Cody, Wyoming. August 18th - September 4th 1999
The crossing into Canada was easy and uneventful. The same
could be said for the roads and the scenery. For some reason I expect there to be dramatic
changes when I pass from one country to another; the scenery, the people, the
architecture. In fact the only thing I had to adjust to was the 90kmph speed limit,
instead of the 65mph back in the US. I had to slow down by nearly 10 miles an hour. Yeah
right. Everything is metric in Canada, which I feel more comfortable working in. They made
the change back in the early seventies, much to the irritation of the population. Another
thing that seems to put their collective back up is that all the signs have to be in
English and French, out of respect for the French-speaking population of Quebec. I can
quite understand the signs being bilingual in Quebec, but it seems a bit much to go to the
cost of doing it for the rest of the country. It would be a bit like insisting that all
the signs in Great Britain be in English and Welsh.
My first day in Canada was brought to a standstill by rain. I pulled up at a motel feeling
as black as the sky above me and went and drowned my sorrows in the bar. I met a fellow
biker, Doug from Alaska, a thoroughly nice guy who made my evening very much more
enjoyable that it might have been. If it had not been for him I would have had to endure
the three-strong crowd propping up the bar who insisted on buying me a Paralyzer. The
contents of this lethal cocktail were not revealed to me except that there was a blink of
milk and something that tasted like licorice. I was finally able to give it to a large
drunk blond in exchange for my waist, which she had decided to get to grips with.
After tightening the chain and a hearty breakfast I set off once more. Now there’s a
thing. Breakfast. In the US or Canada, it doesn’t matter, breakfast is something to
be respected. Imagine starting your day with a short stack, two eggs (over easy) and
crispy ranch style bacon, all covered in maple syrup and washed down with a
continually-filled-cup of steaming black coffee. A short stack? Pancakes, silly. Two large
thick pancakes, round and fluffy - I almost don’t have to bother with the rest of my
meals, they are so substantial.
The landscape improved with the weather, the further south I headed. The roads were fast
and empty, winding through mountains and skirting glacial lakes. The water is a
fascinating turquoise colour. As the glaciers ease themselves slowly down the mountain,
they grind the rocks and stone beneath them. The sediment this produces is carried in the
meltwater, down into lakes where it floats, suspended in the water, reflecting this
strange and unexpected colour.
The engine seemed to be labouring by the end of the day. I had been riding long and hard
and was feeling tired. I was looking for a quiet spot on the shores of Lake Teslin to camp
and attend to the bike. I saw a track that I thought would lead me to just such a place
and, having passed it, effected a quick U-turn in the middle of the highway. I didn’t
notice the gravel on the side of the road and the front wheel slipped out from beneath me
and down we went. One aluminium pannier was scratched and my confidence dented. I was very
grateful to the old boy that stopped and gave me a hand getting the bike on its feet, so
to speak. I limped along and plumped for a campsite, now far too tired to be bothered
where I stopped. As is always the case in life, it turned out to be a blessing that I had
chosen this particular site out of so many along the road. Francois and Sophie, a
beautiful young couple from Quebec, invited me over for a fresh pike dinner. They had
parked their camper in the plot next to mine and were on there way home after having been
planting trees all summer. A few months earlier they had swapped vows amid the
cathedral-like mountain peaks of Jasper National Park, west of Calgary. Their generosity
and kindness eased away all the wrinkles of the day and we talked late into the night. On
parting, Francois presented me with a woodcarving he had done himself. It was of a goose's
head, a fitting companion, I thought, for my ride south.
The following morning I discovered I had over-tightened the chain and that that was the
cause of my engine maladies. I slackened it off a little and proceeded on the most
enjoyable ride to date. I saw buffalo by the side of the road, and a mile further on, at
last, a black bear and her two cubs eating on the edge of the forest, 30 meters from the
road. I stopped and watched as the cubs played with each other, scampering up and down
tree trunks and play-fighting, while their mother ate slowly and deliberately, never for
one moment taking her eyes off me, before moving off into the undergrowth, followed
closely by her cubs.
The ride through British Colombia flattened out considerably, but there started to appear
meadows and horses and finally crops and towns. I even hit my first traffic jam; a line of
seven cars waiting at a stop sign in Dawsons Creek. Civilisation. Only 3500 miles and my
back tyre was already bald. Gaudin’s Honda in Beaverlodge kindly changed both tyres
free of charge, in support of my venture. Thank goodness for civilisation.
A day’s ride through the spectacular Jasper and Banf National parks landed me in
Calgary, an attractive, clean city set on plains once roamed by millions of buffalo. I was
tolerated by the delightful Yegars and their energetic children, while I cleaned up and
rested for a few days, before pushing south and over the border into the US once more. I
have stopped in Cody, Wyoming, home of the late Buffalo Bill and where my sister Sabrina
and nephew Conrad are now based. We have been joined by my mum, who came out from England
to celebrate her birthday and catch up with me for a few days. Sabrina gave a dinner for
25 to entertain us and to introduce my mum to her many friends. At some point during the
evening attention was drawn to my trip, the reasons behind it, and a small plea put out
for contributions. By the end of the night I had secured $15,200. That is over £9000. In
one evening. No wonder Sabrina moved here.
