeVA7KcvIdFBt-15PY7DVUSNVg9Yng7tWuGsjXtc913yCxgFJLWEi-S2e52dC4eBTRv3cttlJBuK0mOFxsoVvTue1u3jgfBx2wugkCOW_H-u5EBgd8OOuFaTCrecFQ/s1600-h/100_2536+changed2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 248px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0qbXVr7TUMJ7D6OeVA7KcvIdFBt-15PY7DVUSNVg9Yng7tWuGsjXtc913yCxgFJLWEi-S2e52dC4eBTRv3cttlJBuK0mOFxsoVvTue1u3jgfBx2wugkCOW_H-u5EBgd8OOuFaTCrecFQ/s320/100_2536+changed2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349595426397867826" border="0" /></a> peas are living on snow.”<br />“We got a bit a rain today,” I said trying to sound like a farmer.<br />“Not more than a trickle.”<br />“Are the peas for cattle feed?”<br />“Sometimes. Some for human consumption.”<br /><br />I hoped to get them going on stories, maybe impressions. I wanted to feel for a few moments how life works on this harsh farming plain. I don’t know how people stand it here in the winter.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF8QpalHrKB9J5JGfb1-4tsJfqE-c7qOgbPgn5U_yNiBYKikY932SPiKrUxobjX6qVDU3c4tke9ehBCtgEViHH03twXgk0STSFEVBAukN2AnZ3Tk7UpVSwvegw1VZm6oBj2iaAhOKjD_s/s1600-h/100_2536+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 161px; height: 163px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF8QpalHrKB9J5JGfb1-4tsJfqE-c7qOgbPgn5U_yNiBYKikY932SPiKrUxobjX6qVDU3c4tke9ehBCtgEViHH03twXgk0STSFEVBAukN2AnZ3Tk7UpVSwvegw1VZm6oBj2iaAhOKjD_s/s320/100_2536+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349595019775751330" border="0" /></a> This is hard country, cold and windy. But they know it’s hard and get ready for it. If someone complains, I suppose he just makes it harder for the others. These people have stamina, they know how to keep going.<br /><br />Back in the western part of the prairie, in the wheat-growing land, this has been an extremely dry summer. The spring wheat is barely out of the ground, and unless rain comes soon, harvest will be scant. But in southern Manitoba where I’m heading, it has been a wet year, they say.<br /><br />I rode into Saskatoon and went directly to the bike shop. I had called ahead, and they had a new shifter to replace the one I jerry-rigged back in Drumheller.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-58764624227287577752009-06-17T17:50:00.000-07:002009-06-17T18:12:20.702-07:00This Amazing Prairie<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkPOIeIp6uNSLtMfRZ4EKaoRSWsGhSRxs5XObK8_wGsD9aKntdwRfYz8cI107ZdFDYSehMgRGQU0iUu_sUsMoOjZa04QNmgqIj6tRcHyl4soc6KS90365cOLnXhiF3r3EgkeFMJP1t3b4/s1600-h/100_2511+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 122px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkPOIeIp6uNSLtMfRZ4EKaoRSWsGhSRxs5XObK8_wGsD9aKntdwRfYz8cI107ZdFDYSehMgRGQU0iUu_sUsMoOjZa04QNmgqIj6tRcHyl4soc6KS90365cOLnXhiF3r3EgkeFMJP1t3b4/s320/100_2511+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348464010605630770" border="0" /></a>Each day on the prairie I awake to the alarm at 4:30, and hit the road about 5:15, just as the sun rises. I head east, and <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoUkkV1lwDEeYshlJCEFYZztzpmcyOEcs2K37TIk9mwDXkYfDAKOJzuq4ldeJs0elj3IG3R7dAKbDCelfU3VwSAlg9QYHWLRmhsUekWpn4RFpUL1Ylux6w3neTmB77maaLq9dBUVX9r2c/s1600-h/100_2503+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 195px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoUkkV1lwDEeYshlJCEFYZztzpmcyOEcs2K37TIk9mwDXkYfDAKOJzuq4ldeJs0elj3IG3R7dAKbDCelfU3VwSAlg9QYHWLRmhsUekWpn4RFpUL1Ylux6w3neTmB77maaLq9dBUVX9r2c/s320/100_2503+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348465576056553826" border="0" /></a>the sun rises to my left, a few degrees north of my due east heading. I tilt my helmet to the left and down, its visor shading my eyes. If the sun were to rise directly in the east, this relief could not be accomplished and I’d have to start later.<br /><br />I ride in comfortable morning air, around sixty Fahrenheit degrees, usually without wind. The <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIPmVmySb59hU88gc_apbadr5yxB_QEAvaUD9FUO9ZXUTReQhq7keCRbeelvXvStHKPY5lBalcN6KMl-B0HHUM0RdoPEA8NIyEwr77HXNW86un8x-2RvCGgzQnHnmPu9Kb8lxMxpoQ3jY/s1600-h/100_2495+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 183px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIPmVmySb59hU88gc_apbadr5yxB_QEAvaUD9FUO9ZXUTReQhq7keCRbeelvXvStHKPY5lBalcN6KMl-B0HHUM0RdoPEA8NIyEwr77HXNW86un8x-2RvCGgzQnHnmPu9Kb8lxMxpoQ3jY/s320/100_2495+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348465371415414914" border="0" /></a>wheatfields are barely out of the ground in this short growing season of the north. The wheat plants look like grass. At about eight o’clock, wind speed picks up to about 10kmh/hr, usually from the west. Of course my spirit lifts with a west wind, and I face the day with hope that it will hold its direction as speed picks up to about 20km/hr by noon.<br /><br />I pedal throughout the day without finding stores or restaurants, or not expecting to find any, so if one pops up, it’s a real treat. I am thankful to Canada’s government that the shoulder along this road has been wide and safe since joining Highway 9 north of Drumheller. These days have been mostly pleasant riding.<br /><br />Around noon, little puffs of white sprinkle across the sky like popcorn. Sometimes in the afternoon, one of them darkens and swells, rumbles a bit, blows strong wind down onto the ground, and rains. I often sit happily in a motel room watching the evening show around seven or eight, happy in having gotten up at 4:30 and settled into the motel early. By the next morning, the sky has cleared and I rise early for another day.<br /><br />But today there was an exception to the way things usually turn out on the prairie. I awoke and started riding east in an early tailwind, keeping an eye on a storm to my left. It appeared to be about 10km, raining hard, and moving northeasterly. Then suddenly the wind around me increased and changed direction, coming straight from the north, a cold gush blowing out of that big cloud. I thought the wind would diminish as the cloud moved away, but it did not. The storm worsened, though still many kilometers to my left, and the north wind continued, steady and strong. That would have been alright, except that the road turned and headed northeast for a distance of thirty kilometers. Now, if trigonometry serves, and I am heading at forty-five degrees into the wind, then I receive 71% of the wind velocity into my face. Today, I learned that trigonometry rules. I pushed hard into the wind.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9pEu_HNomKKa598lO4ELspg5LOJTngfTqys7QG0FjpL3s28PE6MlweNk9ZqOOvuS_lA4Ny5vtHvZeX1kSMr89v9Odzq1WklBkOBZPRXDDowWF0rdTr9YenbyzmoHC-EU97e5VPpMJc4E/s1600-h/100_2506+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 192px; height: 143px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9pEu_HNomKKa598lO4ELspg5LOJTngfTqys7QG0FjpL3s28PE6MlweNk9ZqOOvuS_lA4Ny5vtHvZeX1kSMr89v9Odzq1WklBkOBZPRXDDowWF0rdTr9YenbyzmoHC-EU97e5VPpMJc4E/s320/100_2506+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348465013549160402" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQKKgzIg2BVdWa9ngQbYL6gxqNU9ZTnSdHXUr6I5CIZXjJ6l1LkCZigmPEjck7BAtT051udiBqdV60crJBVtkx16Hn7f-_laS-S0dJjZ6EutcGVoG2jagQ80kci-zxXu60gKRXezZXgPQ/s1600-h/100_2508+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 258px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQKKgzIg2BVdWa9ngQbYL6gxqNU9ZTnSdHXUr6I5CIZXjJ6l1LkCZigmPEjck7BAtT051udiBqdV60crJBVtkx16Hn7f-_laS-S0dJjZ6EutcGVoG2jagQ80kci-zxXu60gKRXezZXgPQ/s320/100_2508+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348464759853488178" border="0" /></a>After an hour, I came to the Saskatchewan boundary. And before me stood a restaurant. Of course I stopped, as much to hope the delay would bring better wind as to satisfy hunger. But after an hour the wind persisted from the north and I drove ahead into 71% of its speed.<br /><br />The last forty miles to Kindersley were due east again and the wind finally turned back to west. I cruised at the astounding average speed of 25km/hr.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw4dc5PxcC8aGq2zEdKHCoDEk54lGhWnXqwQgDsdTn5B1NuAykdOnkIKk2odAwP5NdDK3M0PvVQdxY-PFSM71JQgAkFFOebAa1McBVjvLwRYe71u80dfhGu4JbsB9t2ZxkfgKSASeVrd4/s1600-h/100_2502+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 246px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw4dc5PxcC8aGq2zEdKHCoDEk54lGhWnXqwQgDsdTn5B1NuAykdOnkIKk2odAwP5NdDK3M0PvVQdxY-PFSM71JQgAkFFOebAa1McBVjvLwRYe71u80dfhGu4JbsB9t2ZxkfgKSASeVrd4/s320/100_2502+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348464477579972050" border="0" /></a>But it was not over yet. Approaching Kindersley, there stood over the town a black monster. I could see its anvil head and its veil of rain, clearly drenching everything under it. I waited before going under it, hoping it would leave. And the wait worked.<br /><br />This amazing prairie of cantankerous winds and storms and pleasant winds.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-22214825264743394712009-06-15T17:38:00.001-07:002009-06-15T18:22:08.456-07:00Creatures Beneath Me<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAqDWol3LjhoIaoNTeFgL9k2M_i9Kf7E8mOMTqlbdl1qUpK_JJz7HScr14sVu8oKR4bukCyt9W4YbJdQnBGRuryoqB2RcOWuenWw6JNFakMqUDkJ2l_VcHCJG-EHJ2hmqx7XtMLDhUZZg/s1600-h/100_2487+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAqDWol3LjhoIaoNTeFgL9k2M_i9Kf7E8mOMTqlbdl1qUpK_JJz7HScr14sVu8oKR4bukCyt9W4YbJdQnBGRuryoqB2RcOWuenWw6JNFakMqUDkJ2l_VcHCJG-EHJ2hmqx7XtMLDhUZZg/s320/100_2487+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347718872543429138" border="0" /></a><br />It was a hard climb out of Drumheller. Halfway up, I saw above me the green edge of prairie rolling into the abyss, falling toward me like flowing water (see picture). Even the name, Drumheller, bespeaks hot rhythms—drumming ancient cycles of birth and extinction. I was rising from a gash in the smooth prairie, an excavation revealing its dead, corpses in a cemetery. Like near-death trauma, I returned onto the grassy surface pondering what I had seen, that beneath these immense fields of winter wheat lie myriad gone creatures, who, like me and these scattered farmers, also hoped for another day’s food. I wonder what creatures will occupy the layers of rock that may one day rest above us.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF1p6S8W-azzZaX1QaFfm6-eCn539L4UF-x89iPBXogFkWUx0QLK8xE8RKhhgBTSIcOy77BQZIxp4w2eMr-MnMERnSEcmKaDF2njuL_GdEgiy1GOu0IhaVvzcid0Udc30Et2bjqxs-QsU/s1600-h/100_2492+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF1p6S8W-azzZaX1QaFfm6-eCn539L4UF-x89iPBXogFkWUx0QLK8xE8RKhhgBTSIcOy77BQZIxp4w2eMr-MnMERnSEcmKaDF2njuL_GdEgiy1GOu0IhaVvzcid0Udc30Et2bjqxs-QsU/s320/100_2492+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347718529792903234" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />The old prairie with its little houses and horse-plowed fields is fading into a layer of geology like dinosaurs.