From Flying Saucers to a Monster Moose: Bicycling across Ontario… The 10,000 Mike Bike Trek

November 4, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 32 Comments

Large moose culture found in Hearst, Ontario Canada.

Large sculptures are often found in Canadian towns. They serve as tourist attractions but also give the town a unique character. We found this large moose that Peggy is snuggling up to in Hearst, Ontario.

Quebec and Ontario shared a unique status on my Bike Trek: They were huge— two to three times the size of Texas. Each took over a week to bicycle across and each had a lot of no-where miles, long distances between towns. Northern Quebec won the prize, however, for being the most remote. As I bicycled south and picked up Quebec Route 117, larger towns reappeared at more frequent intervals. Val-d’Or and Rouyn-Noranda were close to being small cities.

Crossing into Ontario, smaller communities were the rule. Ten thousand people constituted a major metropolis. Larder Lake, the first community I biked through in Ontario, had a population of around 1000 in 1989. It had dropped to 700 when Peggy and I drove through in May. I was reminded of West Texas, where most of the towns seemed to be losing population. Once upon a time, Larder Lake was considered to have a golden future. A mining investment company ran an ad in the 1907 Ottawa Citizen claiming:

“The Larder Lake district is believed to be the richest gold country ever known, and it is just now being opened up. Soon will commence the most tremendous outpouring of gold known to civilization.”

If you could get past the English, how could you not invest? The person who wrote the ad copy likely had a great future as a time-share salesman. Eventually a little gold was found, but it was more like a trickle than a “tremendous outpouring.” Today, the town is better known for fish. Peggy and I found a large one beside the road. It was leaping out of the ‘water.’

Lake Trout Sculpture in Larder Lake, Ontario Canada.

A large Lake Trout leaping out of the water served to let travelers know that Larder Lake was a great place to go fishing, and, I might add, enjoy the outdoors in general.

I am in love with the large, often outlandish sculptures, that so many Canadian towns adopt to encourage tourism, or maybe because the residents have a warped sense of humor. Peggy and I first became aware of the phenomena when we were driving into British Columbia in 1999 on Highway 97 out of Washington and came upon the “World’s Largest Golf Ball” and the “World’s Largest Beehive.” Here are some that we found as we made our way across Ontario on Trans-Canada Highway 11.

Flying saucer sculpture in Moonbeam, Ontario Canada.

If your town is named Moonbeam, why not have a flying saucer sculpture in front of the Information Center? Quivera, our van, can be seen peeking out from behind the saucer.

Aliens peak out window of flying saucer in front of information center in Moonbeam, Ontario Canada.

Curious aliens were staring out the windows of the flying saucer.

Alien points out brochures in Information Bureau in Moonbeam, Ontario Canada.

A helpful alien points out brochures inside of Moonbeam’s Information Center.

This young woman staffed the Information Center. She spoke fluent English but confessed her first love was French. She also told us there were great hiking trails in the region but that she avoided them because of bears.

Large black bear sculpture found in Kapuskasing, Ontario Canada

Shortly afterwards we found this huge black bear statue at Kapuskasing. I’d be staying off the trails, too.

Giant moose and wolf sculptures in Hearst, Ontario Canada.

Here is another shot of the moose I featured at the top of the post— not looking so friendly as he stares down a pair of wolves.

Wolf sculpture in Hearst, Ontario Canada.

A view of the wolf looking like he might belong in the movie, Twilight. “Jacob, is that you in there?”

The 'World's Largest Snowman' in Beardmore, Ontario Canada.

Beardmore proudly boasts the World’s Largest Snowman as its claim to fame.

My bicycle trip across Ontario in 1989 was something of a blur. One thing I do remember was a gradual change from French to English. It wasn’t like I arrived at the border and the language changed. Local loyalties seemed to depend on culture rather than the provincial boundary. I was reminded of my experience in West Africa where loyalty was to the family first, the tribe second, and the country third. Peggy and I still noticed remnants of these emotions in Ontario 26 years later. A house might be painted in tri-color French, warning off potential Anglophiles. Or British lions would be proudly displayed as lawn ornaments, prepared to pounce on someone who spoke French.

Towns became more frequent, which meant there were more excuses to stop. I could start with breakfast and eat my way through the day. I had given up on cooking for myself by now, unless I was desperate. There was mid-morning snack, lunch, mid-afternoon snack and dinner to look forward to, not to mention coffee breaks. My hundred-mile a day bicycling body demanded constant fueling. Plus I liked the companionship. Bicycling by myself for 8-10 hours was lonely business. On occasion, I would even stay at a motel, just so I could turn the TV on and hear people talk. The downside of this was that I ran through my trip budget more quickly than I had planned. When I arrived in Thunder Bay, I called my brother-in-law and had him transfer some money he owed me into my account so I could finish off my journey in the style I had become accustomed to!

The terrain in Ontario wasn’t much different that I had been peddling over in Quebec, more or less flat with rolling hills. I worked my way through forests and farmlands, continuing to pass by numerous lakes and occasional rivers. As I neared Thunder Bay on Lake Superior, however, more mountainous country came into view, and with that more serious uphills and downhills. Following are several photos that Peggy and I took of the countryside.

Trans-Canada Highway 11 works its way across Ontario— in this particular instance forested, flat and straight. Can’t say much for the gravelly shoulder.

Bear Lake in Ontario Canada along Trans-Canada Highway 11.

Many lakes are found along the highway in Ontario. Bear Lake was one of the first I came across. In line with its name, bear-proof trash containers were provided at the wayside. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

The Kapuskasing River provides hydro-electric power for the town of Kapuskasing. Peggy and I also saw extensive use of solar power along Highway 11.

This abandoned church caught my attention…

It’s feeling of ages past led me to render it in black and white.

Wild Goose Campground near Long Lake provided some scenic views…

Reedy lake at Wild Goose Campground in Ontario.

Plus this one of reeds.

As I approached Thunder Bay, mountains provided both beauty and a more challenging ride.

Peggy and I stopped to photograph this cliff.

And its small waterfall.

This bridge across the Nipigon River near Thunder Bay has only been opened for a short while. It was closed briefly in January this year because it became detached from the approach. Given that it provides the only way across the river for Canada’s major East-West highways, you can imagine the resources that were devoted to fixing it! Peggy and I headed across the bridge, stopped in Thunder Bay for lunch, and then drove into Minnesota — returning to the US as I had on my bike.

NEXT BLOG: I cross Minnesota, throw a rock across the Mississippi River, and visit with a babe (as in Babe the Blue Ox).

The Case of the Disappearing Woman… and other Scary Halloween Tales: Part III

October 31, 2016October 29, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 36 Comments

The ghostly grave of John Brown the Martyr on a lonely Scottish moor.

I mentioned the Scottish Presbyterian Martyr, John Brown, in a recent post I wrote about the Scottish presence on Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. My connection to Brown goes back to my Great, Great, Great Grand Father, James Mekemson, who had married Mary Brown Laughhead Findlay. John Brown was her Great Grandfather.

The story of John Brown’s murder verges on legend. He was, as the saying goes, a Covenanter’s Covenanter, a very devout man. The Scottish Covenanters received their name from signing a Covenant that only Christ could be King, which eliminated the King of England from being God’s representative on earth. The King was not happy. So he set out to eliminate Covenanters.

