To Ahna “Kreegs” MacDonald and Roberta “Squeaky” Maize, Okanagon Level contributors to this trek.  They have kept me in bananas and carrots.  They have sustained me with their goodwill, light-hearts, and generosity.  The Okanagon  does not begin to describe the valleys through which Squeaks and Kreegs have carried me.  They are vast canyons of erosion beneath my wings.  They are the fruit orchards of my tented dreams.  They are the undocumented workers who keep my legs churning at 8 to 12 mph over any terrain.

Ladies, I apologize whole-heartedly that this here blog has not been filled with the kind of salacious debauchery which I know you wantonly desire.  The craven depravity which lurks in your dimly illuminated (but one tepid shaft of sunlight) office/den/lair knows no bounds.  Alas, the risque truths of the road are too hard for the timid ears of your peers.  And too, we must keep it clean for the kiddos.

To Warren Gilles, an Erie Canal Level contributor.  I don’t know if I ever crossed the Erie Canal, but I did pass some sort of canals or canal-like geographical features.  I thank you for your generous gift.  I immediately blew most of the dough on new tires in Saskatoon.  (This is why people *shouldn’t* give me money.  I spend it.)  Although harried on all sides by the demands of his job, his wife, and his teenager, Warren is a great boss, a gentle human being, and an excellent poker player.  I hope he is able to use the last of these traits to extract his contribution from Joe Jones (assuming Joe has enough foolish courage to invite Warren to another poker game).  Warren, it was a pleasure working for and with you, and one way or another I’ll see you again soon.  And, hey, be assured, the secret of your and Sean’s embezzling is safe with me.








Speaking of secrets, to my secret girlfriend, Megan Sykes, a two time West Quody Head Level donor.  This is a crazy amount of generosity and it has completely tainted our relationship.  With some remorse, I opted not to head to West Quody Head.  My legs, more akin to the ivory prosthetic of the captain of the Pequod; my heart, unwilling to chase that white whale, especially with the white winter squalls threatening.  I turned back and down the coast of Maine at Acadia National Park.  And I would be thoroughly satisified with this decision had it not been for the influence of the next, and last, group of donors.  Wherever the vestiges of our relationship lead, it has been fun and I appreciate your support.

To my parents, Roger and Joan Gerdes, six time West Quody Head Level donors. It is my suspicion that you mean well. You supplied me with money when I didn’t need it; you supplied me with second-guessing when I didn’t want it. The former kept me in the warm comfort of motels on many of the cold nights at the end of the trip when I realized I would come in under my budget. The latter kept me inspired to continue when I probably shouldn’t or wouldn’t have, for no better reason than to establish that it is my life to live and my decisions and conclusions alone which give it meaning. To you both, I will undoubtedly forever be obliged.

I’ve really struggled the past couple days to make mileage. A smidge over 70 miles each both Tuesday and Wednesday. Sitting at a touch over 60 miles today. It’s only 4pm, so I theoretically could bike another three hours and still have time to make camp and eat. That would put me minimally at 90 miles for the day…maybe more with any favorable conditions.

Favorable conditions are:

Strong legs.
Good wind.
Good pavement.
Moderate heat.

Over only one of those do I have any control. The wind, particularly, has not been working for me at all since I’ve been in Alberta or Saskatchewan, excluding Sunday, August 28th when I got a good tailwind out of Hinton to Cynthia, Alberta.

I’ve been eating a lot better on this trip than I did on my Atlanta to Alpine trek. But I’ve found that I need to focus on eating even better. It makes all the difference in the world. By the time I’m on the bike, energy bars, and bananas, and so on aren’t cutting it. It’s what I get in the meals which makes it work.

Here’s what I ate yesterday, more or less, and I feel like it was pretty effective as far as an eating day:

A veggie omelet
Brown toast and honey
Pan fries and ketchup
Coffee
Several bananas
Several blueberry granola bars
A walnut-maple ice cream cone
A half-liter of grapefruit juice
A handful of raisins
A half-liter of 2% milk
A half-liter of V-8 juice
A half-liter of orange juice
A handful of popcorn cabbage (brussel sprouts)
A pair of large carrots
A tin of sardines in mustard sauce
Several spoonfuls of peanut-butter
A package of ramen noodles
A bowl of rice and quinoa in chicken broth with several cloves of garlic
Lots of water

Largest Tomahawk in the World, Cut Knife, Saskatchewan

Consequently, I felt very strong this morning and had 30 miles in within the first two hours. Stopped for lunch at a diner in Cut Knife (home of the World’s Largest Tomahawk), and then slorged against the wind and the heat for the next thirty miles. I should really figure out how to travel at night.

Wait, no, enjoy the heat, Winter is coming.

And screw 90 miles today. I’ve got free internet access, on a reasonably fast computer, with no one waiting behind me (knock on wood), and no apparent time limit. Let’s see if I can catch up on some blog posting.

It was really hot that day (August 18th).  And he was climbing out of the woods inside the boundary of the Okanogan National Forest.  I imagined that he had been primitive camping there.  (It is legal to camp in the US-national forests wherever it isn’t specifically outlawed.)  Says he has been on the road 18 years, though he didn’t look thirty and might have looked 18.  He had a mountain bike with road tires and front and rear panniers.  Says he travels about twenty miles a day, is happy (made a point of stating this twice, no bills, no health insurance, no job), and spends most of his time memorizing scripture.  Seemed bright and grounded in ways I did not expect.

He was obviously out of water.  I started to reach in my bag to give him some of my water but was still straddling the bike and plugged into my MP3 player.  I said, “here, you root around in there.  There should be a bottle right under the bag of food.”  Eventually he found it.  But not before identifying my stove which I thought impressive because it was sealed in a black bag.  He also inventoried my food (less impressive, as this was lying open in a couple grocery bags…but still, perceptive).  Started chatting me up about my my set-up and route.  On set-up, his question, “why don’ y you have any weight on the front fork?  Aren’t you supposed to have at least a third up front?”  Which showed a surprising awareness of conventional thinking on bike culture/touring prep.

As soon as I said I was going to Canada, he said two things in short succession, “like Manitoba,” (this was said with a wistful awe with which he could have said, “like Eden,”) and, “so, you have a passport?”  Which creeped me out a little bit like he was sizing up whether my passport photo would pass for him, but mainly I read it as a he didn’t have a passport and would like one.

In exchange for the water he gave me a couple cloves of garlic and a couple bags of tea (one of which I inadvertantly got wet before using).  I didn’t feel the need to exchange, and he didn’t insist, but he seemed eager to give something to me and I knew I could use both the garlic and the tea.  He also tried to give me an apple, “I saw you already have some bananas, but would you like an apple?”  No thanks.  ”It’s organic?”

I wondered later if he really just wanted some bananas.  I would have given him some had I been thinking more clearly.  I introduced myself and he himself.  What a better time to learn someone’s name than when you are about to never see them again?  And I started back up the hill to Loup Loup Pass (about 2000′ of elevation gain in 12 miles, so reasonably daunting in that heat).

Zephyr must have started out shortly thereafter.  I saw him in my rearview mirror for a while.  He was now wearing something bright red.  I wasn’t absolutely sure it was him.  He was climbing at the same pace as myself and maybe gaining.  I put the pedal to the metal.  I was worried that maybe I had slighted him by not offering bananas, that maybe he was after my passport, that maybe he would nomadically follow me to camp, that maybe his parting “be safe” had an ominous note.

Just hope he had enough water.