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I kept thinking about the shifter as kilometers passed under my tires today. (If you are starting your reading here, you need to go down the page, back in time, to understand this.) I try to be a character with some form of success, proud, ingenious, and setting my heels against society’s pull. I like to think that I attack problems in sensible ways, avoiding emotional pitfalls and nonsensical deductions. But when the trip seemed doomed by that array of parts, laid out before me in a motel room, that would not go together, I had to admit that I was trying ideas that made no sense. And I was trying anything in near panic. In the end, it was only when I backed away from the problem and sat down to a good meal that the solution appeared. Today, the shifter worked as smoothly as I could expect with one of its parts broken and removed, not quite like Terry Fox, the famous Canadian a runner who continued running after losing a leg to cancer, but that idea. And I think it can make it to Saskatoon where a bike shop should provide me with a new part.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-59082606613249793682009-06-14T15:19:00.000-07:002009-06-14T15:22:40.128-07:00The Wildlife has Changed<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP1y8dEUZJLg5obWNwekPOeEFwFFGuVtCJjOB-y0ipRic4EyQNaFDV2GNrn6UR5D1ZeSEXkAaCdDLbTDb29fQBbi1XB4tb1mB6UGb21VhxGEacuNllwyZPcoSQVhCCSXo5pr5UAf7WtTc/s1600-h/100_2485+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP1y8dEUZJLg5obWNwekPOeEFwFFGuVtCJjOB-y0ipRic4EyQNaFDV2GNrn6UR5D1ZeSEXkAaCdDLbTDb29fQBbi1XB4tb1mB6UGb21VhxGEacuNllwyZPcoSQVhCCSXo5pr5UAf7WtTc/s320/100_2485+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347311982924885378" border="0" /></a><br />When it comes to maintaining a bicycle, I do the basic chain oiling and adjusting of gears and brakes. If it gets a flat tire, I can fix it, or a broken spoke or snapped cable. I have the tools and knowledge to fix likely problems. But when my rear gear shifter stopped going into all the gears and when its indicator dial stopped working yesterday, I was perplexed. I oiled it and adjusted it some, but the problem persisted. I got to Drumheller and decided to get a night’s sleep take it apart this morning. Inside, I found a plastic gear with two broken teeth. The gear served only to operate the indicator dial, and I breathed easy, thinking I could just remove the gear, get the broken teeth out of the works, and do with the dial. I can look at the sprockets to know which gear I am in. When I find a bike shop I can buy a new shifter.<br /><br />But putting it back together was not easy. I always try to remember where parts go, but when I had removed the casing, parts had flown away under the tension of a released spring. Now I had to learn where they go. I worked three hours, trying various seemingly logical configurations, but all failed. I decided that some part had flown away or that the broken gear was needed for some vital function besides the indicator dial. I became discouraged and angry, had given up. The nearest bike shop was five days ride, and I could not ride without this shifter.<br /><br />I decided to go to breakfast, realizing that I might have a trip-stopping problem. I might have to get a ride into Calgary and find a bike shop, or try to have a new shifter sent to Drumheller. I sat long and ate much at the buffet, returned four times for more food. Buffet providers generally lose money on touring cyclists. I thought about the problem and tried to find something I’d overlooked. And something dawned on me like an epiphany, a way of rotating one of the parts that just might work.<br />I went back to the motel and tried the idea. Within a half hour the shifter worked.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDz0tFWerISVXRUH1wyeyneSoGohohf411a6LU3Y1H6b2AXu2xKpgE_RUXcZNs9oqhaRxzTtqITpfTYzqrV7dc2Jw-FxR7TwwfCPUjtN5e2q_AM6TtRbE8VzGWB-Dq74OWZBPF9dKUAQU/s1600-h/100_2482+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 189px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDz0tFWerISVXRUH1wyeyneSoGohohf411a6LU3Y1H6b2AXu2xKpgE_RUXcZNs9oqhaRxzTtqITpfTYzqrV7dc2Jw-FxR7TwwfCPUjtN5e2q_AM6TtRbE8VzGWB-Dq74OWZBPF9dKUAQU/s320/100_2482+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347311804438182914" border="0" /></a>Yesterday I was cruising the prairie near the end of the day, endless it seemed, wheatfields as far as I could see, concerned about my shifter. Then suddenly I came to the edge of the earth and fell off. I dropped into a hole in the earth called Durmheller. It is like Nevada all at once.<br />I suppose that tomorrow as I go to Hanna, the prairie will return, but this place is dedicated to dinosaurs. These layered rocks are filled with their bones, great animals of eons past when this place had a climate like Florida. At the Royal Tyrrell Museum, I saw them reconstructed and glaring down at me. My own bones are a bit stiff today, turning to stone I suppose where some alien might find them in another eon.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-60703523087456616952009-06-13T16:59:00.000-07:002009-06-13T17:05:01.075-07:00Immense Prairie<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyvRWvtAyD4W0z0U5-uu-UV6fpC7HKY9vMY8L8WdeK8bHQ7AglBOhaloLtnyxtzLnRWR71C9-dEn2kvPXLIdf5uERF2dDVNCio9FOaGzZiM9H_qL9JEY9ge_g4CExqSk2ZyEe-ji4ElYY/s1600-h/100_2470+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 131px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyvRWvtAyD4W0z0U5-uu-UV6fpC7HKY9vMY8L8WdeK8bHQ7AglBOhaloLtnyxtzLnRWR71C9-dEn2kvPXLIdf5uERF2dDVNCio9FOaGzZiM9H_qL9JEY9ge_g4CExqSk2ZyEe-ji4ElYY/s320/100_2470+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346967370057033810" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I thought the prairie would come gradually upon me like a mountain, growing clearer for a long time as I enter its presence. But this morning, leaving Airdrie at sunrise, something was different. Yesterday’s grassy pastures with their hills, scattered trees and cattle fences were gone and the land barely undulated from flatness. The occasional creek remained, barely watered, and the odd hill rose like an island in the ocean. But I was not ready for such vastness of wheatfield, horizontal horizons on all sides, broken only by the occasional silo and barn. Barely a tree, hardly a house.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6J6pUGZnqamtbDmO_KB3_7O63fzaIhgUnPZuNmtiFt3C0Mu7tQWJf-Bk2z441jZOcYdYs0dz_APqclHnPVroCyYIYgwDaERMvEDltjFp3Dd92UsSv7RZg5AMYQN998zZd8BJIWpiQUB4/s1600-h/100_2468,+69+merged.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 485px; height: 93px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6J6pUGZnqamtbDmO_KB3_7O63fzaIhgUnPZuNmtiFt3C0Mu7tQWJf-Bk2z441jZOcYdYs0dz_APqclHnPVroCyYIYgwDaERMvEDltjFp3Dd92UsSv7RZg5AMYQN998zZd8BJIWpiQUB4/s320/100_2468,+69+merged.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346967077402712226" border="0" /></a><br />Wind pushed from the south as I traveled east, gentle and steady, an inconsequential wind in this direction. I looked forward to Beiseker, a small town having a café, I was told, and if so it would be the only stopping place on a 110km ride to Drumheller, where I would sleep.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8zpB9o78Yko7lmQaQO0NEQUhyEuN__8T_qPXjTwr7ICbNBZgETam4yl0gpv9vQTv4Q_aCRmsSOCm4zCJcy-bD5smpSLZ7xOXCCIf8pzgsLf7jeBDZjY77L7RcePd4Mk8heQVNgOnUQ9w/s1600-h/100_2463+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 147px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8zpB9o78Yko7lmQaQO0NEQUhyEuN__8T_qPXjTwr7ICbNBZgETam4yl0gpv9vQTv4Q_aCRmsSOCm4zCJcy-bD5smpSLZ7xOXCCIf8pzgsLf7jeBDZjY77L7RcePd4Mk8heQVNgOnUQ9w/s320/100_2463+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346966729036202210" border="0" /></a><br />I saw the sign as I entered Beiseker, “County Fair June 13.” Hey, that’s today; I had not known! Without much trouble I found the fairgrounds and community center thinking, Fair means Food. But it could not have been nicer food. A fine breakfast, all you can eat for three dollars. And of course the locals wondered at the strange visitor to their small gathering for livestock, jellies and quilts.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUuoroLCdtL8mpa1zkNU8Fz3VlOp44MB57s8knOaw5bEmmvrYO9O4-cL2q2ulwYyC5Q4Nplzrbx9X-PHkX35e3xL_izQNWwpNpRtXmG2xLDFrp0DYXDAaJkTo1K6Rn8EI1V_J-V4ghE0U/s1600-h/100_2459+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 173px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUuoroLCdtL8mpa1zkNU8Fz3VlOp44MB57s8knOaw5bEmmvrYO9O4-cL2q2ulwYyC5Q4Nplzrbx9X-PHkX35e3xL_izQNWwpNpRtXmG2xLDFrp0DYXDAaJkTo1K6Rn8EI1V_J-V4ghE0U/s320/100_2459+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346966435731022722" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Three very strange vehicles are shown in the picture, each with a unique history and purpose for being.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I staggered away stuffed with food and good thoughts about Beiseker, heading out into what seemed like space. Towns are like planets bearing life and comfort in the loneness of prairie. The elevation dropped as I rode toward Drumheller, and the temperature rose. This afternoon was the first truly hot part of the trip.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-70175240893324750862009-06-11T14:38:00.000-07:002009-06-11T14:43:21.508-07:00Friendly LowlandI left Canmore with its to<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio5Sul-m1Aay8LlqMSPbJf_cwIahG7NnOrQXgvXheqTOIdP2jxyta57wchuQ0nYpd4QObECz5Ae8z2LqkQYIaXz_Pud7TIbwKUgALj8ehUg1AhZoxSJKnBQVubJlNIPCZghrIuBapEgGU/s1600-h/100_2442+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 147px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio5Sul-m1Aay8LlqMSPbJf_cwIahG7NnOrQXgvXheqTOIdP2jxyta57wchuQ0nYpd4QObECz5Ae8z2LqkQYIaXz_Pud7TIbwKUgALj8ehUg1AhZoxSJKnBQVubJlNIPCZghrIuBapEgGU/s320/100_2442+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346188501025244962" border="0" /></a>wering monoliths seeming ordinary, almost inconsequential compared to the stunning jags that allowed me to see their icy points the last few lovely days in the Canadian Rockies. The steep-walled canyon containing touristy Canmore widened as I pedaled away, coasted and pushed gently by wind, downstream toward the lowland. Rock-bare peaks of the past became forested up to their summits. Then grass intruded below them, pushing dense trees to the tops of hills. Finally, the trees lost dominance everywhere, replaced by rolling grassland. Rocks and glacial morraines of the Rockies became grassy pasture, fenced for livestock. Elk, moose and bighorn sheep stepped aside for domesticated cattle and horses.