The Adventures of Mitey Miss

Living, riding and writing in Goa, India for six months. View stories and photos at Girl Gone Goa. An excerpt:

The Mumbai event: let’s put fishers and hotel staff on India’s security payroll

"...I’m in Goa, and this small Indian state is about ten hours south of Mumbai. We’re safe here, but we’re quite aware that we share the same coast line, rail corridor and hospitality workers. I’ve been following the news of what’s being called “The Mumbai Event” or “26/11” (perhaps CNN has come up with a more snappy title?) but it hadn’t really settled into my psyche until I sat down and caught up with a copy of the November 30, 2008 Sunday Express (www.expressindia.com) at a coffee shop in Candolim.

Before that day, I knew that Goa was involved. Many Goa-bound train passengers were caught in the indiscriminate firing at Chatrapathi Shivaji Terminus, Mumbai’s main train station. They were lined up to board the Konkan Kanya which was scheduled to depart Wednesday evening. Reported Goa’s own Herald (www.oheraldo.in) on Thursday November 27, two Goan brothers in Mumbai for a medical examination and at the station phoned the newspaper to report that gunshots had created panic in the station..." Read more >

For a number of years, I've been a bad blogger -- I treated this blog as a web site. I archived magazine articles on it, and stockpiled photo albums. That was great, but you couldn't use more than a basic Search to find topics.

The last few months I've been moving a number of the professionally-written stories over to my new, improved web site www.ulrike.ca. You can view stories by tags and topics. The photos are easier to browse too.

This site, The Adventures of Mitey Miss, will go back to its original purpose: to tell stories from the perspective of a girl and her bike. Stay tuned as exciting stories are in the works...

Beauty, fashion and cycling collide at a department store make-up counter

Published in the Sept/Oct 2008 Momentum Magazine.

"What you need," Christopher murmured, peering into my face, "is a silicone primer."

Oddly, he wasn't talking about bike frames. I had run into a department store to escape the rain and a handout In the ladies' room had caught my attention. "Come by the Calvin Klein counter," it suggested, "Receive a FREE Foundation Consultation and Sample!"

I wandered the maze of make-up boutiques until a red-haired woman at the Clinique counter with eerily perfect skin asked if she could help me.

I motioned at my handout. "I'm actually looking for the Calvin Klein counter but..." I offered, "you could show me what you've got since I'm here."

"Well sure," she said as she opened a tube of foundation, "We can dab a little on your hand if you like." I looked down as she spread the flesh-toned liquid on the meat of my thumb. It blended in fine, but bits of lotion stuck in the lines of my skin. It reminded me of women I'd seen (usually in the late-night food and beverage industry) who walked around with tiny channels of makeup dried into their eyelids.

I showed her the bits and told her that's why I'd been avoiding foundation up til now. "Well," she said sweetly, "That's why you need to exfoliate." I thanked her and headed for the Calvin Klein counter.

Christopher was a big, hulking goth fellow in black slacks, a black shirt and a black leather makeup brush holster. I showed him the handout and he brightened and guided me to a stool. "This is great," he grinned as he shook a bottle of beige lotion, "It was getting a little quiet around here."

I picked up a hand mirror and he tsk-tsked and took it away. "I'm going to apply some foundation to one side of your face," he said, "and I want you to be surprised." I felt the wet brush move in short strokes over the right side of my forehead, cheek, nose and mouth while Christopher chatted about freelancing for weddings.

"I'd love to do more East Indian weddings," he raved, "Those women are not afraid to use the really strong colours like red, gold, blue, and especially purple. There!" he remarked as he handed me the mirror. "What do you think?"

I looked, and indeed one side of my face was ~ lighter. I'm half Indian myself, and ~ as my friend Dave might joke ~ I'd just increased in value. "Could you do the other side?" I asked hastily. Taking that to mean that I liked it, Christopher set to work.

"Er, how water resistant is this foundation?" I asked. I explained that I rode my bike every day, even in the rain. "Well," Christopher pondered, "You will have to touch it up when you arrive and after you've broken into a sweat." I imagined arriving at work with failed foundation dripping southwards, some perhaps settling and drying at the corners of my mouth.

That's when he brought up the silicone primer. "Oh, it's easy and super-light," he remarked. "You apply a thin layer over your entire face, let it dry, and then apply the foundation." He leaned in conspiratorially, "The silicone fills in all the little lines, you see. It stays on all day."