Reverend Alexander Peden, one of the top leaders of the Covenanter Movement, described Brown as “a clear shining light, the greatest Christian I ever conversed with.” High praise indeed; the type you reserve for a man who is killed for your cause.

They say that Brown would have been a great preacher, except he stuttered. Leading Covenanters visited his home and secret church services were held there. Important meetings took place. Alexander Peden stayed at his house the night before Brown earned his martyrdom and warned of dark times. Peden was something of a prophet when it came to predicting dire events. This time he was right.

Brown was out gathering peat with his nephew the next morning when soldiers led by John Graham of Claverhouse appeared out of the mist and captured him. The date was May 2, 1685. Claverhouse, or Bloody Clavers as the early Presbyterians identified him, was the King’s go-to man when it came to doing away with Covenanters. He was not noted for his compassion.

He took Brown back to his home and demanded that he swear an oath to the King in front of his wife and children. Brown started praying instead. The legend states that Claverhouse ordered his soldiers to kill Brown but they refused. So he took out his own pistol and shot him in the head in front of his family. The story then goes on to describe how Brown’s wife, Isabel Weir, went about the yard collecting pieces of her husband’s brain. (I don’t mean to treat this lightly, but somehow I can’t help thinking about a TV episode of Bones.)

An early sketch of John Brown the Martyr of Priesthill Scotland being shot down by Bloody Clavers.

Three years ago, Peggy and I made a trip to Scotland where I went on a search for ancestors. In looking for John Brown’s grave, we had stayed at a wonderful Bed and Breakfast known as the Old Church B&B in the village of Muirkirk. The owners had provided us with directions on how to find the site. It wasn’t obvious. Old and older roads led to a farmhouse where we were to park our car and then hike down a barely visible trail a mile or so to the grave.

The Old Church B&B in Muirkirk Scotland where we stayed when searching for John Brown’s grave.

Finally the old farmhouse came into sight. A woman was standing on a porch enclosed by a three-foot high rock wall. She was wearing clothes that my great-grandmother times five might have found fashionable. Since we would be walking through her property in search of John Brown’s grave, I got out to talk with her.

But she did something strange. She disappeared. Now this was strange in two ways. Obviously she didn’t want to talk with us. She turned her back and walked rapidly toward the door. Okay, I could live with that even though we had found most Scots to be friendly and helpful. Possibly she was shy.

What bothered me more was she sank. It was like she was traveling down an escalator or open elevator. Her head disappeared beneath the stonewall before she reached the door. I did not see her go inside.

“Maybe there are steps down to an underground cellar,” I thought to myself. Or maybe she merely bent over to work on a flower garden. Curiosity got the better of me. I walked over. There was no woman; there were no flowers; there were no stairs. As far as I could see the floor of the porch was solid stone.

I asked Peggy, “Did you see that woman disappear?”

“She went inside,” my logical wife explained.

“Ah,” I said and put the matter out of my mind as we wandered out the indistinct trail across the vacant moors to John Brown’s lonely grave. But the thought, unlike the woman, wouldn’t conveniently disappear; it kept nibbling away at me. Later I asked Peggy if she had seen the woman sink into the porch.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Did you actually see her go in the house?”

“No.”

So there you have it. Had we actually seen a ghost? Was this some ancient ancestor? I will wrap up my Halloween tales at this point but how about you? Do you have any ghostly tales you would like to share on this scary 2016.

Peggy stands near where John Brown was shot on the likely remains of his house. Mist covers the distance as it would have on the day he was captured.

Peggy stands on the site where Isabel Weir may have once gone about her ghastly chore of gathering up John Brown’s brains. Mist covers the distance as it would have on the day he was captured.

NEXT POST: I will be back to bicycling across the province of Ontario, Canada.

The Cannonball Ghost… and Other Scary Halloween Tales: Part II

October 30, 2016October 29, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 27 Comments

On November 15, 1777, the British lobbed 1000 cannonballs per hour into the tiny Fort Mifflin in an all out effort to resupply British troops in Philadelphia. Four of my ancestors fought in the battle and two were killed. Did they become ghosts?

On November 15, 1777, the British Navy lobbed 1000 cannonballs per hour into the tiny Fort Mifflin in an all out effort to resupply British troops in Philadelphia. Four of my ancestors fought in the battle and two were killed. Did they become ghosts? The forts ammunition magazine can be seen on the other side of the Canadian Geese.

Fort Mifflin, located next to the Philadelphia Airport, is well-known for its ghosts. For a time during the Revolutionary War, it was all that stood between the mighty British Navy and George Washington’s ragtag army of Revolutionaries. The few brave men stationed there had fought a heroic battle and succeeded in holding off the British for several weeks. Many of the defenders were killed, including two of my Great, Great, Great, Great Grandfather’s brothers.

Peggy and I visited the Fort several years ago on Halloween and decided it would be fun to go on a special Halloween Night tour. “Maybe the Mekemson ghosts will be lurking,” I had told Peggy.

Our guide had gathered us up. His lantern was immediately blown out. “It’s only the wind,” he explained. “I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t hunt them and they don’t hunt me.” His disclaimer came with a ‘but.’ He worked at the Fort, and occasionally ‘things’ happened. Doors closed and latched on their own. A woman screamed like she was being murdered. The police were called but couldn’t find anyone— or thing.

He related story after story as we made our way through the candle lit buildings of the fort. Other staff, volunteers and visitors had also experienced strange phenomena. More than one visitor had left on the run and even the guide had packed up and gone home on one occasion. He was spending the night in a second-floor room when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. He opened the door and no one was there. Next he heard voices coming from the room next to him. He checked. No one was there either. He packed up and left, quickly.

We arrived at the Fort’s ammunition magazine, a bush covered hill that resembled an ancient burial mound. A bright hurricane torch outlined the dim opening. We entered and walked down a narrow, dimly lit corridor that opened out to a large, arched bunker. A single candle created dancing shadows on the far wall. Reputedly, a man dressed in Revolutionary Soldier garb had once greeted guests in the dark room and vividly described the horrendous battle that had taken place on November 15, 1777. Afterwards, the tourists had stopped at the park headquarters to report on how much they had enjoyed the presentation. The Fort had no such guide.

The entrance to the ghostly ammunition magazine taken during the day. The hurricane lantern is on the right.

“I’ve never felt anything in here,” the tour leader related. “It’s dead space,” he quipped. I stared hard into the corner where the soldier had supposedly stood, trying to create something out of nothing. But there were only the dancing shadows. Peggy tried to take a photo but the camera froze and refused to work. As she struggled with it, the last of our tour group disappeared down the narrow corridor, leaving us alone with the flickering candle.

We hurried after the group. There was no one outside the magazine, only the glowing torch and the dark night. “I saw them heading down a side corridor,” Peggy said. With more than a little reluctance, we dutifully trooped back inside. Peggy’s corridor was a bricked in wall. I was starting to feel spooked.

“Maybe we should go back to the bunker,” she suggested.

“Maybe not” I had replied and headed for the entrance, with Peggy close behind. Just as we arrived, the hurricane torch, which was designed to withstand high winds, was blown out by a slight puff of ice-cold air, leaving us with nothing but dark.