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH5nRX9Un037kbofTXIn_A59fvDEWWXaMHeXD0jolFStwcLoIogeLY4X-jK-9Q2ya8xpq1C9YzPbORM1tLYozW2wJvBZBynE8ShtoIAgOQwpkadJSiRJJXAHEqO38xp_Q98TN1ui2Nh4M/s1600-h/100_2447+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 228px; height: 171px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH5nRX9Un037kbofTXIn_A59fvDEWWXaMHeXD0jolFStwcLoIogeLY4X-jK-9Q2ya8xpq1C9YzPbORM1tLYozW2wJvBZBynE8ShtoIAgOQwpkadJSiRJJXAHEqO38xp_Q98TN1ui2Nh4M/s320/100_2447+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346188308984490658" border="0" /></a>As I descended, the air warmed. Off came my yellow Gortex outer jacket, my windproof hood, and knitted head bogan. With higher sun and lower elevation, off came the leg-warming tights and finger-thawing glove liners. Finally even the gloves. All these things I had worn every day, all day, since Jasper.<br /><br />I stopped in Exshaw for breakfast. I felt happy to be away from tourism and in an almost-town—gas pumps, store, café—all run by a family, food prepared by the owner—twice the food for half the Canmore price. The school bus came while I ate, and the owners’ boy ran out, ran back to deposit his bicycle helmet, ran out again to the bus.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvekHc81fqZWhbUeX7cvbGKStql4L4Ys5jtqST-oxcMDHEgRJUt8p9H3J3iD8IqbBbyVE8P18f-x55gO0i9dtyxh5SflRavJu3SVWsj92jqFZTCU6Eqf6NWwurx2QVm2-ltMzIYyLNnl8/s1600-h/100_2448+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 245px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvekHc81fqZWhbUeX7cvbGKStql4L4Ys5jtqST-oxcMDHEgRJUt8p9H3J3iD8IqbBbyVE8P18f-x55gO0i9dtyxh5SflRavJu3SVWsj92jqFZTCU6Eqf6NWwurx2QVm2-ltMzIYyLNnl8/s320/100_2448+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346188102749773970" border="0" /></a>A wide meandering river washes rocks and sand out of the mountains; and, alongside it, a warm nomad. Out onto the piedmont it deposits us on friendly lowland. Here in Cochrane, I will sleep upstairs, over the bar in the 1904 Rockview Hotel, where the bathroom is down the hall. I think the prairie, when it comes tomorrow will be nice.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-52872890190056389992009-06-09T15:13:00.000-07:002009-07-24T09:50:16.124-07:00Wilderness Travel Among Tourists<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSPYbE48hcOzy8BXP0OxzYX3jb3_XdXuJPlYkzmpaRx5sMJwUo18XQzXpCRBE7GnMsC8aQHf0r0CrIIO-pTotORzEk8lQypXAOyfoU0JBs86BnVloyCVqsjGwiEfg7EkS3QxEJ37gV6Qk/s1600-h/100_2414+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 241px; height: 197px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSPYbE48hcOzy8BXP0OxzYX3jb3_XdXuJPlYkzmpaRx5sMJwUo18XQzXpCRBE7GnMsC8aQHf0r0CrIIO-pTotORzEk8lQypXAOyfoU0JBs86BnVloyCVqsjGwiEfg7EkS3QxEJ37gV6Qk/s320/100_2414+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345456581768634034" border="0" /></a>It has been four days since my last post. I hope those you who follow this blog were not worried. But after my farewell on June 4, “You may not see me for three days, internet is unlikely. But like a spacecraft on the dark side of the moon, my bicycle should emerge in Canmore on Sunday evening.” Well it did not emerge on Sunday, but on Tuesday. And here is why:<br /><br />I came to Jasper intending to ride the full length<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj94K3_LK3G4v3JlEJzojtWSGnT98M1Yke8hBtRjk2rH7RK7gEazjaxZIiF7HW31rIGlVWEKnW85Il6isKayviL0KKWf1aVMYhB-AbriJKdoZ3tY3SdoUfTNwfSvx5_yCVh2GrZTDdjoaw/s1600-h/100_2256+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 248px; height: 153px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj94K3_LK3G4v3JlEJzojtWSGnT98M1Yke8hBtRjk2rH7RK7gEazjaxZIiF7HW31rIGlVWEKnW85Il6isKayviL0KKWf1aVMYhB-AbriJKdoZ3tY3SdoUfTNwfSvx5_yCVh2GrZTDdjoaw/s320/100_2256+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345458166658817522" border="0" /></a> of the Icefields Parkway to Canmore in three days. I expected to see spectacular mountains and wildlife and also high prices and tourists in Canada’s most popular region. It’s a hard problem for someone who loves nature and the people who live with nature, to come into a once-pristine environment with a hoard of visitors. They care little for the lifestyles and emotions of wild inhabitants, but emerge from their vehicles just long enough for a picture of themselves in nature.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHhnp2-Kxj6gYrifk3msid-Pq7_jJI-Awc_-dheaYmelksbR3ayizjKO56hVhN4Ft6sQhUnhqrnkwkoH4LLqbnL6pWqZgiS6WB_xRc8nsEiSWCAzOZqCbIO8S3hl4rFS2iquvMLd69BqY/s1600-h/100_2289+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 248px; height: 149px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHhnp2-Kxj6gYrifk3msid-Pq7_jJI-Awc_-dheaYmelksbR3ayizjKO56hVhN4Ft6sQhUnhqrnkwkoH4LLqbnL6pWqZgiS6WB_xRc8nsEiSWCAzOZqCbIO8S3hl4rFS2iquvMLd69BqY/s320/100_2289+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345456175393883666" border="0" /></a>So I devised a scheme to enjoy as much of what I wanted and avoid as much of tourist annoyance as I thought possible. I could have camped on the two nights necessary to make the distance; that would a<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNDLDZcXJrixCdxXjLe-v9_YU8UtJN5Sva6qT2ic9E-IUL3FTjLJYJex8BqKyQlyVd9XOyQkInfoTfLAAXhU05TupvatMzOA2EjKNLHi_q2MNuiUCnYovtOoaHA7Wmv4vT9w3y6isDw4I/s1600-h/100_2353+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 209px; height: 121px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNDLDZcXJrixCdxXjLe-v9_YU8UtJN5Sva6qT2ic9E-IUL3FTjLJYJex8BqKyQlyVd9XOyQkInfoTfLAAXhU05TupvatMzOA2EjKNLHi_q2MNuiUCnYovtOoaHA7Wmv4vT9w3y6isDw4I/s320/100_2353+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345458390467869954" border="0" /></a>void high-priced motels and tourists. But a story was floating around Jasper that changed my attitude. The story has nothing to do with camping, but a lot to do with my attitude.<br /><br />A few weeks ago a cyclist was coasting down a hill on the Icefields Parkway, aware of mountains, forest all around him, and aware of the likelihood of wildlife encounters. He saw the bear along the side of the road a good two hundred feet ahead of him and immediately hit the brakes; his skid marks show the place. Since a bicycle is almost silent, the bear did not hear it coming and turned with a start when it heard the squeak of brakes. A <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Qh4UMeoCoelsYy7qjxHk3wuDdKBz1JoOB_XcgwgDj2Xq6KA6gqerq2zTd7rkILn3x311aRQCNsRSNUysnXMvi8iWsYVB9xOVL-568mTpeeRbu8opUM-kdXe1CST1ai5-iJV1SN0e3Go/s1600-h/100_2253+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 215px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Qh4UMeoCoelsYy7qjxHk3wuDdKBz1JoOB_XcgwgDj2Xq6KA6gqerq2zTd7rkILn3x311aRQCNsRSNUysnXMvi8iWsYVB9xOVL-568mTpeeRbu8opUM-kdXe1CST1ai5-iJV1SN0e3Go/s320/100_2253+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345455917523645410" border="0" /></a>strange something was charging the bear and it reacted as one being attacked. It charged the strange thing, and with a swipe of a paw, took the rider off the bicycle. With a few bites, the rider stopped<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Q4354bWKcCNeGnTO1WxnsSNCMVOwIQpdkRL1f0-tIHStlahohV_bvigIYgnBk4mdbgmAWps0YTJ2oIZE26kpqPiMey6_BQpOnPvUN77F1rqMnfft2WQ_zvyIEnectsHlcYFg35AZoog/s1600-h/100_2251+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 239px; height: 123px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Q4354bWKcCNeGnTO1WxnsSNCMVOwIQpdkRL1f0-tIHStlahohV_bvigIYgnBk4mdbgmAWps0YTJ2oIZE26kpqPiMey6_BQpOnPvUN77F1rqMnfft2WQ_zvyIEnectsHlcYFg35AZoog/s320/100_2251+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345457930647426338" border="0" /></a> moving. When authorities arrived, the bear was hovered over the carcass protecting it against theft by intruders. Incidentally, the young man survived to tell his side of the story.<br /><br />I left Jasper early and began almost immediately to learn about the animals. Elk, mountain goats, and bighorn sheep all stopped long enough for my camera. I was also given lessons in French by the Ministry of Highways. Every sign is bilingual. They seem to think I should start preparing for my later passage into Quebec Province, a mere two thousand kilometers away.<br /><br />A few kilometers south of Jasper, I turned off the Parkway onto little-used Road 93A. It goes the same way, but follows the other side of the Athabasca River. The road is rough and narrow. I climbed over a pass open only half the year on this lovely alternative, empty of traffic and seemingly far from tourists.<br /><br />When I joined the Parkway, there were fewer cars and RV’s than I expected, maybe one in five minutes on average. The roa<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRa3TXMXoogIl7-6byzL9XBPABNf2dNqKl02y7beBnAtqevS4rUIb414grJxByLatTXHWs9HiNs7qC18xHTtbrFnvoWCvYJU7zHhL3cuJkk-qEa2xqsyjw_Io0wihV3F9jsCJ-cEZx_u0/s1600-h/100_2364+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 257px; height: 153px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRa3TXMXoogIl7-6byzL9XBPABNf2dNqKl02y7beBnAtqevS4rUIb414grJxByLatTXHWs9HiNs7qC18xHTtbrFnvoWCvYJU7zHhL3cuJkk-qEa2xqsyjw_Io0wihV3F9jsCJ-cEZx_u0/s320/100_2364+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345456419300248450" border="0" /></a>d has a wide shoulder, safe to ride on, save swerving anim<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja44NEhERgbywhyphenhyphenRwwIvIpUJ3MErIiSp8wL1WosOusyQrvF5mVN4WJJ2KSh_mKBTo3fhgmSK6garbOHetTYyTbljevcL4KWQY1_zdNOUfXz4m3Gu7zJ_c7Mhx7HPqb2tXWR4DAQxUZg2E/s1600-h/100_2271+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja44NEhERgbywhyphenhyphenRwwIvIpUJ3MErIiSp8wL1WosOusyQrvF5mVN4WJJ2KSh_mKBTo3fhgmSK6garbOHetTYyTbljevcL4KWQY1_zdNOUfXz4m3Gu7zJ_c7Mhx7HPqb2tXWR4DAQxUZg2E/s320/100_2271+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345459084263298098" border="0" /></a>al-lookers and eyes peering from the forest perhaps.<br /><br />I encountered just one business today, the overpriced and under-quality Sunwapta Lodge. I tell myself, “It’s a tourist area. You’re not here for the food.”<br /><br />A list of animals I saw today includes elk, mountain goat, raven, bighorn sheep, Canadian goose, and German cyclist bound for Alaska. Of course we discussed bears; everyone hereabouts discusses bears. It seemed strange that for all the hype about this route being world-class for cyclists, that I would encounter only one other today.<br /><br />Yes, the mountains are truly spectacular, everyone agrees on it. But being alone, out in the air, feeling as though my physical effort somehow earns me more pleasure than most, swallowing the landscape in great chunks, I felt like an explorer. I had to stop often for pictures.<br /><br />At the end of the day, when the sun was still high in the five-pm sky, I came to Beauty Creek <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZr323bWPmiqv5Dn3X0bZ27nG2geY7dLYPZ-5w4LYN6kU9eP-zvKz6GuqO8yCeeu498CcUl8rXqcun02VKPKzDEkFTtbL8cMpCNoNNawUdqGkC2XQADi_CUk9iQZo4tVty3ltkos3s9dg/s1600-h/100_2314+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZr323bWPmiqv5Dn3X0bZ27nG2geY7dLYPZ-5w4LYN6kU9eP-zvKz6GuqO8yCeeu498CcUl8rXqcun02VKPKzDEkFTtbL8cMpCNoNNawUdqGkC2XQADi_CUk9iQZo4tVty3ltkos3s9dg/s320/100_2314+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345459285618886642" border="0" /></a>Hostel. It has fourteen beds in a small dormitory cabin, and a kitchen with a table in another cabin—no phone, no electricity, no running water, showers or flush toilets; outhouse toilets are available. This hostel meets all the Hostelling International quality standards as a “rustic hostel” and guarantees that you will have a safe warm, comfortable sleep in clean facilities away from the bears. It might have been crowded in that small dorm, but tonight I was the only guest, so it was a quiet mountain cabin. I slept in preparation for the long, steep climb up Sunwapta Pass in early morning.