I'm guessing the reason the silicone stays on your face all day is because it's a polymer/oxygen found in adhesives, insulators, and male contraception. Do you need special chemicals to remove the silicone layer-cake at the end of the day, I asked myself, or if you just peel it off like a masque?

By this time Christopher had added three shades of powder to my eyes, two shades of blush to my cheeks, and a thick, shiny gloss to my lips. The other staff gathered to watch and even the red-haired clerk from the Clinique counter came by for a visit. They nodded approvingly and I picked up the hand mirror.

"You should hold it at arm's length," Christopher said. At that distance I looked lighter, fresher, and younger. However, as I brought the mirror closer, I transformed into a food and beverage hostess. I thanked him for his time, took his card, and pulled on my coat. "Am I going to be able to drink coffee with these lips?" I joked.

"Oh sure, but always touch 'em up when you're done," he waved, "Enjoy! You look great!"

I stepped outside and quickly opened my umbrella so my face wouldn't get wet. I touched my cheek with a finger. My skin felt like a condom, but apparently I looked great.


I'd rather be Audrey, than tawdry

Published in the July/August 2008 issue of Momentum Magazine



View snapshots of 2007's Kokanee Crankworx bike festival in Whistler, BC. The daytime dual slalom, slopestyle and downhill events were followed by nighttime film and industry events (30 images).

Whistler, BC -- It's the end of July and Bel, Colin and I are in a Subaru, heading south into the village. It's a bike village: every time we stop for a light, a stop sign or a pedestrian crossing; bikes swirl around and in front of us. They hang off the front of public buses, the backs of overwhelmed hatchbacks and from the rafters of bars. Just about everyone in this car-free village rides, owns, sells or services bikes, and I am high on the energy of this.

Some of the energy, I have to admit, is the pure sinfulness of it. For the last few days we've driven the five or so kilometres from Bel's home into the village proper when it would have taken about ten minutes to ride on paved bike trails. I allow the mixture of guilt and titilation to wash over me.

Add to that that these are not metrosexual hipsters in sneakers and hip-hugging skinny jeans, but mountain bikers seeking the excess and artifice of Whistler's Kokanee Crankworx mountain bike festival and ~ I feel like I'm in dreamy, evil Las Vegas again.

At Vegas's yearly Interbike industry trade show, mostly male retailers and manufacturers populate booths, tents and "work the golf course" ~ Colin's phrase for networking amidst the knobbies. Interbike divides the on-site conventioneering from the off-site dirt demos, but at Crankworx, it's all mashed up. Here, the industry pros move a step backwards to make room for the reason they're there in the first place: people who ride bikes. Men who ride bikes. Men. Lots of them.

There's testoserone in the air, and I feel it. Before leaving Bel's house I tarted myself up for the "sausage-fest" (as my male colleagues disgruntingly call it) of bikers cruising the expo tents, slopeside bars and the slopes themselves. Warriors are everywhere ~ big, burly, dual-suspension-riding men in full-face helmets and body armour.

We arrive, and Colin takes off to stake out photo platforms along the dual slalom course. Bel and I giddily stroll the booths of disk brakes, hydration packs and bike frames. We gather up bouquets of promo brochures, temporary tattoos, and party invitations and then settle in at the Garibaldi Lift Company for a drink before the event.

We join a couple of barely-legal lads on a viewing platform next to the Boneyard ~ Whistler's amped mountain bike park. Tomorrow, riders will complete its freestyle course by delivering "air packaged goods" off the top of its five-storey jumbotron TV. Today, all eyes are on the Kokanee Girls working their way through the tables and offering free bottles of blue-labelled beer for acts of beer-patio bravery.

One of our table-mates, Ben, takes the bait and allows one of the gals to paste a sasquatch tattoo on his forehead. She wets the paper and holds her hand to his forehead while it sets. She's wearing roller-girl white terry shorts, and I can see a V of white panty underneath. When I ask for a photo, both she and the other marketeer lean in close to Ben's face.

Ben is nonplussed. He's got a new, cold bottle in his hand but his eyes are scanning the jumps, berms and drop-offs of the Boneyard. "Do you ride?" he asks, his eyes flickering briefly in my direction.

