Unfulfilled Fear

I feared the day’s ride from Rosetown to Saskatoon because my heading would be northeast. On 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 when 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?

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 run I did, at some 30 km/hr, fairly sailing across the land like a schooner, a prairie schooner.

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.

“Peas,” said one of the men at long last.
“They’re planted as far as I can see, for miles” I said.
“Snow brought ‘em up. We ain’t had no rain.”
“Snow?”
“We had fourteen inches of snow. Planted in April. Them peas are living on snow.”
“We got a bit a rain today,” I said trying to sound like a farmer.
“Not more than a trickle.”
“Are the peas for cattle feed?”
“Sometimes. Some for human consumption.”

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. 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.

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.

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.

This Amazing Prairie

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 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.

I ride in comfortable morning air, around sixty Fahrenheit degrees, usually without wind. The 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

This amazing prairie of cantankerous winds and storms and pleasant winds.

Creatures Beneath Me

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.




The old prairie with its little houses and horse-plowed fields is fading into a layer of geology like dinosaurs.








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.

The Wildlife has Changed

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.

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.

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.
I went back to the motel and tried the idea. Within a half hour the shifter worked.

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.
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.

Immense Prairie

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.

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.

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.





Three very strange vehicles are shown in the picture, each with a unique history and purpose for being.





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.

Friendly Lowland

I left Canmore with its towering 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.

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.

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.

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.

Wilderness Travel Among Tourists

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:

I came to Jasper intending to ride the full length 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.

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 avoid 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.

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 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 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.

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.

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.

When I joined the Parkway, there were fewer cars and RV’s than I expected, maybe one in five minutes on average. The road has a wide shoulder, safe to ride on, save swerving animal-lookers and eyes peering from the forest perhaps.

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.”

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.

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.

At the end of the day, when the sun was still high in the five-pm sky, I came to Beauty Creek 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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

The next morning I looked out the 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. 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.

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.

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.

The Canmore Hotel is the finest—world-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?

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.

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.

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.