<br /><br />Last night’s light snow was clinging to the post-tops as I ascended the next morning, new sun brightening the peaks long before it reaches into the valley. I climbed from dense forest into scattered trees. Finally, all but a few hardy trees have decided this rocky remain of the ice age is too harsh for them. The landscape becomes bare rock with scooped-out cirques and eroded moraines.<br /><br />Near the top I came to the Icefields Center, where you can ride on the glacier in a big odd-looking bus. Surprisingly, the place was open at eight in the morning, and<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUejGusXGQ193GVqFr2XwUBD083IvFCh6QJYCrxf-dUxqTbl1m_oE_tXpyPqkOdCZLlI9Ld0PQ_d-p5gsdrloKhlJwYAmDmXfIUdHiZsCvOf37j5sR3WxlNhXS_QmgCoWb2JNKVGxjMqI/s1600-h/100_2330+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUejGusXGQ193GVqFr2XwUBD083IvFCh6QJYCrxf-dUxqTbl1m_oE_tXpyPqkOdCZLlI9Ld0PQ_d-p5gsdrloKhlJwYAmDmXfIUdHiZsCvOf37j5sR3WxlNhXS_QmgCoWb2JNKVGxjMqI/s320/100_2330+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345459544740984306" border="0" /></a> I stopped for a good breakfast. But sitting by the window with the glacier not far away, I saw a fearsome sight. The Canadian flag stretched out to the north, and I was heading southeast. I hoped the wind would reverse direction after I rounded the pass.<br /><br />But it did not reverse, and I faced its cold blast going down into the next valley, a few snowflakes hitting my face. Runners were coming uphill in a relay race, about fifty of them. I waved and shouted encouragement, their faces looking almost hot as they ran up the hill.<br /><br />Headwind continued off and on for two hours, and when I reached Saskatchewan Crossing, my right knee was hurting some. It was clearly not a good idea to keep going another thirty-seven hard uphill kilometers to Bow Pass, as was my plan. I took a room, the cheapest room, at $139. It does not even have internet and no phone. It’s a noisy room by the pub, or it would have been expensive.<br /><br />Already three days behind schedule, I had added a fourth as I headed up toward Bow Summit on Sunday morning. I arrived on the other side at Mosquito Creek Hostel. Again, I was the only guest, besides a group of five. So with two dorm cabins, I had one all to myself.<br /><br />The next morning I looked out t<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Cm4A_O4uRxpNVP4uKnGdr4Rm_kUzyK1FgdrD04R_W0tT1J6JLOKy497PrdZRHrxuHsUUOCxIJR6Kd3wMvL4Bl7-YUsRlJSy_XshAdeWEkIxPZ0z2WNBKBP0ZJOzB9gCk_61bLvyCW5c/s1600-h/100_2407+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 284px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Cm4A_O4uRxpNVP4uKnGdr4Rm_kUzyK1FgdrD04R_W0tT1J6JLOKy497PrdZRHrxuHsUUOCxIJR6Kd3wMvL4Bl7-YUsRlJSy_XshAdeWEkIxPZ0z2WNBKBP0ZJOzB9gCk_61bLvyCW5c/s320/100_2407+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345460163749471874" border="0" /></a>he window of the hostel to a good three inches of snow on the ground, and still falling. I wanted to make the twenty-eight kilometers to Lake Louise, a town that’s 400 meters lower in elevation, where I might get warm. Snow collected on my glasses as I rode, and my fingers were getting numb. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0K1FQROTcSoGyn-c9RXpfUbWJyWp-2rg0UqXkwRsK7IsK0PDQojYQFOVaXZcekZ10cnb7K25dBETW0GO-57VLpakf46le4YTUhMyB9H6AyLygZYPrGGQ8mNlvNLelxD9xLl2ZUL88PQE/s1600-h/100_2385+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 288px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0K1FQROTcSoGyn-c9RXpfUbWJyWp-2rg0UqXkwRsK7IsK0PDQojYQFOVaXZcekZ10cnb7K25dBETW0GO-57VLpakf46le4YTUhMyB9H6AyLygZYPrGGQ8mNlvNLelxD9xLl2ZUL88PQE/s320/100_2385+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345459741056404562" border="0" /></a>But once started, there was no option but to keep going. Watching as best I could for bears as I coasted fast on the downgrade. I kept moving to retain warmth. The road was only wet, not snowy or icy, and the air was cold and stinging with flakes in the wind.<br /><br />It was snowing hard when I approached the town of Lake Louise (not the lake). I had descended in cold snow from 1800m elevation to 1400m and asked a park ranger where I might warm up. He directed me to a cafe, which I could barely see in the snow. By the time I staggered into that café, snow clinging to me, glasses fogged, mind fogged, well, it was quite a ride.<br /><br />After Lake Louise, there was no more snow, no rain, just cold. I cruised through Banff, knowing I could not stay, but stopped at Chili’s for a good meal. Now I am at 1300m elevation, warm and rested in a hotel at Canmore.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJYUHhsdimOB-kpzZFIbsJwMp-PCkIYCK8xUG_t_TVNkpSrRCIs53HT-TZCSTfhyxadLdTSS1Vb3CJyXku3Ca4NXych_RNhGBv62JMdoIsQYZlh9aJJ8yvzmZqfDpCo53HqBVhcQdSC7g/s1600-h/100_2427+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJYUHhsdimOB-kpzZFIbsJwMp-PCkIYCK8xUG_t_TVNkpSrRCIs53HT-TZCSTfhyxadLdTSS1Vb3CJyXku3Ca4NXych_RNhGBv62JMdoIsQYZlh9aJJ8yvzmZqfDpCo53HqBVhcQdSC7g/s320/100_2427+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345460421193847362" border="0" /></a>The Canmore Hotel is the finest—worl<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibzCMX9phpkaIWGZf4bga4b0BWo9WVeWxqaSQ9xo2TX8zqGQjXG_ND6_XC00K6ROsjWhf9L38MZZJYpheC5weGKbNl9BgiZDar1JVxNJlmuZ1wLfSC5QlkqDXtuqqL5BH0vO18dliFIXE/s1600-h/100_2395+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 275px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibzCMX9phpkaIWGZf4bga4b0BWo9WVeWxqaSQ9xo2TX8zqGQjXG_ND6_XC00K6ROsjWhf9L38MZZJYpheC5weGKbNl9BgiZDar1JVxNJlmuZ1wLfSC5QlkqDXtuqqL5BH0vO18dliFIXE/s320/100_2395+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345459930520171970" border="0" /></a>d-class! It was built around 1890 and has been improved only a little since. The rooms are upstairs over the bar, with the bathroom down the hall. But it is cheap and adequate and has internet; what could be finer?<br /><br />I came to the Canadian Rockies warned that winter storms can hit these mountains during any month. I started the trip earlier than most people thought best, but I did so to arrive in Maine before winter. Now I am seeing the summer snow of Canada. A local woman said today that last year, August was the only month that did not snow.<br /><br />I don’t see many local people in Canmore or any of the towns along the Icefields Parkway. It seems like everyone is either a tourist or a college kid with a summer job. And I expected to see bicyclists with all their stuff, voyeurs like me, but met only the German. And I saw no bears. Maybe word of that recent attack got around among bears as it did among cyclists.<br /><br />I have had way more life than I deserve, but it seems to keep on and on. Next the Great Prairie. What after that? I seem always driven to other places. So I continue to struggle in a risk-reward venture, like a kid. Its funny, most older people want to avoid risk, but we are the ones who have the least at stake. I want the flexibility to change my situation, to run, search, and bike.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-56858247932253976192009-06-04T14:45:00.000-07:002009-06-04T15:03:45.283-07:00Crest of the Rockies<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSQbi_8zmX9y91zFHjrTnccbTBFPNVE7Z4Gra_u5W8LuV-QGTqBfp1I-htyDSr_vGgTK0t6DPMjmq0Qawn-XUFDtP7I148vMykumD02OH8ZDNnAWPLQ4lVfleNVY0GI9boe76CDEVdCUQ/s1600-h/100_2179+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 161px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSQbi_8zmX9y91zFHjrTnccbTBFPNVE7Z4Gra_u5W8LuV-QGTqBfp1I-htyDSr_vGgTK0t6DPMjmq0Qawn-XUFDtP7I148vMykumD02OH8ZDNnAWPLQ4lVfleNVY0GI9boe76CDEVdCUQ/s320/100_2179+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343593400480304770" border="0" /></a>I came to the Canadian Rockies warned that the country is absolutely gorgeous and that I came here at the exact perfect time. From Valemount to Banff, they said, will astound you. But by the time I reached Valemount on June 1, I was already in love. The mountains circle about me at every horizon like dark sleeping animals, their backs whitened with snow. And all this grandeur is regarded as peripheral to the real world.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBdsd0k99n-6D4pVB12bIXZ790BUu-f516CRUF0peQnTTKE9Hgw1OsuL4XkYSKYE5ruyCiNnffDgKqgjSLULwiapdmAU4B7mAmBvU7uUzXg2-HSIm9oPGR9mCYFchKNXnvs_XbVQDoVtg/s1600-h/100_2222.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBdsd0k99n-6D4pVB12bIXZ790BUu-f516CRUF0peQnTTKE9Hgw1OsuL4XkYSKYE5ruyCiNnffDgKqgjSLULwiapdmAU4B7mAmBvU7uUzXg2-HSIm9oPGR9mCYFchKNXnvs_XbVQDoVtg/s320/100_2222.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343593170143075762" border="0" /></a><br />I stayed in Valemount two nights, resting and building courage for the 125km trudge up to the crest of the Rockies, and on to Jasper. I would do it all in one day, because there would be no services, save one small café, and camping among bears and moose is not advised in these parts.<br /><br />So it was that I left Valemount yesterday, mentally charged for the best and worst. I noticed, like on prior days, that all the creeks and even the little rills and culverts are flowing with spring melt. But today some of them run clear and some flow with a milky gray. The milky ones carry glacier melt with fine particles of rock rubbed away from canyon walls as glaciers flow. I have not seen a glacier, have not seen a grizzly, but both live in these mountains, both leave their tracks.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4zcecKVUlecHHLseE38gREAHvn5Xqh8GNvHwBDQ9d2l9YZ9A5bZsrPc5sqFpLENgDVeoY5Z5-r_8qwat3OTUmD9twq_Gk1s4qwjqROlm7IYv9xc-EyCh3AozgOsJmAOybAEQxo-q6AVs/s1600-h/100_2210+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4zcecKVUlecHHLseE38gREAHvn5Xqh8GNvHwBDQ9d2l9YZ9A5bZsrPc5sqFpLENgDVeoY5Z5-r_8qwat3OTUmD9twq_Gk1s4qwjqROlm7IYv9xc-EyCh3AozgOsJmAOybAEQxo-q6AVs/s320/100_2210+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343592864927225634" border="0" /></a>I came to the Fraser River again, after leaving it eight days ago, and followed it toward Mt. Robson, the highest peak in the Canadian Rockies. Here, a creek replaces the massive river I left in the Fraser Valley. And here in August salmon will come to have sex and die. I will miss them. But nobody who comes this way can miss Mt. Robson (photo at left) looming above everything. Horizontal lines streak across it—sedimentary layers where coral fish died, preserved in rock. Our senses of time and place do not allow us to fathom this massive rock as coral reef in tropical water. We are forced to either believe the evidence, or point belligerently to a mountain that came to us in a more sensible way.