I think about my bike. It's a plain model that I ride to and from work every day. It's a bike I've packed and ridden in Cuba, Belize, Mexico, New Zealand, Canada, the U.S. and four solo months in Thailand. It's the bike I've loaded with books, groceries, camping equipment and people. And it's a bike that has sat ~ unridden ~ in Bel's hallway for four days.

"Nope," I tell him, "I don't ride."

Bel heads off for a quick stint of guiding tourists from their tour bus doors to the Gondola gate. I aim for the dual slalom course. Spectators line its parallel motocross-style tracks. I tuck in behind a junket of magazine photographers and wait for the "head-to-head high-speed action" the commentators are promising from the foot of the course. While the village awaits its warriors, I girlishly watch a couple of armoured downhillers at a nearby trail. They pull off their helmets and goggles and their fourteen-year-old faces are as dirty as their downtubes.

I feel momentarily sinful and guilty, then the first two riders break through the gate.

Bike camp on San Juan, Orcas, Shaw and Lopez Islands


Foot path to Shark Reef Park on Lopez Island

Shaw and Lopez Islands join San Juan and Orcas Islands as part of northwest Washington's San Juan Islands group. Seattle (WA), Victoria (BC) and Vancouver (BC) are nearby. Of the 172 islands in the Puget Sound area, these four are accessible by Washington State ferry and welcome visitors. All four islands are small, rural, bike-friendly and provide camping, bakeries and surprises.

Click here to view stories and images of bike-camping on San Juan and Orcas Islands, including the Washington State ferries, camels, art palm trees, and Doe Bay Resort.

Click here to view annotated images of Shaw and Lopez Islands.

Column published in the May/June 2008 Momentum Magazine.



Sometimes, I hate riding a bike. I do it every day, most days of the year and I hate the cold, I hate the routine, I hate how I look when I get off the bike. It's my dirty little secret.

I hate that my shoulders are rounded from years of hanging over a handlebar and I hate that my nose is always runny. I hate drivers who don't see me, I hate dogs off leash and I hate parents who jaywalk with their school kids without looking both ways.

Most of all I hate the smokers. Not the sociable ones puffing on cigarettes in building doorways, but the car-driving ones who idle at red lights. While they sip on fair-trade coffee and listen to public radio, their tail pipes blow carbon monoxide into my face. Every single car, every red light.

By the time I get to work I feel grumpy, smelly and unfeminine. My bike's heavy with rain gear, water, clothes and a U-lock and I have to haul it all up slippery stairs to the back room of my workplace.

Every day, I peel off a micro-fibre shirt, spandex tights, thick socks, and heavy shoes and hang it on hooks behind the door. And every day I must style my hair around helmet cowlicks, glide on lip gloss to hide dry lips, and pull on wrinkled clothes.

Sometimes, I wish I could be like the "normal" women -- the ones who wear shoes that won't rest on pedals, skirts that won't stretch over a top tube, and mascara that won't run when they're coasting downhill at 8am. They wear outfits that coordinate with car seats and office chairs. They look groomed. They look grown-up.

They look their age, come to think of it. When I walk pass them on my lunch hour I look into their faces and see cheeks blushed by make-up. Some of them carry dufflebags because they need to get exercise, lose weight, strengthen muscles. Some of them look hungry.

Come afternoon, my office warms with sun and my lungs crave fresh air. I stuff my work clothes into a pannier, pull on stretchy bike clothes and guide my bike down the stairs. I look both ways, throw my leg over the saddle and glide down the back alley, no brakes.

I squeeze the levers when the main road approaches and nod hello to the Italian gardener on the corner. He's been digging at the black earth of his yard for weeks already. Ravens follow his movements from a nearby fig tree, then flap up to a phone pole.

I ride in the same direction and it gets quiet again. A helmeted mum chats with her daughter riding in a trailer behind her. Speed bumps near the school force a car's brake lights, while cyclists behind it continue rolling without a pause.

I scan the next block for a yellow jacket, then see him: the happy mailman. Months ago he caught my eye because -- well, he has fabulous legs -- but also because he always looks happy. We started off just nodding to each other. I guess he recognized me by my equally bright orange jacket. His happy look made me smile, and he saw my goofy grin and returned it with a wave. A few more weeks, and I waved back, also smiling. Lately, he looks delighted when we pass. I laugh and wave, and he bellows "Have a great weekend!"