The hairs on the back of my head stood at attention. Was my ancient Uncle Andrew trying to communicate with us? He had been cut in half by a cannon ball after saving the Fort’s flag. Maybe he was still seeking his other half. Peggy and I decided it was time to vacate the premises.

Once you’ve become thoroughly “spooked,” every dark corridor, such as this one at Fort Mifflin becomes a potential hiding place for a ghost.

Fortunately, we found our group several buildings away and stuck like super glue to them the rest of the tour.

Tomorrow’s Halloween Blog: A Lonely Grave… Peggy and I are looking for the grave of an ancestor, shot down as a Scottish Presbyterian Martyr, when we see what almost had to be a ghost.

Walking on Dead People… and other Scary Halloween Tales: Part I

October 29, 2016October 29, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 39 Comments

Incense Cedar tree in Diamond Springs California graveyard

Looking spooky, this tree dominates the graveyard that is located next to the house where I grew up. My brother and I had a tree fort on the lower limbs. We would hold races with the neighborhood kids to see who could climb the fastest from the fort to the 70-foot top and back. Being the youngest, I tended to slip more often.

A brief break from biking…

Halloween is here, and with elections just around the corner, things are very scary in the US. But I am not going to go there, not today. It’s too scary. I’d rather talk about ghosts.

It’s that time of the year when I break out family ghost stories. And since I only have a few, I am forced to return to previous posts. I have to dig up a few graves, sort through old bones, and hope that the ghosts I stir up haven’t haunted you in the recent past.

Anyway, I found three blogs that came from 2012 or earlier. I will post one today, one tomorrow, and one on Halloween.

I. Walking on Dead People

Let me start by noting that I was raised next door to a graveyard. It was out the backdoor and across a narrow dirt alley. We lived with its ghostly white reminders of our mortality day and night. Ancient tombstones with fading epitaphs whispered of those who had come to seek their fortune in California’s Gold Rush and stayed for eternity.

We lived on Highway 49 in Diamond Springs, California. Our house is to the right. The town's last remaining gold rush era building can be seen beyond the house.

We lived on Highway 49 in Diamond Springs, California. Our house is to the right, behind the walnut trees. The town’s last remaining gold rush era building can be seen beyond the house.

The fancier graves were surrounded by wrought iron fences like this one. We would swing on their gates, which would give off a satisfying Graveyard squeak. You can see our house beyond the fence.

The fancier graves were surrounded by wrought iron fences like this one. We would swing on their gates, which would give off an eerie Graveyard squeak. You can see the top of our house beyond the fence.

The top of this tombstone was covered with lichens that spoke of its gold rush era age.

The top of this tombstone is covered with lichens that speak of its gold rush era age.

Time had given the graveyard residents a sense of permanence and even peace. But not all of the graves were old. Occasionally a fresh body was buried on the opposite side of the cemetery. I stayed far away; the newly dead were dangerous.

At some time in the past, Heavenly Trees from China had been planted to shade the aging bones. They behaved like weeds. Chop them down and they sprang back up, twice as thick. Since clearing the trees provided Diamond Springs Boy Scout Troop 95 with a community project every few years, they retaliated by forming a visually impenetrable mass of green in summer and an army of sticks in winter. Trailing Myrtle, a cover plant with Jurassic aspirations, hid the ground in deep, leafy foliage.

Looking far too civilized, the graveyard is now well-kept. Heavenly Trees grow on the left here, however, waiting for the day when the graveyard is once again forgotten.

Looking far too civilized, the graveyard is now well-kept. Heavenly Trees growing on the left here, however, wait for the day when the graveyard is forgotten and they can once again play jungle.

Trailing Myrtle like this covered the ground and hid many of the graves.

Trailing Myrtle, like this now growing on the alley, covered the ground and hid many of the graves.

Once again found, a number of tombstones were on the ground, covered my the myrtle.

Once again found, a number of tombstones were on the ground, covered by the myrtle. This young man was born 100 years before I was born.

During the day, it took little imagination to change this lush growth into a jungle playground populated with ferocious tigers, bone crushing boas and half-starved cannibals. Night was different; the Graveyard became a place of mystery and danger. Dead people abandoned their underground chambers and slithered up through the ground.

Since I slept outside in our backyard during the summer, I was constantly hassled by these ghostly specters— especially when I was younger. I’d carefully place my bed where I couldn’t see any tombstones and I recruited the family pets for protection by allowing them to sleep on the bed. Between two dogs and three cats on a narrow cot, there was barely room for me. Once I even had a litter of kittens born on the bed while I was sleeping. I woke up with wet, wiggly feet. But the ghosts stayed away. If we chose to go into the graveyard at night, however, it was a different story…

There is nothing scary about this tomb, right. Now, picture it after dark peaking out from jungle like growth when you are six years old and sleeping outside.

This tombstone was visible from our back yard. There is nothing scary about it, right? Now, picture it as a six-year-old would see it on a moon-lit night, peeking out from the jungle-like growth. It moved about, I swear!

A local test of boyhood bravery was to visit the graveyard after dark and walk over myrtle-hidden graves, taunting the inhabitants. Slight depressions announced where they lived. It was best to avoid tripping. My older brother Marshall persuaded me to accompany him there on a moonless night when I was five. I entered with foreboding: fearing the dark, fearing the tombstones and fearing the ghosts. Half way through I heard a muzzled sound. Someone, or thing, was stalking us.

“Hey Marsh, what was that?” I whispered urgently.

“Your imagination, Curt,” was the disdainful reply.

Crunch! Something was behind a tombstone, digging and biting down on what sounded like a bone. It was not my imagination. Marshall heard it too. We went crashing out of the Graveyard with the creature of the night in swift pursuit, wagging his tail.

“I knew it was the dog all of the time,” Marsh claimed. Yeah, sure you did.

It was behind this tombstone with its secret hiding place where Tickle, the family Cocker Spaniel, had found something to dig up.

It was behind this tombstone with its secret hiding place that Tickle, the family Cocker Spaniel, had found something to dig up. Was it lost treasure or an old bone he had buried?

Tomorrow’s Halloween Tale: Peggy and I visit a Revolutionary War site on Halloween night where my ancestor cousin was cut in half by a British cannon ball. Did he really try to contact us?

The Road Less Traveled: Into the Far North of Quebec… The 10,000-Mile Bike Trek

October 25, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 37 Comments

When you choose to depart from familiar well-known roads, whether you are on an external or internal journey, it helps to have some idea of what you might be facing, and be prepared. I loved this 'fill in the blank' sign I found in Northern Quebec.

When you choose to depart from familiar well-known roads, it helps to have some idea of what you might be facing, and be prepared. I loved this ‘fill in the blank’ sign I found in Northern Quebec.

Peggy and I stopped at the Information Center in Saguenay with a specific purpose in mind. We wanted to find out about the road conditions for our trip into Northern Quebec following Route 167. Was there still snow? Would the dirt sections of the highway be knee-deep in mud? What services existed along the road?

“The road is fine,” the young woman at the Information Center assured us, looking at me like I was a nervous-Nellie city slicker who rarely made it beyond the confines of his city and would freak out if he couldn’t find a ‘ within ten miles.

A sign not usually seen by your everyday city dweller in the US. It is the third watch out for moose sign I've shown. The first featured a moose, the second a moose and a car. This one in northern Quebec was a bit more graphic.