<br /><br />I saw all this from the Yellowhead Highway, which I have followed since Kamloops. It has a wide<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx14AnJWXArwXh4SaywqjDa4biQsFCUMw7_T1qbPFVTBGBRk6VklDups005ReVjYT87FZBf4LDUjh0GVlyH2K_84M00JfItoeKtfoLPnY3ZsS-K9lTeymokzeAsbCHnhJU46AiOHfa6Kw/s1600-h/100_2230+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 211px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx14AnJWXArwXh4SaywqjDa4biQsFCUMw7_T1qbPFVTBGBRk6VklDups005ReVjYT87FZBf4LDUjh0GVlyH2K_84M00JfItoeKtfoLPnY3ZsS-K9lTeymokzeAsbCHnhJU46AiOHfa6Kw/s320/100_2230+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343592654326303794" border="0" /></a> shoulder all the way, and up until now the large vehicles were mostly trucks; they call them transports. They contain courteous drivers almost without exception. The only real hazard I encountered today was rented RV’s with Americans gawking at mountains while they drive.<br /><br />When I came to Yellowhead Pass, I knew it is the easiest passage through the Canadian Rockies, and the line between British Colombia and Alberta. But I also knew I had accomplished something and could make it down to the tourist town of Jasper.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwkj4xJdzmFmfBS79HwA_rp3VNMI0W0kSu3C0InjxlHfl3vSylryGzjKfGJsqdqAooFI9YiQlOHz4A3bR0K9Mnvr9XPiBD4M6m7NM7cXjMpz7A-eWYS8Z4Mr6DgPlPMWVq-CGFAuJPXZI/s1600-h/100_2215+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 173px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwkj4xJdzmFmfBS79HwA_rp3VNMI0W0kSu3C0InjxlHfl3vSylryGzjKfGJsqdqAooFI9YiQlOHz4A3bR0K9Mnvr9XPiBD4M6m7NM7cXjMpz7A-eWYS8Z4Mr6DgPlPMWVq-CGFAuJPXZI/s320/100_2215+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343592472113410626" border="0" /></a>I am taking a day of rest here at the start of the Icefields Parkway, which I will pedal for the next three days. I will stay in hostels because the few lodges along the way are outrageously expensive. Jasper is expensive too, which is why I am staying in a home, where the family has internet. They rent three bedrooms with a shared bath, but I was the only tenant last night. Many homeowners in Jasper rent bedrooms as a kind of joint rebellion of visitors and residents against high hotel rents. Most of them have vacancy signs.<br /><br />You may not see me for three days, internet is unlikely. But like a spacecraft on the dark side of the moon, my bicycle should emerge in Canmore on Sunday evening.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-16804595600842065012009-06-01T20:52:00.000-07:002009-06-01T21:04:31.248-07:00Canadian Wilderness<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhesW8_WU-xMATv-fCu0rlHJJbZ_Oru_y1EHraOvUfsyX1d64U_CP_Zt84xleasdmvuGhdkzePI6A_1moj_90IypyLmUToxXzuOIvNbgU5qqqMQqA3cwpcN7pJOoZL3X5wOgpGLpoMUoT4/s1600-h/100_2150+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhesW8_WU-xMATv-fCu0rlHJJbZ_Oru_y1EHraOvUfsyX1d64U_CP_Zt84xleasdmvuGhdkzePI6A_1moj_90IypyLmUToxXzuOIvNbgU5qqqMQqA3cwpcN7pJOoZL3X5wOgpGLpoMUoT4/s320/100_2150+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342574827759033778" border="0" /></a><br />I started early for the long trek to Valemount. I knew the ninety kilometers would be without any businesses, not even a store. And near the solstice in this northland, you can start at four and have enough light to ride. I started at five-thirty, following the North Thompson River, my companion these last four days. Today I would reach its headwaters and leave it to branch and gather the remaining snowmelt of summer, and provide a path for the salmon to come into these mountains all the way from the ocean to spawn in August.<br /><br />Ever since that eye-staring encounter with a black bear two days ago, every dark spot in the forest is a bear; every sound from the trees is a bear paw crushing a branch. I can’t tell whether I am being watched or whether <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNUuywU8Ona5z6KDkEEMikcydGv8em0U_OCeTiqZnzi8nb85033_ncaz_FviaYXGDRgTCgzN9rdKKejY3UmPtH3DLP6NnxLrYTcyjTSEh1GtksUh44l6p6mL5n9jtI6415s5ewoCDAc8A/s1600-h/100_2151+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 270px; height: 202px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNUuywU8Ona5z6KDkEEMikcydGv8em0U_OCeTiqZnzi8nb85033_ncaz_FviaYXGDRgTCgzN9rdKKejY3UmPtH3DLP6NnxLrYTcyjTSEh1GtksUh44l6p6mL5n9jtI6415s5ewoCDAc8A/s320/100_2151+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342574628112047730" border="0" /></a>my senses are merely elevated beyond logic. So when I saw it brown and tall in the road ahead, standing still in the early morning before any cars or trucks had emerged, my first thought was “grizzly” because they are usually brown. I looked for a round hump between its shoulder blades as further grizzly verification. But it was too far away.<br /><br />Most animals show themselves sparingly, but the grizzly is six to eight hundred pounds of smugness. It has no need to hide. If it were a person it would laugh loudly in quiet restaurants, wear the wrong clothes for formal occasions, and slap anyone who stands up to it. But all this is based on book knowledge and stories from Canadian pubs. I had never seen a grizzly.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmGPBJOd44QVwEDc0-P97_RCd907pF92YqzqgtmF4b1x81vcJcwqxXClPPsWPioZV0uPhTQOmaKNMm76npjXSYPF0Qa-tv9ER1bzlyuuPIbxvRNHml9zJaXl9FAEjjGKArBG7wPuVU9WQ/s1600-h/100_2154+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 256px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmGPBJOd44QVwEDc0-P97_RCd907pF92YqzqgtmF4b1x81vcJcwqxXClPPsWPioZV0uPhTQOmaKNMm76npjXSYPF0Qa-tv9ER1bzlyuuPIbxvRNHml9zJaXl9FAEjjGKArBG7wPuVU9WQ/s320/100_2154+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342574069042506034" border="0" /></a><br />The animal turned its side to me, and now I could see the long legs and neck—moose. I kept riding toward it; I would have to get closer, this time with the camera ready. But I missed my chance when the moose saw a strange thing approaching it. Yes, I am a strange-looking beast on the highway, an odd creature, not well understood by the local fauna.<br /><br />Still, the mountains hit me with stunning magnificence. I want to photograph every g<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf3eYXJ1cqWLiyZ9_HYU0wQvDIItceHQpyrZHCMO7qFtCTSaFEUOazkc-5TQljlvVKdtln3qLqJyeTjkPOxO_x9Orpoez8ia2ecVr561Um6Aj0v8PFoCscO1TTrhOBJl_KYo8H-7qPGZI/s1600-h/100_2161+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 268px; height: 227px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf3eYXJ1cqWLiyZ9_HYU0wQvDIItceHQpyrZHCMO7qFtCTSaFEUOazkc-5TQljlvVKdtln3qLqJyeTjkPOxO_x9Orpoez8ia2ecVr561Um6Aj0v8PFoCscO1TTrhOBJl_KYo8H-7qPGZI/s320/100_2161+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342575983644154850" border="0" /></a>lint of sunlight in the trembling aspens, every rill of new snowmelt adding to the river, and every snowpacked jag that points its rocky tip into thin air. Here are a few, but none of them match the immersion I feel in this wonderful wilderness.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-26061077395244810432009-05-31T14:59:00.000-07:002009-05-31T15:09:30.385-07:00Canadian Outback<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhkwCGA3hLAJXfu8yilh812h6Jl5kJke6p8372g1RWrnCpK88rvVozXspxj_3Xf-0ihXZXYzwTIacGQSvg6_ZaV0dSApt3Lx1FCc1nDYVTmnKAonv0RK7CriXYTQ_3dllQsuW07iEBzE8/s1600-h/100_2106+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhkwCGA3hLAJXfu8yilh812h6Jl5kJke6p8372g1RWrnCpK88rvVozXspxj_3Xf-0ihXZXYzwTIacGQSvg6_ZaV0dSApt3Lx1FCc1nDYVTmnKAonv0RK7CriXYTQ_3dllQsuW07iEBzE8/s320/100_2106+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342113146401691426" border="0" /></a><br />I was warm, even at six in the morning, riding on a wide shoulder in another day of beautiful country. The North Thompson River is no longer the placid companion it has been these past several days. It splashes and roars, no longer the place mothers set their children on rafts, pat them on the head and say, “I’ll see you in Little Fort,” as excited kids float away, gently on the river. Now it is the playground for whitewater rafters, so I am told, but have seen none.<br /><br />My internet research yielded a café at Vavenby, twenty-four km out, and a perfect distance for breakfast. But the café does not exist. So, a bit disappointed, I proceeded toward Avola, another forty-three km, where a motel and three restaurants are listed.<br /><br />Soon a breeze began from the southwest, the way breezes are supposed blow. If I ride at ten to fifteen km/h, I seem to be not moving, not through the air at least. This part of Canada is temporarily peaceful, weatherwise, enjoying a high pressure reprieve while Ontario suffers thunderstorms and the prairie swelters.<br /><br />I came to Avola and pulled into the motel just as a man was coming out the office. “We are going fishing,” he said. “I’m looking for a meal and a room,” I said with bewilderment, thinking he might be the manager. “There is nothing between here and Blue River,” he said, “And the only motel there costs $129.” He said he was leaving in ten minutes but would rent me a room. So here I am in a small room at a low price, wondering where I would be sleeping tonight if I had come ten minutes later.<br /><br />I walked down the hill to the pub, the only eatery in Avola, (the other two are closed) and ordered a hamburger because that’s all they serve. “It takes twenty-five minutes to cook it,” said the barmaid, which gave me plenty of time to read the sign over the bar: “This is not Burger King. You can’t have it your way. You can have it our way or do without the damn thing.”<br />“Did you see the bears? I saw three coming to work,” she said while cooking, “A grizzly and her two cubs are in the area; several people have seen them.” I was glad to be ensconced in the only room within a hundred kilometers, taking into account the fishing diversion of its manager. Somehow, camping in these woods feels uninviting.<br /><br />I bought some cookies at the store and came back to my room to write this. Of course there is no internet in Avola, but my rundown r<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeAPDKEZkUsY6QyRITtmVnErBaTo0VDwUNy-RxX8xDh9O9gQrazXFt97bHsAMelqBIw6ORwaTI3C5EOwYFJRlOulcDgfFSQnLFx_yGlOLHuzGBIeHGLY_SeVetChdjI3WbxTGrdhhgVyM/s1600-h/100_2120+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeAPDKEZkUsY6QyRITtmVnErBaTo0VDwUNy-RxX8xDh9O9gQrazXFt97bHsAMelqBIw6ORwaTI3C5EOwYFJRlOulcDgfFSQnLFx_yGlOLHuzGBIeHGLY_SeVetChdjI3WbxTGrdhhgVyM/s320/100_2120+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342112922555005762" border="0" /></a>oom has 100 channels of satellite television.