Sometimes, I grin for kilometres after that and shake my head at the thrill of it. Sometimes, I feel like I'm in love -- not with him, but with the part of the day that he's a part of. I love that the trees on that block are white with blossoms and I love that I can smell them. I love that I can feel air in my throat and I love that my legs are strong with blood and oxygen.

I love that I can pass long lines of cars stopped for a red light that I can ride right up to. I love nodding hi to the squeegee kids who grin and shrug at my bike.

I love that when I get home there's a room especially for my and my housemates' bikes, and I love that I can eat cheesecake. I love that my home, my body and my life are all about riding a bike, and I love that I do it every day, most days of the year.

Review published in the May/June 2008 Momentum Magazine.



It's not something you should watch by yourself, Klunkerz. The independently written and produced DVD by fat-tire aficionado Billy Savage recounts mountain biking's California days in the '70's and takes you there so vividly -- with tons of footage, still photos, and interviews with a bunch of guys (and a couple of girls) who drank beer, smoked pot and then got on their damned bikes -- that you and your friends will want to join in.

Wendell, Karen, Ian, Paul, Andrew and I didn't light up, but we did crack a few beers in my living room one Friday night as we gathered to watch Savage's flick. Finally on disk, Klunkerz has sold out theatres, won awards, and no doubt brought tears to a few MTBer's eyes as it screened in the film, bike and sport circuits.

Filmmaker Savage demonstrates a genuine knowledge of the bikes, and rapport with the people who first dragged their heavy '40's and '50's-era Schwinns up a San Francisco-area mountain for kicks. Not only do many of the Mount Tamalpais riders -- Joe Breeze, Gary Fisher, Tom Ritchey et al. -- do screen time, but they share their stories and video footage with him in a way that feels trusted and intimate.

Not just talking heads, the film lingers on the stuff us riders love: the bikes, the parties and the trails that made Marin County famous. You actually see the 1.8 miles of fire road that the riders ate up (or ate them up, as injuries were frequent), the grease smoke coming off the hubs, and the keg-parties that fuelled the whole thing.

The editing is so sharp that the riders practically finish each others' sentences. You get a real sense of their excitement and you're reminded that at mountain biking's heart, the message is universal: riding a bike is super fun, and you ought to try it.

Our gang really picked up on that. In discussion afterwards, Ian was stoked to see how how fun -- rather than equipment -- created the scene. Wendell liked seeing the riders' passion turn into something huge, and Paul (an MTB Hall-of-Famer himself) was impressed by the amount of history that the film dug up that he hadn't heard before. And I felt affirmed by how writers and photographers like Wende Cragg, Jacquie Phelan and Dogtown's Ray Flores can play an important part in recording a movement and spreading the word.

Visit the Klunkerz web site at www.klunkerz.com to chat with Savage and order your own copy. For more on the history, I recommend the Mountain Bike Hall of Fame web site.

"One of the perfect fits for blogs and blogging is travel. There have been travelogues online since the early to mid-1990's. The blogging format is well suited for travelers who want to share their day-to-day travel diaries and post photographs of their destinations...The Adventures of Mitey Miss is a woman's take on solo and adventure travel and travel writing."

The Everything Blogging Book: publish your ideas, get feedback, and create your own worldwide network. Aliza Sherman Risdahl, Adams Media, Avon, Mass. 2006.

Published in the Mar/Apr 2008 issue of Momentum Magazine.

Click here to view the entire journey (186 photos).

Click here to view the Icefields Parkway cycling section (65 photos).

What is it about trains? And what was it about a train journey into western Canada that yanked on my heart hard enough to make my eyes water? That wasn't the idea. When we first batted the idea around, Momentum editor Amy Walker and I played with a "gonzo car-free road trip" that would see me, a buddy, and a couple of bikes onto a few trains and into a few communities for laffs and blog stories.

To select a route I pored over road atlases and train brochures and happily found that, not only can you circle the region by train (as opposed to just going across), but that two rail providers ~ Rocky Mountaineer Vacations and VIA Rail Canada ~ are wowing the tourists doing just that.

Now, I've travelled by bike and train in Thailand, New Zealand and the U.S.; but it wasn't until California-based Dahon put a couple of tour-ready folding bikes into my hands that I even considered doing it at home.