A sign not usually seen by your everyday city dweller in the US. It is the third ‘watch out for moose’ sign I’ve shown in this series. The first featured a moose, the second a moose and a car. This one on Route 167 in northern Quebec was a bit more graphic.

“My boyfriend lives in Chibougamau (the farthest north we would travel) and drives down to see me every week.” As if that was supposed to convince me. Love does strange things to us. Something in my look must have caught her attention. She changed her tack.

“Well the road may be much rougher than you are used to in the US,” she said solicitously in her best Information Center voice. She didn’t want a couple of grumpy tourists complaining that they had been misled. I laughed. It was a ploy I had used many times on the nine-day, 100-mile backpack treks I had led. Inexperienced backpackers invariably wanted to know how tough their day was going to be. It was always best to error on the side of difficulty. Otherwise, they blamed me if their day was harder than expected.

So maybe the road was paved, but how often do you see SOS signs along paved roads. 167 had several pointing to lone phone booths. I don't remember any when I bike the road.

So maybe the road was paved, but how often do you see SOS signs along paved roads. Peggy and I saw several on 167 pointing toward lone phone booths. I don’t remember any when I biked the road.

An SOS phone booth along Route 167 in Northern Quebec.

An S.O.S. phone booth along the road.

But Peggy and I understood rough roads. We had already been over some rough roads in Canada, and rougher ones in the States. Plus Peggy and I had driven Quivera the Van and her predecessor Xanadu for over 200,000 miles on back roads in North America, including two trips to Alaska. It was unlikely that we were going to find something more difficult that we had already experienced.

We eventually got the information we wanted. There would be no deep mud; the whole road was paved. No snowstorms were predicted. Services were limited the first 100 miles (160 k), but after that, more frequent. Our only precaution: We should start with a full tank of gas.

The bottom line: It was not the road I remembered from 1989. Improvements had been made.

I left Lac Saint Jean with more concern than I normally felt. I had been over lonely roads, some with extremely limited services. But they were roads I knew something about. Naturally I had asked locals about what to expect on Quebec Routes 167 and 113. People had told me the area was isolated with few services. I should carry extra food and be prepared to handle any bike problems on my own. Bad weather was expected. The road was not skinny-tire friendly; portions were unpaved. And, oh, by the way, there were lots of logging trucks, really big logging trucks!

This sign along Route 167 suggested that the logging trucks were big. It was small in comparison to what I would experience.

I pictured myself riding through a horrendous rainstorm over a dirt road as logging trucks blasted by me at 100 kilometers per hour, burying me in mud.

None of the above happened on my first day. There was extreme isolation, yes. I rode miles without seeing a car, and the dark green forest of skinny trees went on and on. But the road was paved and there wasn’t any rain. The day was actually hot. Sweat kept trickling into my eyes. Thirst drove me to stop at slow streams twice to refill my water bottles. I was careful to use my water filter. Nasty things like giardia might be lurking in the dark water. The heat took its toll. After 90 miles, I called it a day and disappeared into the forest to set up camp. Why I didn’t select a creek or lake to camp next to, who knows. There were plenty about. But I chose a dry camp and that meant my water had to be rationed.

There were numerous lakes and streams along the road. Had I camped next to them, my bath would have been much more thorough.

There were numerous lakes and streams along the road I could have camped next to.

That wasn’t a problem; I had two liters, which were plenty to cook with and drink. My challenge was I also wanted a bath. I had skipped one the night before at Lac Saint Jean and then biked through 90 miles of heat. I really didn’t want to sleep with me. Careful calculations suggested I had two cups of water for bathing: one for washing and one for rinsing. So that’s what I did. It was sponge on and then sponge off, quickly, trying to cover all 3, 168 square inches of my body with 16 ounces. Blood sucking mosquitoes guaranteed speed. Whether I smelled better and was cleaner really didn’t matter, I went to bed happier.

I found the rain, dirt roads, and speeding logging trucks the next day. But first I had found a service station and had done a happy dance. After a hundred miles of nothing, four gas pumps and a squat building seemed like the Taj Mahal. I’m pretty sure it was Nirvana, but it didn’t last. Shortly after leaving the gas station, the rain and the dirt road arrived as a one-two punch— a sort of karma for celebrating too much. Bicycling through 2-3 inches of mud on skinny tires in a deluge isn’t much fun.

But it’s more fun that bicycling through mud and rain with speeding logging trucks. I heard something humongous coming up behind me, fast. My head whipped around like Linda Blair’s. It was an ‘Oh shit!’ moment. I didn’t see your normal everyday large logging truck; I saw a freight train, a monster pulling three trailers barreling down on me. And the driver didn’t slow down. He blasted by me with all 30 tires throwing up mud. I became an instant mud man. Totally blind, I applied wet brakes to wet tires and stumbled off my bike. Standing there, cursing, wiping off mud from my glasses and face, I had fond thoughts of my office in Sacramento.

Sometimes I am a slow learner, or make that stubborn. Not this time. When I heard a logging truck coming, I would jump off my bike and make a mad dash through the mud for the side of the road. Then I would happily wave at the logger as he went by. I doubt they ever noticed my slightly extended middle finger. I only waved it at the guys doing at least a 100 kph.

Of course the section of dirt road ended. It couldn’t have been more than 20 or 30 miles long. And the majority of truck drivers slowed down, probably because they were amazed to see a bike tourist on their road. Anyway, you can see why I wanted a clear view of what Peggy and I might expect on my second trip over the road. The following photos relate our experience.

The road through the wilderness went on and on, for some 300 miles. The first hundred miles was as empty as this photo suggests, but Peggy and I did find the SOS phone booths and an emergency medical station that hadn’t been there during my trip.

Numerous lakes, streams and rivers are found along the road. The first half seemed heavier on lakes, the second half on rivers.

Numerous lakes, streams and rivers are found along the road. The first half seemed to have more lakes, the second half more rivers.

I took full advantage to capture reflection shots. This one seemed dark and brooding.

I took full advantage to capture reflection shots. This one seemed dark and foreboding.

And this one more cheerful.

The small lake next to the emergency station provided this shot.

Quebec Route 167 ends its northern journey at Chibougamau, 8 miles from where Route 113 heads south. I skipped the extra 16 miles and cut south, but Peggy and I stayed at the town's hotel.

Quebec Route 167 ends its northern journey at Chibougamau, 8 miles from where Route 113 heads south. I skipped the extra 16 mile round trip and cut south, but Peggy and I stayed at the town’s hotel. Today, a motel is found at the cutoff. I can almost guarantee I would have been there taking a real shower instead of bathing in two cups of water had it been there in 1989!

Chibougamau may have been at the end of the road, but it had a McDs. And, judging from the size of the truck, they drank a lot of Budweiser.

The logging trucks apparently weren’t out and about yet. At least Peggy and I didn’t see any. But this pile of logs suggests the amount of timber harvesting done in the area. Large swaths had been clear-cut, leaving ugly scars.

We watched a huge claw pick up dozens of the skinny logs at a time. The logs that come out of the forests near our house in Southern Oregon are easily 3-4 times bigger in diameter.

Rivers captured our admiration as we drove south on Route 113.