<br /><br />The next morning I started riding on the first cold day, just above freezing, and happy to find a hill to climb for its warmth of exertion. The country is becoming mountainous, as the North Thompson River steepens, no longer the massive wide current of the past ten days.<br /><br />And there on the side of the road I saw my first bear. It did not see me, and I tried to be quiet getting out the camera. But it turned abruptly and looked me in the eye, then ran the other way. It was at least twice my size, and I had startled it, exactly the wrong way to meet a b<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAeoygRLjh5VhO1jXkiA_-jrHYiUUmAkNtS2MBJwSpQ7HGTinpMi35GD5ntm-I0Kz8cPI-T2tuN94Jog6Jbb37zQU1KZHb6XGc93LpmCJI0bwqySI4oGBtVn82qq8P-khE8e5-p9X9cVY/s1600-h/100_2121+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 188px; height: 110px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAeoygRLjh5VhO1jXkiA_-jrHYiUUmAkNtS2MBJwSpQ7HGTinpMi35GD5ntm-I0Kz8cPI-T2tuN94Jog6Jbb37zQU1KZHb6XGc93LpmCJI0bwqySI4oGBtVn82qq8P-khE8e5-p9X9cVY/s320/100_2121+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342112559940949938" border="0" /></a>ear. It’s best if they see you from a comfortable distance; then they feel less threatened. But a bicycle is silent, and unlike a car, it can sneak up on bears.<br /><br />I came into Blue River, already knowing the motel manager in Avola had given me a line. I rode into town hungry and stopped at the Sandman for a huge breakfast. Than I rode to the Blue River Motel, where I’d called the night before to reserve a room for fifty dollars.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF4fjR9X_bi9aE-AEa6KhfUH1TZUEi3ksAd6JgcptDjGhTYCdTLw4gdjFD8dEeGatBugkXUZEVqNxZ10mNyd2csPudMw70VuWCia8hA1kMrwm8KrIERVJL49ONz4Ik8IsYoEiSx9g0Q4c/s1600-h/100_2127+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 205px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF4fjR9X_bi9aE-AEa6KhfUH1TZUEi3ksAd6JgcptDjGhTYCdTLw4gdjFD8dEeGatBugkXUZEVqNxZ10mNyd2csPudMw70VuWCia8hA1kMrwm8KrIERVJL49ONz4Ik8IsYoEiSx9g0Q4c/s320/100_2127+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342111798168647010" border="0" /></a><br />The snow is lower on the mountains now, not really lower, but I am higher and the air is cool. The weather forecast calls for near freezing mornings, warming to comfortable afternoons. I look foreword to crossing the mountains into Alberta and biking the famous Icefields Parkway from Jasper to Banff.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-30881622476063517882009-05-29T18:18:00.001-07:002009-05-29T18:27:11.214-07:00Wonderland<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65uYy0HqB_qZwvsBuDVzonRQUM1A1AgfCdn_WuHr20VFq_8tJjtU5hK2AxxKQuqB5pXfBVpjgJ_GJoDeH8iBqDkugJekKGhWRpVzpCEmeSfEs_3ntUgCr2LTrH1Q4MQ2v3OsLBsOhLMs/s1600-h/100_2084+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65uYy0HqB_qZwvsBuDVzonRQUM1A1AgfCdn_WuHr20VFq_8tJjtU5hK2AxxKQuqB5pXfBVpjgJ_GJoDeH8iBqDkugJekKGhWRpVzpCEmeSfEs_3ntUgCr2LTrH1Q4MQ2v3OsLBsOhLMs/s320/100_2084+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341420560231310162" border="0" /></a><br />The Arid Interior is definitely behind me now. Lush grass and forests replace it. Gardens are just getting started in this northland where the last frost comes late. Corn plants are just emerging, each with two tentative leaves. And hopeful tomato plants are just being moved to gardens from inside where they grew as much a foot tall.<br /><br />I rode a wide shoulder on a road with less traffic, on gentle grades with little wind, along the North Thompson River. Often, I would top a rise or round a turn, and scenery would magically appear, flung out before me like an open fan.<br /><br />I stopped for breakfast at a café about four km north of Little Fort, or 29 km south of Clearwater, (in case tiny Lit<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYBSEvhe4RWWvJGmfJp4rgVv8nWVEurwyKdNa1WDIbp9R-0HO10k0LzlHrlkRnCkXfk8dRX13XMQH-bCTEvfTlHepI8-38yXkiG3eDOHVDxprR_H2rdrTSJP0HmjJVQfc54_jIpmoznT0/s1600-h/100_2085+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYBSEvhe4RWWvJGmfJp4rgVv8nWVEurwyKdNa1WDIbp9R-0HO10k0LzlHrlkRnCkXfk8dRX13XMQH-bCTEvfTlHepI8-38yXkiG3eDOHVDxprR_H2rdrTSJP0HmjJVQfc54_jIpmoznT0/s320/100_2085+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341420803294318290" border="0" /></a>tle Fort is not on your map) The breakfast was good and the motel stuck me as world class, a perfect place to spend a few easy days and just watch the North Thompson River go by. Rooms cost sixty Canadian dollars and have wireless internet. I would choose Room 6 because it is on the second floor at the end of the building, having the best view of the river. And here is your easy booking information: Rivermount Motel, Campground and Café, phone 250 677 4477 or 866 816 7912, email hummingbirds@mercuryspeed.com<br /><br />I rode on through this wonderland, reaching Clearwater around noon. I like to begin riding early and end early for several reasons. This afternoon it got very hot, and it was good to be finished. Clearwater is a hard town to find your way around in because the Google map of it is far from accurate. Nothing of the town is visible from the highway, and the several parts of it are off on different roads. Still, its Dutch Lake is astoundingly lovely under the snowy peaks, and I am happily settled <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO86IQjLOwI9GE-0uV57WkLgOJgn52eAdrZgyTLFsVKc_QGYZZY1JrDkJ3qzKvRtcEMfEutiJ6sTRDVqlB3X8bft4lcPqszmx-0_PIc85eXXVa72y-bQnNQia8aj4EJFwYTaRgNwaNGms/s1600-h/100_2095+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO86IQjLOwI9GE-0uV57WkLgOJgn52eAdrZgyTLFsVKc_QGYZZY1JrDkJ3qzKvRtcEMfEutiJ6sTRDVqlB3X8bft4lcPqszmx-0_PIc85eXXVa72y-bQnNQia8aj4EJFwYTaRgNwaNGms/s320/100_2095+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341420407182044722" border="0" /></a>in a tiny cabin.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZxGLZ1rVwwZF75t3cewRTQfDwldvZEYqdnI8CZLiU33VAf4NvYf4BzZGRGZ95lozCfgs74S8vKzb7ocT5QB6Olgdios8FXCJwNHEmv6TJRhrSe8OC5MGu0jVEjJ9tOZopt4QzDON4SFw/s1600-h/100_2099+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 271px; height: 203px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZxGLZ1rVwwZF75t3cewRTQfDwldvZEYqdnI8CZLiU33VAf4NvYf4BzZGRGZ95lozCfgs74S8vKzb7ocT5QB6Olgdios8FXCJwNHEmv6TJRhrSe8OC5MGu0jVEjJ9tOZopt4QzDON4SFw/s320/100_2099+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341420982685389282" border="0" /></a>Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-90886783285526435162009-05-28T17:33:00.000-07:002009-05-28T19:33:01.704-07:00Rolling by a RiverI started nine days ago where the ship docked, where the Fraser River joins the Pacific Ocean. I pedaled upstream along the Fraser to where the Thompson River joins, then up the Thompson to where the North Tho<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqux_QGaR9G4pOWgGPgdvYcDxt_-EGc2ODAtJvg61ITvXzNwisxcJTWo8gsfRcIzBvvmRxKyRrm4S7Z9zasuE-AIRqd_Y74POL-gMdMxPeT9hSejwnI9ViSY5yPJyVjes2j3kP0qucqyg/s1600-h/100_2073+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqux_QGaR9G4pOWgGPgdvYcDxt_-EGc2ODAtJvg61ITvXzNwisxcJTWo8gsfRcIzBvvmRxKyRrm4S7Z9zasuE-AIRqd_Y74POL-gMdMxPeT9hSejwnI9ViSY5yPJyVjes2j3kP0qucqyg/s320/100_2073+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341041137401106978" border="0" /></a>mpson River adds its mass of snowmelt. The railroad and I have followed this water all the way. Now, I am in Barriere, still following the North Thompson where it is eleven hundred feet above sea level, and where it still looks almost like the huge river the Fraser was in the beginning. It boils up to the surface wherever its huge bulk meets a rock or hill in its bed, conforming its smooth surface into a steady uniform flow, as if some engineering master has set its average bottom slope at some minute and precise value for all these five hundred kilometers. The river has moved consistently at about twelve kilometers per hour wherever I have turned around long enough to measure its speed. My average speed upriver has been about the same as the river’s speed to the ocean. If I wanted to return to Vancouver, I think the easiest way would be to build a raft and, like Tom Sawyer, float all the way back on that gentle water. It is good to accompany the river, especially when there is no headwind and where the road provides a shoulder to ride on, as it did today. But like the river with its Hells Gate Rapids, there have been a few pedaling stresses.<br /><br />I suppose Day 9 is a good time to put down some impressions of how safe it is to bike across Canada. I wish I had had been given the following assessment, given to me by some kindred nomad, but alas I found nothing like this on the internet. So here it is for all you who long to follow me and are being held back by fear of dangerous roads.<br /><br />Drivers in Canada are, on average, slower, safer and friendlier to cyclists than drivers in the United States. And exceptions to the average are less severe than in the US. I have not been threatened by any drunk or reckless driver, never been honked at, or deliberately squeezed off the road.<br /><br />The roads I have traveled are safe for at least ninety percent of their length. By “safe” I mean they have a paved shoulder at least three feet wide. (This does not apply to narrow country roads with slow traffic and little of it, where a shoulder is not essential.) Of course it only takes ten percent to kill you, so here is what to watch out for.<br /><br />There is usually a good shoulder where the road has two lanes, one in each direction. But where it has three lanes, the shoulder sometimes disappears. This usually happens where two lanes are in your direction and one lane is in the opposite direction. If a vehicle comes up behind you and has an empty left lane to move into, it invariably does so. But you have to watch your mirror, because if a vehicle is passing in the left lane and there is no shoulder, it gets very unsafe. Often there is a good shoulder on the other side of the road in this configuration. I sometimes go over there when it is safe to cross. But if you are being approached from behind by a vehicle passing another vehicle, and there is no shoulder, the best thing to do is get as far right as possible and stop. This requires a close watch in the mirror and forces a tense riding experience.<br /><br />Once, a house trailer was approaching from behind and I saw no other vehicle passing it, so I proceeded, assured it would move left. But I did not see the car behind it getting ready to pass. The house trailer could not move over, and it came very close to me. This has been the only scary moment.