Why? Imagine you're on a train in Thailand ~ a culture where a bike is just a bike. Like suitcases, sacks of rice and butchered pigs, it's something you bungy into the luggage car. Here in Canada your bike is something precious that must be boxed, marked "FRAGILE", and charged extra for. If you're a North American urban cyclist like me, you run out of energy after you've done that few times.

My friend Michelle feels the pain from both sides: she's a fellow bike traveller who also drives public transit buses for a living, including a past stint with Grayhound Canada. She's the one who ~ when I put an email call-out to my bike-friends that I was looking for someone to join me on a no-guarantees, multi-modal trip into the mountains ~ the "Reply" button the fastest.

I described the journey's "gonzo" mission to her and presented an intinerary: we would board the "Whistler Mountaineer" from Vancouver to Whistler, pedal around Whistler valley for a couple of days, then board Rocky Mountaineer's "Fraser Discovery Route" to head north and east to Jasper, Alberta via Quesnel. After a few days in Jasper, we could swap trains and step aboard VIA Rail's "Canadian" and head east to Saskatoon (in Saskatchewan), then Winnipeg (Manitoba). We'd spent a couple of days cycling around in each city and then take VIA Rail back to Jasper.

I warned her that in Jasper we'd go hardcore: we would clip panniers onto the Dahons and road-test the bikes on the 300-kilometer stretch of mountainous highway between Jasper to Banff. We'd leave our sleeping bags at home and stay at yet-to-be-confirmed Hostelling International wildernous cabins along the way. Once in Banff we'd get back on track and complete the rail circle almost a month later by climbing on Rocky Mountaineer's "Kicking Horse Route" to return to Vancouver via Kamloops.

What happened? Well, we did go somewhat gonzo: we rebelliously nibbled handmade chocolates in Rocky Mountaineer's dining car and sloppily sipped bubbly in VIA Rail's lounge. And we did get chided about our bikes by a tired station staffer who'd just come back from vacation.

I dutifully blogged it all en route and was keyboarding an edgy moment involving marinated chicken, coconut shrimp and Mount Robson when... I felt it happen. A tweak that signaled that something had climbed aboard, knocked aside my cynicism, softened my heart and would now make me go misty over mountains and renditions of "What a wonderful world."

My gonzo had gone sentimental. Traveller's magic ~ something I'd only ever experienced in faraway countries ~ had kicked in here, in my own country. I was grinning stupidly, trusting strangers, learning life lessons.

I realized, for example, that much of the landscape we were travelling through cannot be experienced by car or a bike and because of that, it is rare and gorgeous.

A dawn rose amidst rain forests and golden capped mountain peaks and lit jade lakes that seemed impossibly green. Jasper sandbars, spruce trees and a mink-gray range of mountains framed a frost-blue Athabasca River. Eagles, bears and big-horn sheep came into view just metres from my train window, lingered, then continued their foraging.

How is it that ~ when slowed to twenty clickety-clack kilometres an hour ~ time could swirl and pause and then begin to tell tales backwards, like a Martin Amis novel? The train revealed the landscape that way: riding on steel rails, it could pull us back into rural, then rugged, then wild terrain. Canadian history slipped by the curved glass as quietly as the lodgepole pine and white spruce. It also gleamed elegantly in the panelling of a vintage dining car, or the polished steel of a 1950's era knob detail.

I realized that trains connect us to that, our coasts and communities; but they also connect us to what's inside. Inside the train, inside the heart.

The stories of a couple of Rocky Mountaineer attendants pricked my eyes, for different reasons. Sophie had invited her parents onboard for a treat because her mum was donating a kidney to Sophie's 17-year old son. When the train company heard about the procedure it told her that they'd treat her parents . Rob did commentary, and one afternoon I watched his face and hand gestures become soft as he talked about Canada's Chinese rail workers, their working conditions and the head taxes they were obliged to pay to bring their families here to join them. The story resounded for him and as a Canadian, he felt that it was important to share with the train's tourists how ours is a country of many cultures and connections.

On VIA Rail's westbound train out of Winnipeg, Dennis brought a car of passenger to tears as he sang and told us that this would be his very last trip as a VIA Rail attendant as he was retiring after 35 years of service. He and Karim had joined VIA as college students and even more than thirty years later, they still loved the train and the people they worked with.