And they reminded us how much Quebec depends upon hydro-electric power. We crossed under high power lines several times.

Another example.

Rapids suggested this river might be fun to raft.

A close up of the same river. Looking at how shallow the water appears to be. I had second thoughts about rafting.

A lone bike tourist made his way south on Route 113. He was the only one we saw on the route. Apparently biking into northern Quebec has yet to take off and become popular!

A storm was waiting for him and reminded me of my own adventure. (Railroad tracks can be seen crossing the road mid-photo.)

NEXT BLOG: I return to civilization and bicycle across Ontario on my way to Minnesota.

Quebec Independence plus a Dark and Stormy Night… The 10,000 Mile Bike Trek

October 22, 2016October 22, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 27 Comments

As I climbed out of toward beautiful rivers such as the kept me company.

As I climbed out of Sainte-Simeon toward Lac Saint-Jean, beautiful rivers such the Little Saguenay kept me company.

I had ridden 110 miles when I arrived at Parc national de la Pointe-Taillon on Lac Saint-Jean in Quebec. The rain was coming down in buckets and I was exhausted. It was a perfect night for hypothermia and all I could think of was setting up my tent and crawling into my warm goose-down sleeping bag. I was pounding in my last tent stake when a woman came over and asked if I would like something hot to eat. I almost fell in love.

I’ve long since lost and forgotten her name, but what I remember was that she was a PhD candidate doing her thesis on some type of plant growing in the region. We’d had a brief conversation when I arrived with water dripping off my nose. She had wanted to know where I had biked from. “California,” had been my reply. Apparently my answer had impressed her, or maybe she was just nice person concerned about a guy who didn’t have enough sense to get out of the rain.

In addition to hot food, she had a large, dry van. I wasn’t the only one lusting after it. Three 20-something men from Montreal who were car camping soon joined us with a case of Labatt Beer, a Canadian brew out of Ontario. All I had to contribute to the party were tales of the open road, but apparently they were enough. I felt a bit like a troubadour who was singing for his dinner and drink.

It was another dark and stormy night on the road— but cozy. As the rain pounded down on the roof, our conversation had ranged far and wide. And, I might add, long, since it was close to 1:00 a.m. when we downed the last beer, wished each other good night, and stumbled off in the rain.

The topic that had interested me the most was the issue of Quebec independence from the rest of Canada. It turned out that the three young men were separatists and believed that Quebec would be better off going it alone. The dispute over independence was buried deep in past. Quebec, of course, was predominantly French in culture, while the rest of Canada was primarily English. French Canadians had long worried that their culture and language would be buried under an avalanche of English language and customs. In the late 60s and early 70s this concern had turned to violence. In 1980 a referendum had been held to determine whether Quebec should pursue independence. Sixty percent had voted no, but nine-years later the issue was still simmering.

Given that our group was made up of three French Canadians, one British Canadian, and one American, our discussion on Quebec independence had been quite animated, but surprisingly amicable. It’s amazing what a rainy night, a dry van, and a case of beer can accomplish for international relations. We laughed a lot and as parted friends.

My photos today trace my journey from the St. Lawrence River ferry at Sainte-Simeon to Lac Saint-Jean. I followed Quebec Routes 170 and 372 up to Saguenay and then Routes 172 and 169 to Parc national de la Pointe-Taillon on the north side of the lake. (Peggy and I followed 170 up to 169 and went around the south side of the lake.) The ride included substantial climbs, rugged terrain, beautiful rivers and small to mid-sized communities. As I/we approached Lac Saint-Jean and climbed onto the Laurentian Plateau, the land flattened out considerably.

Landing at the ferry dock at St. Simeon. The ship was maneuvering around to drop its ramp on the exit way.

This one time lighthouse at St. Simeon had become a souvenir shop and ticket booth.

Quebec 170 out of St. Simeon had proven to be quite a climb.

Quebec Route 170 out of St. Simeon had proven to be quite a climb.

There was a lot of up and over…

The Palisades on top were impressive. The signs suggested I make a left turn.

A close up…

Small towns along the way were neat and orderly. I think this is Sagard.

A river ran through it…

Spring time flows guaranteed rapids when Peggy and I re-drove the route.

Jesus welcomed Peggy and I with open arms— not surprising in Quebec.

Jesus welcomed Peggy and me with open arms— not surprising in the Catholic province of Quebec.

The land flattened out as we neared Lac Saint Jean, providing scenes kill this one.

The land flattened out as we neared Lac Saint Jean, providing scenes like this one.

The gentler terrain supported large farms…

With wide open country.

I took this photo with its tell-tale Catholic Church next to Lac Saint Jean. The clouds were gorgeous.

Looking out toward the large Lac Saint Jean. The campground where I spent my rainy night is on the opposite shore.

NEXT BLOG: I continue my journey into the far north riding over muddy dirt roads, dodging three trailer logging trucks, and taking a bath with eight ounces of water.

New Brunswick, the Gaspé Peninsula, and the St. Lawrence River… The 10,000-Mile Bike Trek

October 19, 2016October 19, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 21 Comments

Like so many other rivers I followed on my bike trek, the Matapedia River on the Gaspe Peninsula provided a convenient route for road builders over terrain that might have been close to impassable otherwise.

The road kept rolling on as I cut across the northern part of New Brunswick. I picked up New Brunswick Route 15 in Elgin and followed it west to Shediac where I followed NB-11 and NB-8 to Bathurst, passing through a number of small villages such as Boutouche, Richibucto and the larger community of Miramichi. It wasn’t a particularly scenic route; the roads had been constructed to get people from point a to point b, not dazzle them with natural wonders. Still, there were things to admire: forests, farmlands, towns, and occasional rivers opening out onto bays on the Gulf of St. Lawrence.

Watch out for moose signs take on a more urgency along roads that are built for speed. The New Brunswick highway department wanted to make sure that drivers got the point that a moose is a big animal you do not want to run into!

Watch out for moose signs take on more urgency along roads that are built for speed. The New Brunswick highway department wanted to make sure that drivers got the point that a moose is a big animal you do not want to run into!

Although I selected the first part of my route across New Brunswick for speed (speed being relative at 10-15 miles per hour) instead of scenic beauty, there were

Although I selected the first part of my route across northern New Brunswick for speed (speed being relative at 10-15 miles per hour), I still found much that was scenic.

The nature of my bike trek changed when I left New Brunswick. I had upped the ante. Where I had been bicycling from 60-80 miles per day, I would now be traveling 80-100. Routes would be more direct. Layover days would become few and far between, and journal entries rare. It was time to get serious.

I decided in Bathurst that I needed to experience at least a part of the New Brunswick coast so I picked up NB-134 and followed it most of the way west to the beginning of the Gaspé Peninsula and Quebec. The road runs along the edge of Chaleur Bay and serves as the main street of several small villages with very French names. The first town I came across, however, was Nigadoo, which is a First Nation Mi’kmaq name that means place to hide. Whatever reason the Mi’kmaq had for choosing the name, it worked equally well for the French Acadians.

As elsewhere in the Atlantic Provinces, the Acadians of the region had been deported during England’s mid-18^th Century wars with France. Immediately after the Revolutionary War, New Brunswick had become a re-settlement area for Royalists/Tories who had remained loyal to the British Crown. During the late 1700s, the Acadians began to slip back into the country. The isolated north coast where they could live with minimum interference was one of their preferred locations. One might say that they were ‘hiding out.’