<br />_____________________________________________<br /><br />In the breakfast café today, farmers and loggers talked about growing carrots and potatoes, both pretty good ventures compared<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUswLjShaAf9mrurSfUhEHuM6RDtilH9EbnqUtxtYiA-BXuGdsPHxmYxJRcSX8YASkbsctDOBBuWLiqrSVJjvmlqa5lQSKdW1j5px8iAOm3s9UGPHu0VWTSt693wEtrscXFCjFNl-XO_4/s1600-h/100_2071+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUswLjShaAf9mrurSfUhEHuM6RDtilH9EbnqUtxtYiA-BXuGdsPHxmYxJRcSX8YASkbsctDOBBuWLiqrSVJjvmlqa5lQSKdW1j5px8iAOm3s9UGPHu0VWTSt693wEtrscXFCjFNl-XO_4/s320/100_2071+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341040737655002114" border="0" /></a> to logging. I passed a mill today where you see logs piled up in this picture. They remind me of the first four years out of college, a forestry graduate, scaling logs like these—fir, redwood, pine. Of course there are no redwoods in this cold country, and the pine beetles have killed most of the pines. The Douglas fir would still be good if it were not for that vast wildfire of 2003. But all that pales to the economy. Housing starts are way down and lumber prices are in the toilet. Still, men pull boards off the green chain and log trucks arrive at a mill already piled high with waiting logs. Everybody can’t grow carrots.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-31839455415393795202009-05-27T15:54:00.000-07:002009-05-27T17:40:38.018-07:00A Day of Rest<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlTGz78UW_X4hJHtO9iL4QI6ebIPPFdxzo_Y_nNWedux3Yjzyx0YVfMsyTrlk4qv0T2P6rVa5s0GcEgIWLLmeHfFbqz6yhF3C4gyu2mczA-ih4A5-uENfQuzPLyNDU8_wQ6KhQtm8WHMM/s1600-h/100_2064+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlTGz78UW_X4hJHtO9iL4QI6ebIPPFdxzo_Y_nNWedux3Yjzyx0YVfMsyTrlk4qv0T2P6rVa5s0GcEgIWLLmeHfFbqz6yhF3C4gyu2mczA-ih4A5-uENfQuzPLyNDU8_wQ6KhQtm8WHMM/s320/100_2064+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340641559266191506" border="0" /></a><br />I am using this day of rest in Kamloops to consider what I am doing. Is it even sensible? I planned this adventure fevered with the notion of going up to Canada and riding across it. “The best of luck,” friends said, “Have fun, enjoy the country.” “You almost make me wish I was there pedaling beside you, although the thought of four months on a bicycle makes me very sore.” “After you cross the Rockies, it's all flat until the East Coast, or so I heard.” “How could we not care about such a wild woman?”<br /><br />But what is really behind the friendly well-wishers and the itch inside my brain? To escape my stagnation and begin a new life? To get free from the bondage of my own identity? To be noticed as an interesting person and perhaps worthy of closer inspection? To achieve literal reincarnation in the cells of a hungry bear?<br /><br />After the summer of ‘07, coast to coast, I think often of these feelings. I see and yet I don’t see. Conned, perhaps, in the year and a half at home, into thinking the real action is metropolitan, and all this was just boring hinterland. The truth knocks on the door and you say, “Go away, I’m looking for truth. And so it goes away.” Puzzling.<br /><br />Many people express a romantic sentiment in connection with an older woman crossing a continent on a bicycle. They call me brave and adventurous, but a hint in the way they say it means something else. It is romantic if you are not the one doing it. All I do is pedal. Life is simple, stripped down to basic survival, my world strapped to a bicycle.<br /><br />Sometimes I wish I could sit on the porch of one of the houses in a small towns where I see old-timers and children watching me, and watch me with them as I ride by. I wish I could think their thoughts and compare their assessment of me to my own. I think they would say what my friends say—well-wishers, conferrers of bravery and an adventurous spirit, and thinkers that there is no compelling reason for them to do this. I wonder if they see that although logic is right, and love of life is right, none of us are strong enough to retain these ingrained mandates under the right circumstances. So I ride on in the sweet assurance that I am only a little more ridiculous than the rest of you are in following an unreasonable dream.<br /> ______________________________________________<br /><br />I worried in the planning stages that motels could be full, that the short Canadian summer would fill them with tourists and leave me uncomfortable in my small tent and sleeping bag, which I brought for emergencies. I considered making reservations, and did so for the first night out. But reservations are risky. If I fail to arrive at a distant town and have no way to call and cancel, then the money is lost. So I have set out each morning for a town that shows at least one motel on the internet, hoping it would have vacancy. What I have found in Hope, Yale, Lytton, Cache Creek and Kamloops is half-full motels at most. And the prices are usually less than shown on the internet. Maybe the economy has most people staying home. I still worry about touristy Jasper, Banff and those three days of travel along the popular Icefields Parkway. But it is six days to Jasper, and I’ll ride them without worrying about finding a motel.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-29501340178986094572009-05-26T20:01:00.000-07:002009-05-27T10:25:19.253-07:00Land of Capricious WindCanadian winds prevail from the west or southwest. Such was the knowledge I brought here, and on which I hung most of the weighty decision to begin on the west coast, rather than the east.<br /><br />I knew it would be a long mountainous journey today from Cache Creek to Kamloops. So I set the alarm for four-thirty to ride before traffic, to pull as many hills as possible before midday heat, and to reach Kamloops in early afternoon and before the uncertainties of late afternoon weather and traffic.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg04b1sEC0H7oMwCyl4T9PeOdJt3rI9IlnT5acMHaXuR_dr_LMOyN2Bw_ACSK07pjaQ5RJxpn2NwqyDMmiFUBd56pB8Xo5gGB_zVLAuMgMD0LEccGYft0Ob83KW_Hyetn52tS6nDdn93Io/s1600-h/100_2056+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg04b1sEC0H7oMwCyl4T9PeOdJt3rI9IlnT5acMHaXuR_dr_LMOyN2Bw_ACSK07pjaQ5RJxpn2NwqyDMmiFUBd56pB8Xo5gGB_zVLAuMgMD0LEccGYft0Ob83KW_Hyetn52tS6nDdn93Io/s320/100_2056+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340334099771765778" border="0" /></a><br />I awoke as dawn began. Opening the motel room door, I tested the air, deciding what to wear. It was warmer than yesterday morning with a strong rustle in the trees. I would need only biking shorts, bright yellow shirt, jacket and gloves. No need for leg warming full-length tights or the added warmth of either bogan or outer rain jacket. In this north country, day begins at four-thirty and does not dim into night before nine-thirty. I figured I’d reach Kamloops around one in the afternoon and have the rest of the day to explore the town.<br /><br />That rustle in the trees only encouraged me; it represented west wind, and I was headed east. The first turn out of the driveway proved how wrong that assumption was. Wind hit me in the face with deafening, bike-swaying force, like a mother’s hand slap saying I cannot continue in the direction of my foolishness. But I went belligerently on, though at half of normal speed with twice normal effort. I considered my speed and calculated the hours it would take to reach Kamloops, and the discouragement of that number only sucked away determination and with it a little more from my speed. After an hour with no change in the strong east wind, I assessed my energy and the likelihood of reaching Kamloops. I came up wanting. I could turn back or I could camp somewhere on this open Arid Interior of Canada and wait out the wind. I might try to find shelter in the little midway town of Savona, but no motels are listed there.<br /><br />As I considered alternatives, with thirteen kilometers behind and seventy ahead, the wind stopped. Stopped dead. I figured it temporary and kept riding to gain a little easy distance, but it stayed stopped for half an hour. Then it started again, but from the west. That fierce resistance I had been fighting for an hour turned into a gentle push on my back, like a father’s hand saying I’m doing all right.<br /><br />Normally, I look at the clouds, of which there were many on this overcast day, and judge the prevailing wind from the cloud direction. But these clouds did not move. Now I had a luscious tailwind driving me with little effort to Savona. But a few kilometers before reaching town it changed again, and again I struggled into strong headwind. These winds were not obeying the American wind laws. These were rogue, fickle Canadian winds and very strong.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh21y8zmQcqQu-12es4a_F1m4T1RJ7NVoj7FGGt83RN6QUIWLYwncRQp60hSEGfTD7T0-P_MGtgxAGxoTSz5NYW8rfzlhKE2XGyTPQkf7lsS0oEHpor8Q9rxn63qyZBWnaU4cBxLGExsAU/s1600-h/100_2060+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh21y8zmQcqQu-12es4a_F1m4T1RJ7NVoj7FGGt83RN6QUIWLYwncRQp60hSEGfTD7T0-P_MGtgxAGxoTSz5NYW8rfzlhKE2XGyTPQkf7lsS0oEHpor8Q9rxn63qyZBWnaU4cBxLGExsAU/s320/100_2060+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340334206215257090" border="0" /></a><br />Savona is strung out along the shore of Lake Kamloops and best seen by turning off of the main highway just after crossing the Thompson River and taking the slow road along the shore. After about five kilometers, it joins the main road at Roadhouse Café. I stopped there for breakfast and to assess the wind. But after an hour the wind was still blowing from the east.<br /><br />I started off again, ascending a summit and pushing air, but wind under these conditions is not nearly as offensive as it is on flatland or gentle slopes. So I kept pushing grade and wind, hoping for another change by the time I crested.<br /><br />And it did change, became tail. But within an hour it stopped or changed to east. Such wind is uncanny and disconcerting, like having no knowledge or understanding of the basic forces around me, like feeling gravity act in capricious ways.<br /><br />So it was that I came to the outskirts of the largest town since Vancouver. I looked down on it and then fell out of the mountains and dropped like a stone. Kamloops is a treacherous city of eighty-four thousand people and steep streets. They must kill a hundred people a day in the winter when ice and snow cover these steep roads. Today it was just too crowded with cars.<br /><br />When you look at where Kamloops is on the map at the top of this blog, and see how little of the entire mouthful I have swallowed, it seems ridiculous that I even started.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-57707556495050668602009-05-24T18:37:00.000-07:002009-05-24T19:09:50.610-07:00The Arid Interior<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkbQQVNZlwDLILOhu2O80xrF9BZiodJUaGSkm7UBgFG3WHK5xf3K140XzFo729TQawiTao2f0kkFZD3pJkZ4ZzilqYqsKOzcuPR0QYObhG5RWxPkEIV7DqBWdU4XJCZFHouWvKcPdL6ik/s1600-h/Sharon4+3-7-09+smaller.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 259px; height: 195px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkbQQVNZlwDLILOhu2O80xrF9BZiodJUaGSkm7UBgFG3WHK5xf3K140XzFo729TQawiTao2f0kkFZD3pJkZ4ZzilqYqsKOzcuPR0QYObhG5RWxPkEIV7DqBWdU4XJCZFHouWvKcPdL6ik/s320/Sharon4+3-7-09+smaller.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339572030313132802" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Who would expect while standing in Arizona’s Sonora Desert, that it extends northward up the east side of the Rockies, through Oregon and Washington, all the way into British Colombia, and that I would be traversing it on a bicycle shortly after pedaling through lush, mossy forest. Lytton, where I slept last night, marks the beginning of Canada’s Arid Interior, and my passage today was through desert.<br /><br />The churning Thompson River, which carries snowmelt into the Frasier River, which I have parallel these past four days, does not know that desert rivers are supposed to be dry except after downpours. So it boils and splashes a massive quantity of melted snow through the sagebrush.<br /><br />I was up early on Sunday, sailing the sagebrush ocean, spiked with an occasional tree, shadowed under teetering rock formations and tilted cliffs. Suddenly without expectation<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAIRK42UXRg3stCtDQrqPocXSw7be8V8xPn1nHNEp4h4ZnhIBNTn1ub7pQElDBM7qEYiwPmIYBDFZ9TH820vP8tk9AKWDy93qCq0WFm0FxQ0xxrL0QMoxCHblW8BU6FeXyf07pPw5qQ2U/s1600-h/100_2039+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAIRK42UXRg3stCtDQrqPocXSw7be8V8xPn1nHNEp4h4ZnhIBNTn1ub7pQElDBM7qEYiwPmIYBDFZ9TH820vP8tk9AKWDy93qCq0WFm0FxQ0xxrL0QMoxCHblW8BU6FeXyf07pPw5qQ2U/s320/100_2039+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339577821154202402" border="0" /></a>, at twenty-five kilometers and eight o’clock, a building shimmered, then took shape and became Shaw Springs Café. No cars rested in front, but I tried the door anyway, hoping. I met the owner who had just opened. Right behind me came two men in a car. One said, “I know what I want.” The other said, “Do you have tea with half a lemon?” The owner said she had no lemons, and without much of a goodbye, the two men left.<br /><br />I sat with coffee and breakfast, talking with the owner, or rather listening. She ranted for a good ten minutes on how impolite those men were, that she has the only place open on Sunday until they reach Hope, the town where I slept two nights ago. I categorized her as a complainer and one who should learn to bend with the wind like I do. But then it seemed that I had judged her based on labels. If someone is ungrateful and you tell him he’s ungrateful, you have called him a name, but you have not solved anything. When you look at an insane man all you see is a reflection of your own knowledge that he is insane. So I asked her about life out here on the desert, running a café and RV park by herself, vulnerable to the unabated whims of passers-by. She has held on here for thirty years, through hot summers and frigid winters and figures it beats the frustrations of society. And occasionally she talks to interesting people.<br /><br />Of course this struck home to one who left society just to be in such places, and on a bicycle what’s more. About then, she pointed out the window, “Wind is from the south. See it in the tree?” She knew I was headed north to Cache Creek and figured I’d like to know that.<br /><br />I pulled into Cache Creek after eight-five kilometers and tried two motels. They cost around eighty dollars, which translates to about sixty US. Then I tried the Sundowner Motel and asked how much. The owner, Michael Davidson, looked at me, all sweaty, tired and dirty. Then he looked out the window at the loaded bicycle. “Is that the way you travel?” “Yes,” I said. “Forty dollars,” he said. “It’s usually eighty, but I like your style.” So here I sit in a clean room with wireless internet. I paid him for two nights, figuring after four days of riding I need a rest. And besides, he’s a single man from the US who moved here two years ago just to own a small motel in a small Canadian town.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-90824256218071597442009-05-21T19:24:00.001-07:002009-05-21T19:30:01.918-07:00The Fraser River Valley<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQYGmPePzKvCBqC-cLZueC-KGWaxYvFwSVdg-uU3T4-DTXwSJ2YPnwfYZU1HQz3x-pY1R2MGuRLZCqqaR67APWJqwCZwdNq2lKREBnb6X54I7lCCY_mwvvLVSf4lDpV06qbf4r1DJ57Ok/s1600-h/100_1981+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQYGmPePzKvCBqC-cLZueC-KGWaxYvFwSVdg-uU3T4-DTXwSJ2YPnwfYZU1HQz3x-pY1R2MGuRLZCqqaR67APWJqwCZwdNq2lKREBnb6X54I7lCCY_mwvvLVSf4lDpV06qbf4r1DJ57Ok/s320/100_1981+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338468881010122434" border="0" /></a><br />What a change on leaving Mission! Sure, it was early morning, but traffic was light and farms replaced yesterday’s suburbs. The wide Fraser River Valley, farmed in its fertile bottom, hairy on its sides with forest trees—western red cedar, sitka spruce and hemlock. And above all, snowy rock outcroppings pointing skyward. Waterfalls are so many they are like string clippings scattered on the mountains. They run down chutes, vanishing into the thick of forest above the river.<br /><br />I stopped at the Deroche Café for breakfast and found it truly country in the way cafes often were in 2007 when I crossed America. Local farmers and loggers asked me what I am doing, and I learned which roads are better and why. It seems both sides, them and me, want to tell the other what we know that might involve their lives, a hallmark of conversation in country cafes.<br /><br />I rode along in silence much of the day, interrupted by the occasional transport truck, pickup, or car, and saw only two recreational vehicles all day. I thought of the Kwakwaka'wakw first nation people traversing this river and their relatives the Haida, whom I learned about at the Anthropology Museum in Vancouver. They lived off the red cedars, making canoes from a single log. But unlike those heavy dugouts of other tribes, these ingenious people dug the wood out, then filled the opening with water. They put hot rocks in the water to heat it and soften the wood. Then they pried the sides out, making the canoe twice as wide as a simple dugout, and much lighter per occupant.<br /><br />Tomorrow I shall ride up the Fraser River Gorge, through seven tunnels, I am told.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-1252760688034600502009-05-20T17:04:00.000-07:002009-05-24T18:59:00.313-07:00First Day Out<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfdJNV3-ZEeP0kt82nWjHc8eXJIN6EJShrIDHEIq58XnAN_hTMVRIAlqFPG0kZg-dgPHBznEPkD96r2c2vOJNBTmZAQteZ-xUfVQRqpaFnS1f9daFOKq2B-VSaOX4TjS7jsYstZnuNPv0/s1600-h/100_1966+changed.jpg">Trans-Canada Trail<br /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Hi, from Mission, a t</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfQTBeamfaiFEwVA-pcyLnWblK-Xk8guW9VHaoddnTX9NU6LaaHP7ifVwtD7hZladkZnF6eW9bVkvCwifUGYUEqMq4CDBfmrBZl34EpCqk1c9SBJhUPNyMthVXNk_qYptc5JETMZaG8lc/s1600-h/100_1960+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfQTBeamfaiFEwVA-pcyLnWblK-Xk8guW9VHaoddnTX9NU6LaaHP7ifVwtD7hZladkZnF6eW9bVkvCwifUGYUEqMq4CDBfmrBZl34EpCqk1c9SBJhUPNyMthVXNk_qYptc5JETMZaG8lc/s320/100_1960+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339574426955164002" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">own </span><span style="font-family:arial;">on the Fraser River in British Colombia. I’m about seventy kilometers east of the starting point in Vanc</span><span style="font-family:arial;">ouver. I fl</span><span style="font-family:arial;">oated up the coast from Los Angeles on a cruise ship, the Sapphire Princess, indulging in fine dining and relaxation. Three nights in Vancouver’s YWCA provided a clean and inexpensive base for visiting the city’s Stanley Park, Chinese Garden, nude beach near the University of British Columbia, and the Anthropology Museum at UBC.</span><br /><br />Yesterday, I pedaled through city and suburb for half a day before joining the Trans-<br />Canada Trail that visionaries hope will someday span the entire country. I pushed the l<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnAgmY3IHBACJV0cIsFOm7atSrfEFyAG5j4AWI97hjvR8wgDWWvw4on_fk1nple_uTGNbTsLZalplomc2bVCxSMzg-T62l8Xpl_jjZt64B3LyRIhtVfIY5EN3eixx2w-LO0YRpE-Et3No/s1600-h/100_1966+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnAgmY3IHBACJV0cIsFOm7atSrfEFyAG5j4AWI97hjvR8wgDWWvw4on_fk1nple_uTGNbTsLZalplomc2bVCxSMzg-T62l8Xpl_jjZt64B3LyRIhtVfIY5EN3eixx2w-LO0YRpE-Et3No/s320/100_1966+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339574563863153602" border="0" /></a>oaded bike up the too-steep-to-ride trail on Burnaby Mountain, and just when it seemed too hard to go on, I looked down and could almost see the hotel I woke up at that morning, some 20km away and 300 meters below me. Forty more kilometers on roads, and I came to Mission, very tired and knowing that the cruise ship had left me out-of-shape.<br /><br />It’s good to be underway.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190001911862958101.post-23526409689524661472009-03-04T12:09:00.000-08:002009-03-04T19:47:40.636-08:00Introduction<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC6rjqE9JLZWQtPyMB3sQbpltBkZ3_0iqI6sYLrvPN5JSd9JjemS21YYQHWImEFaZf8SNZ6yh8ois_4VqpN9APfPzieObNgTOUXiuPbUNzPU75c_KpobB2H0bNDNGM5RVDgawJafBbEqo/s1600-h/100_0028.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 179px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC6rjqE9JLZWQtPyMB3sQbpltBkZ3_0iqI6sYLrvPN5JSd9JjemS21YYQHWImEFaZf8SNZ6yh8ois_4VqpN9APfPzieObNgTOUXiuPbUNzPU75c_KpobB2H0bNDNGM5RVDgawJafBbEqo/s320/100_0028.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309545183122223922" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGRrH-aY0mcWqRV_BUDF31fIZVgeqsw4oZcO_jc-O7nVEcAUJ28QAbnIO5gRCuhr_SOOPo6mDOGwfq-6_19T7LcO9gzIyQr2ovUOJz5yQ3Gs76YkTq3UAZzU3EW95mKpqjh86W6IeL6Z8/s1600-h/Sharon+12-05.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 135px; height: 203px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGRrH-aY0mcWqRV_BUDF31fIZVgeqsw4oZcO_jc-O7nVEcAUJ28QAbnIO5gRCuhr_SOOPo6mDOGwfq-6_19T7LcO9gzIyQr2ovUOJz5yQ3Gs76YkTq3UAZzU3EW95mKpqjh86W6IeL6Z8/s320/Sharon+12-05.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309428375107935250" border="0" /></a>This summer, I plan to ride across Canada by myself, carrying all my stuff. I cycled across the Untied States in this way during the summer of 2007 ( <a href="http://sharon159.home.att.net/">http://sharon159.home.att.net</a>). This trip will just continue that homeless wandering. Please join me here and leave comments as I add to this blog from my laptop.<br /><br />I will leave Southern California May 9 on a ship bound for Vancouver, BC. From there I will pedal east to Bangor, Maine, some 4000 miles.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Tentative Schedule</span><br />5/31 Jasper, Alberta<br />6/8 Drumheller, Alberta<br />6/14 Saskatoon, Saskatchewan<br />6/27 Winnipeg, Manitoba<br />7/11 Thunder Bay, Ontario<br />7/21 Sault Ste Marie, Ontario<br />8/4 Ottawa, Ontario<br />8/9 Montreal, Quebec<br />8/15 Quebec City, Quebec<br />8/25 Edmundston, New Brunswick<br />9/5 Bangor, MaineSharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com9