If Nigadoo didn’t quite fit my list of towns with French names, Petit-Rocher-Sud, Petit-Rocher, Petit-Rocher-Nord, Pointe Verte, and Belledune certainly did. I quickly discovered that the towns were true to their names. English names dropped off signs. Shopkeepers and others I met tended to speak French first and English as something they preferred not to. I even had an opportunity to try out my rudimentary high school French: “Où est la salle de bain?” Where is the bathroom? My efforts were appreciated, however, and I suspect that they produced a few chuckles when I left.

A number of Acadian towns were located along New Brunswick’s north coast that borders on the Gulf of St. Lawrence and Chaleur Bay where gentle waves lap at the relatively flat coast line.

A close up of the three inch high waves. I am sure that storms bring in more serious waves.

A close up of the three-inch high waves looking a lot like their larger cousins.

The wavelets were large enough to cover these rocks and bring out their colors.

I found these shells much higher on the same beach. They spoke to more serious waves and stormy seas.

You won't find many photos of industrial plants on my blogs, but I thought this plume was scenic enough to make the cut.

You won’t find many photos of industrial plants on my blogs, but I put my thoughts of air pollution aside long enough to snap this smokestack I found on the coast along NB-134.

I considered my use of French in New Brunswick as practice for Quebec, which I could see looming in the distance across the Chaleur Bay in the form of the Gaspé Peninsula. It looked suspiciously like another climb — and my suspicions were soon confirmed. As I reached the upper end of the bay, the Chic-Chocs (a Mi’kmaq word for craggy mountains) changed from ‘looming in the distance’ to up close and personal. Once again, I was faced with the Appalachian Mountains, which I had first encountered in my challenging climb up and over the Great Smokies. Would they never end?

Looking across Chaleur Bay at the Chic Choc Mountains on the Gaspe Peninsula, I could see a climb in my future.

Another view along New Brunswick 134.

Back on New Brunswick 11, I left behind the flatlands of the coast and entered the province’s more mountainous northwest.

The mountainous terrain!

Fortunately, I was granted a reprieve. The Matapedia River had cut a valley through the mountains and my next road, Quebec Route 132, followed the valley and provided a relatively gentle uphill where I could gawk at the scenery instead of peddling my ass off. (It was pretty much gone anyway.) I said goodbye to New Brunswick, crossed the Restigouche River, entered Quebec, and started my climb.

The Restigouche River widening out before it flows into Chaleur Bay.

A sign welcomed me to Quebec. I would have many miles of cycling before I left the province.

A few miles later, I came to where the Matapedia River flows into the Restigouche. The small town of Matapedia, located just across the river, included a rather impressive Catholic Church for its size, which was another clear sign that I had entered French Canada. Over 80 percent of French Canadians are Catholic, at least in name, and I can pretty much guarantee that there are enough large churches in the province to accommodate everyone. Looking at my map of the region, I was amused to find another reflection of Catholic influence: the majority of the small communities incorporated a saint in their names. I wondered if they ever ran out of saints or fought over which one they were going to get.

The Catholic Church in Matapedia, Quebec was quite large for the small community it served.

The canyon and the river proved to be quite scenic. I dawdled a bit, stopping to check out river overlooks. Eventually, I reached the top and the country opened up. I rode through the town of Amqui, biked around the very large Lake Matapedia, and began my descent toward Mont Joli and the St. Lawrence River. I then continued to follow Quebec-132 south to Rivière-du-Loup where I intended to catch a ferry. (I could have ridden all the way to New York State on the highway.)

A scenic overlook provided this view of birch trees and the Matapedia River. In addition to its beauty, the river is known for its salmon fishing.

Quebec Highway 132 provided a relatively easy and quite scenic route over the Gaspe Peninsula.

I found large farms, small cities and big churches along the St. Lawrence River. I was curious about how one of the communities, Trois-Pistoles, got its name. Pistole, I learned, is a gold Spanish coin, not a pistol. According to legend, an early explorer lost a silver cup at the location that was worth three of them. In terms of the value, Mr. Cotton’s parrot in Pirates of the Caribbean would say, “12 pieces of eight. Awk! 12 pieces of eight.” Now you know.

The small farms of the Atlantic Provinces gave way to more industrial size farms in Quebec.

The small farms of the Atlantic Provinces gave way to more industrial sized farms in Quebec.

Old barns spoke of simpler times.

13-catholic-church on St. Lawrence River in Quebec

Large Catholic Churches continued to dominate the skyline of communities along the St. Lawrence River in Quebec. Two more follow…

I liked the backdrop provided by the dark clouds with the churches cross caught in the sunlight.

I liked the backdrop provided by the dark clouds with the church’s cross outlined by sun-lit clouds.

Scenic views along the way included open fields...

Scenic views along the St. Lawrence River included open fields…

And views of the river as seen on the other side of this mud flat.

And glimpses of the river as seen across this mud flat.

Peggy and I found this unique menagerie on our way to the ferry in

Peggy and I found this menagerie on our way to the ferry in Riviere-du-Loup.

And this somewhat strange sculpture of a First Nation native.

And this somewhat unique sculpture of a First Nation native.

The ferry at Rivière-du-Loup carried me across the St. Lawrence River to Saint-Siméon where I will begin my next post, heading in to the remote wilderness of Northern Quebec. The first night finds me drinking beer while sitting in a van and discussing Quebec separatist politics with three young men and a woman PhD candidate while a storm raged outside.

Ferry wake stretching across the broad St. Lawrence River.

A Detour to Prince Edward Island… The 10,000-Mike Bike Trek

October 12, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 52 Comments

Grey skies detracted from the “picture postcard” look this lighthouse in Victoria, Prince Edward Island is supposed to have, but provided a powerful backdrop for the tree that seems to lean toward it. A crow sits on the railing, looking down toward us.

I bicycled past Prince Edward Island (PEI) on my 5000-mile marathon bike ride home— and had regretted it ever since. It was a bucket list item for me, and I was ever so close, merely a ferryboat ride away. But the clock was ticking.

They have built an 8-mile (12.9 k) bridge between New Brunswick and PEI since, and proudly point out that it is the longest bridge in the world— over ice— an interesting clarification that suggests cold and snowy winters. Peggy and I decided we could zip across the bridge, spend a day, and check out what I had missed. Fortunately, it was neither cold nor snowy and the ice had melted, but it was windy and rainy.

A stormy day limited our visibility when we crossed the 8-mile Confederation Bridge to PEI from New Brunswick. I was ever so glad I wasn’t on my bicycle.

High winds greeted us on the way back. Adjust your speed indeed! To a bicyclist this would be equally worrisome if not more so than the rainy day. I learned, however, that bicyclists and walkers are required to take a shuttle across the bridge— regardless of the weather.

PEI is named after Prince Edward (1767-1820), the Duke of Kent and Strathearn, son of King George III, and the father of Queen Victoria, which is quite a legacy. The French initially named the island Île Saint-Jean and the English followed suit, calling it St. John’s Island. There were too many other St. John’s floating around the Atlantic Provinces, however. Thus Edward got his chance. I don’t have anything against the Prince, or the long-dead Saint for that matter, but I prefer the First Nation, Mi’kmaq name, Abegweit, which translates into land cradled in the waves. It is so much more poetic.

I often find that First Nation or Native American names for places have more magic and power than the current names we have given them. Mt. Denali, the highest mountain in North America, is another example. Originally named Mt. McKinley, after a little-remembered American President, the name has recently been changed back to its Athabascan name, Denali, which means the high one. (See my post on the train trip from Anchorage to Fairbanks, Alaska that Peggy and I made this past spring.)

The names for Prince Edward Island reflect its history, which is quite similar to its neighboring Atlantic Provinces, moving from First Nation to Acadian French to English and finally, expelled Scots. The Gaelic for PEI, by the way, is Eilean a’ Phrionns: the Island of the Prince.

The day we had allowed for our visit led us to focus on one place. We chose the small, south-coast town of Victoria. We couldn’t resist the description by Stephen Kimber, “The Trans-Canada Highway bypassed Victoria. So did the shopping centers and tourist amusement parks. And that— along with its independent-minded citizens— is what makes Victoria the enchanting, picture post card place it is today.” It sounded like our kind of town.

We arrived under dark clouds that were threatening a deluge but somehow held off for our visit. Given the bad weather and the fact that we had arrived before the summer crowds, it appeared that we were the only people in town. Most shops were closed and the “enchanting, picture post card” look was dampened somewhat by the lack of sunshine. Still, Peggy and I found much of interest.

“Where’s the chocolate?” Peggy seems to be asking the locked door. Her taste buds had been prepped for it. “Brain food,” she always declares. Fortunately, we were able to find some equally delicious and sinful lobster. Otherwise, it could have been a long night.

Victoria had once been a bustling seaport doing trade with Europe, the West Indies, and the East Coast of the US. Peggy and I walked through the village of precisely laid out streets and Victorian homes that spoke to the earlier times. We were admiring the town’s lighthouse when a man came hurrying out of one of the homes and crossed the road to greet us.

Colorful homes greeted our walk around the town.

Colorful homes punctuated our walk around the town.

I found these old barn loft doors intriguing…

And I admired the imagination of the person who had added red trim to this building of by-gone days.

Appropriate to Victoria’s seagoing past, we found and admired this retired fishing boat. (Fishing, BTW, is still carried on out of Victoria’s small port. That’s where our lobster came from.)

A sign proclaimed that this was the largest tree on Prince Edward Island.

Ben Smith the “town greeter” of Victoria came bursting out the door of his house and made a beeline for us.

“Would you like to go in the lighthouse?” he asked in a voice that almost demanded we say yes. Naturally we agreed. Of course we wanted to see the lighthouse. He introduced himself as Ben Smith. He was apparently the town greeter, unofficial mayor, and a candle maker— a virtual one-man chamber of commerce, not to mention crow-master. They seemed to be following him.

“Ah yes,” he allowed, “I feed them. Sometimes they go for walks with me, hopping along behind.” We pictured this strange parade walking/hopping down the streets of Victoria and laughed. As Ben hurried off to get the keys, the crows stayed with us, making sure we didn’t slip away.

We were checking out the lighthouse when a man came hurrying across the street and asked if we would like to see in side it.

While Ben went to retrieve the lighthouse key, a crow stood guard on the railing.

Ben turned out to be as knowledgeable as he was nice. We got the A+ Tour, which included climbing into the top of the lighthouse up narrow, steep stairs to check out the light and then butt-scoot around a precipice to go outside for a view of the small town and its harbor. Ben took our photo and provided an ongoing lecture on the area’s history. After all of this, we insisted on seeing his candle shop and bought one as a thank you. We also sat in his ‘lucky chair.’

The light that warned and guided sailors approaching Victoria.

Peggy and I standing on the lighthouse lookout. (Photo by Ben Smith.)

Entering Ben’s candle shop. Note the horse shoe over the door for luck.

Peggy sits in the ‘lucky chair.’ Some of Ben’s candles are resting on the table beyond her.

“The man who made this chair and gave it to me was struck by lightning on three different occasions and survived,” he explained. Peggy and I took turns sitting in the chair, just in case. Ben walked us back to our van and insisted we buy a lobster roll from the Lobster Barn restaurant on the dock. It was delicious.

Leaving Victoria, we made our way over to the New Glasgow Highlands Campground in the center of the island, which proved to be quite lovely. Along the way, we got something of a feel for the rural nature of PEI and more of a sense of the island’s beauty. But we knew we were missing a lot. One day is far too short of a time to visit the island. We’ll be back.

Prince Edward Island thrives off of its small farms where crops such as potatoes are raised. The island is noted for its red soils. Wind breaks surround most farms.

This river reflected the rain the island was receiving. Interestingly, drinking water is primarily ground water pumped up from wells.

This river was brimming with the rain the island was receiving. Interestingly, drinking water is primarily ground water pumped up from wells.

A small bit of sunlight broke through the clouds and illuminated these birch trees at the campground.

The dark, stormy skies were back the next morning. I liked the drama they created in this photo of a church.

Check this out. Note how similar the church looks to the one above. The other church I photographed was laid out in the same way. I believe the churches were different denominations. Was a common architect involved?

Check this out. Note how similar this church looks to the one above. I believe the churches were different denominations. Was a common architect involved? Does PEI have an agreement on how churches are supposed to look? (Kidding, I think.)

Peggy and I really fell for the charm of the houses we found on PEI.

Another…

And a final house, the last photo for this post.

NEXT POST: I am back on my bike route crossing New Brunswick, entering Quebec, climbing up and over the Gaspe Peninsula, and crossing the St. Lawrence Seaway.

Was It the Toughest Climb on the Journey… The 10,000 Mile Bike Trek

October 8, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 26 Comments

I found this spray painted bicycle at the top of Cape Breton’s toughest climb and laughed. (Photo by Jean Snuggs.)

Gearing ratios on bicycles are complicated beyond my normal interest in things mechanical. Let’s just say there are high gears for scurrying down mountains, medium gears for flat road travel, and low gears for climbing mountains and fighting headwinds. The more gears you have, the greater your options and ease of travel. The goal is to bike at a speed that is comfortable for your level of physical conditioning while keeping undo pressure off your knees. (Trashed knees can ruin the most pleasant bike trip.) Maintaining cadence, which is the speed you pedal, and knowing when to shift are critical parts of keeping your knees happy. Beginners have to struggle through a steep learning curve, especially in climbing hills and mountains— and yes, I recognize the potential pun.

The reason for this discussion about gears is that it relates to the substantial mountain that Jean, Lindell and I faced when we left our camp at Cape North in Nova Scotia and cycled back up into the Cape Breton Highlands. It was a doozy. We could see it looming in front of us as we cycled through the canyon carved out by the Middle Aspy River. The closer we came, the more it looked like something a mountain climber might enjoy.

One of the steepest climbs along the Cabot Trail in Nova Scotia was climbing up this hill into the Highlands.

The hill loomed in front of us. It was obvious we were in for a climb.

Was it the toughest hill I climbed on my journey? No. It wasn’t nearly as steep as my climb over the Panamint Range in Death Valley. And I had pedaled up several others that were much longer on the Blue Ridge Parkway. What made it so damnably difficult were my low gears— they weren’t as low as Jean’s and Lindell’s! While I was out of the saddle pushing down on my pedals with knee-punishing grit, Jean and Lindell were sitting down and merrily teasing me about my inability to keep up. Talk about a challenge. (grin) Had I been by myself, I would have simply noted the difficulty, complained to the universe, and pedaled on. And I wouldn’t have stopped at the first bike shop I came to and added more gears!

Here I am biking up a mountain in Nova Scotia with 60 pounds of gear.

I posted this photo at the beginning of the series. Jean took it as we crested the mountain. Note the bulging leg muscles that couldn’t keep up with two slight women— even with 5,000 miles of travel.

One of my happiest sights on the 10,000 mile trip: the top of the hill.

One of my happiest sights on any steep climb: the top of the mountain.

Let me note here that Lindell and Jean had a lot more going for themselves than low gears. They had both graduated from the University of Illinois with top honors in physical education and gone on to become highly successful community college track coaches. They had just completed a bike trip that was all about climbing hills. In addition to being bright and competitive, they were as tough mentally as they were physically. They had managed to keep up with me on the flats and downhills as well as busting my butt going up the hill.

Topping the ridge, we came across a bicycle outline that a cyclist had spray painted on the shoulder with the words, “Why?” We laughed in sympathy. Continuing on, we followed the Cabot Trail across the Cape Breton Highlands and down to the small town of Chéticamp on the Gulf of St. Lawrence, leaving the highlands with their Scottish influence behind for flatter, coastal lands with French influence. France had originally named Cape Breton, Île Royale, and had considered the island part of Acadia. We cycled down the coast though villages and cut inland to Margaree Forks where we said goodbye to the Cabot Trail and picked up NS Highway 19 known as the Ceilidh Trail, which we followed for 60 miles back to the Canso Causeway.

A very fast downhill (brakes advised) brought us to this traditional Scotch cabin known as Lone Scheiling. We had flashed by it on our bikes but Peggy and I stopped to admire it.

A very fast downhill after our climb (brakes advised), brought us to this traditional Scottish cottage known as Lone Scheiling. We had flashed by it on our bikes but Peggy and I stopped to admire it.

I took this photo out the window.

The cottage was surrounded by yellow birch.

One of which featured this colorful knot.

One of the trees featured this colorful knot.

A few ghost leaves still flung to branches, waiting for spring growth to push them off.

A few ghost leaves still clung to branches, waiting for the budding spring growth to push them off.

And this creek burbled along beside the cottage.

Climbing again, we came on this view of the west coast of Cape Breton looking out toward the Gulf of St. Lawrence.

Signs along the road had been warning us about moose…

Finally, we got to see one. These wonderfully humorous animals can be quite dangerous. You don’t want one chasing you down the road when you are on a bicycle. When I lived in Alaska, a cyclist came around a blind curve on a bike trail and ran smack into one! Fortunately, the surprised moose decided to run away.

The Cabot Trail often requires road work after a rough winter. Peggy and I were entertained by this effort at a traffic stop. Don’t you wonder they got the earth mover up on the hillside?

This impressive cliff was near the road work.

Leaving the Highlands, we came on several small communities along the coast where fishing is a major industry. Whale watching is also popular off the coast.

The Cabot Trail heads inland across much flatter country. Spring waters still flooded this field and the grass had yet to turn green. Last year’s cattails can be seen in the left foreground.

I'll finish off my Cape Breton photos with this rather lovely stream.

I’ll finish off my Cape Breton photos with this stream, which spoke to me again of the wild aspect of the island.

Our exploration of Cape Breton was over and my time with traveling companions was drawing to a close. We picked up highway 104 back through Antigonish and on to New Glasgow where Jean and Lindell said goodbye and biked south toward Halifax and their plane. I continued on my lonely journey west, following Highway 6 back to the coast and through towns with wonderful names like Tatamagouche and Pugwash. New Brunswick and new adventures were waiting.

NEXT BLOG: Peggy and I detour to Prince Edward Island, meet the mayor of Victoria, and eat a scrumptious lobster roll.

The Journey Home: Only 5000-Miles left! The Ten Thousand Mile Bike Trek

October 3, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 32 Comments

The road goes ever on. At least it seemed like it on my 10,000-mile bike journey around North America. As I left Nova Scotia and started my journey west, I knew that there would be mountain ranges in my future.

The road goes ever on. At least it seemed like it on my 10,000-mile bike journey around North America. As I started my journey west, I knew that there would be mountain ranges in my future— several of them. This is the Rockies.

“It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.” J.R.R. Tolkien

I had left my home in California without a clue of what it meant to bicycle 10,000 miles. Like Frodo, I had no idea where I might be “swept off to.” There was even a chance when I reached the East Coast, I might decide to head for Europe and bicycle around the world. Why not? My personal commitments were limited and my job was a maybe. Other people would eagerly step in if I didn’t return.

By the time I reached Nova Scotia, I had gone about as far as I could go east in North America, however, and had enough adventures to last a lifetime— or at least a year.

I had bicycled through rainstorms and hailstorms and snowstorms. I had been up and over three mountain ranges. I had crossed through deserts, swamps, farmlands and forests. I’d been on remote, lonely roads and on highways clogged with traffic. I’d had close encounters with 18-wheelers, cars, dogs, and a coiled rattlesnake. I had met a lot of good folks, and a few not so good. And I had toughened up. I could now bicycle 100-miles in a day with much more ease than I had bicycled 30 miles on my first day out of Diamond Springs.

So I had decided it was okay to head home. Besides, I still had 5,000 miles to bicycle! More adventures waited.

From Nova Scotia, my plan was to bicycle across New Brunswick and into Quebec. (Would my high school French suffice?) I would bike up and over the Gaspe Peninsula, cross the St. Lawrence Seaway by ferry, and then head up into remote northern Quebec before cutting south across Ontario. At Thunder Bay on Lake Superior, I would return to the US and bicycle across Minnesota. I would then bike through North Dakota, Montana, Idaho, and Nevada before finally crossing the Sierra Nevada Mountains again, having gone full circle.

Here are some photos and a map to introduce my homeward journey.

I had been working my way east and north for close to four months. I now had two months of traveling west and south to return home.

I had been working my way east and north for close to four months. I now had a little over two months for traveling west and south to return home if I wanted to renew my contract of running long distance backpacking and bicycle treks. My days of lollygagging were over.

This is the route I followed through the US and Canada. I began and ended my trip in Northern California.

This is the map I originally posted to show my bike trek route around North America. At this point in revisiting my 1989 journey, I am at my farthest point east, ready to head west.

I could depend upon the weather continuing to keep my journey interesting.

One thing I knew for sure about the second half of my trip, I could depend upon the weather to keep my journey interesting…

There would be numerous towns to pass through that promised I would meet interesting people and enjoy unique architecture.

And the people. Whether it would be in the communities I visited, the people I met…

And unique art ranging from murals to this desert sculpture.

Or in the unique art they created.

I would also continue to be fascinated by the history, as represented by this old barn…

A mountain man statue…

And this hill where high school classes had painted their graduation years for over a century.

I also knew that the next 5,000 miles would bring unending, beautiful scenery— whether it would be in distant vistas such as this snow-covered mountain range…