I learned that when you step off a train with a folding bike under your arm, you can connect with a community and its bike culture within hours. The bike identifies you, and people will point you to the places you want to go almost without asking.

In Saskatoon, staff at the Senator Hotel connected us with the 50-kilometre Meewasin Trail and the cafes it led to on Broadway Avenue. In Winnipeg , hostel staff directed us the Mondragon Bookstore, where members of the collective were preparing for the next day's World Car-Free Day festivities.

On the Icefields Parkway, proprietors of the Hostelling International cabins went out of their way to make sure there was a hot fire and extra blankets ready for the two snow-covered cyclists.

What is it about trains? I learned that like bikes, trains bring out kindness. They're slow and social and can tweak your heart when you least expect it. When you ride a bike or a train, you become historic and rebellious. You tell stories, you cause stories, and you write stories.

I ended up writing more than thirty-five stories about the trip. I hope you read them online, but more importantly, I hope you get your self and your bike on a train line and try it for yourself. I'll meet you in the lounge car.

Click here to view images of the entire trip (186 photos).

Click here to view images of the Icefields Parkway cycling section (65 photos).

Labels: train rail cycling western canada

Published in the Jan/Feb 2008 issue of Momentum Magazine.




"Hey!" bellowed a voice across the Jasper train platform, "Is that one of those collapsible bikes?" Michelle and I had just gotten off VIA Rail's westbound line and while she and her Dahon MU XL lounged at Freewheel Cycle, I was left to unfold my Dahon Speed TR surrounded by panniers, helmets and curious tourists the shadow of the station.

"Yes, it is," I said patiently over my shoulder. We were halfway through our four-week rail-and-bike exploration of western Canada, and our pair of tour-ready folding bikes never ceased to draw stares and questions.

"What's something like that cost?" the American asked, stepping closer.
"Folding bikes range in price from $200 to $2000," I replied. "Do you want to see me fold it?"
"Oh yeah!" he gushed.
"Great!" I straightened up, "That'll be ten bucks!"

I'll admit that part of the draw to travelling with a bike is the freak/rock-star treatment you get when you stop and mingle with the civilians. Ride a brand new 20" folder that you are test-riding with full tour racks and bags, and you are irresistible. The towering handlebar stem and seatpost suck them in, and then ~ when you explain that this little bike is actually capable of carrying a full-grown woman and all her gear up and over the snowline of the Canadian Rockies' 300km Icefields Parkway ~ they are yours to exploit for cash or laughs.

Seriously, though, I got a little goofy myself when I first laid eyes on the bikes in Vancouver's Dahon dealership, JV Bike. Owner Janko Veselinovic demonstrated the Speed TR's unique features: a 24-gear drivetrain comprised of a 8-speed rear derailleur working with a 3-speed internal rear hub rather than a front derailleur; a floor pump integrated inside the oversized seat tube; and of course, a hinge in the handlebar stem and chro-moly frame that enables the beast to fold in 15 seconds flat.

The MU XL is more of an amped-up 8-speed city bike than a touring bike, but N.A. Dahon representative Steve Cuomo suggested we include it in the trip because ~ like the Speed TR ~ it comes with a heavy-duty rear rack; a comfy cutaway saddle and flared handlebar grips; and the 15 second rule.

Both bikes weigh about the same (a chro-moly frame, hefty seat tube and dynamo/internal gear hubs add up to about 13kg or 28lbs), provide illumination with hub-generated front lights and battery-powered rear, and ride on high quality Schwalbe tires; but the difference is in the details.

While the Speed cushions your ride with fat two-inch wide tires, the MU slims down the rubber and sucks up the bumps with a suspension seatpost. The Speed requires you tweak your handlebar position with an allen key; while the MU quick-releases it for instant rotation then telescopes the handlebar post up or down. Both bikes shift with a turn of the wrist, but the Speed adds a thumb shifter for its hub gears and a couple of surprisingly useful bar-end stubbies. Snappy V-brakes, pull-out pedals and full fenders are standard on both bikes; and bottle cage braze-ons and "KlickFix" luggage mounts complete their tour-readiness.

I rode each bike around the city for a couple of weeks before venturing onto a highway and funnily, all the things I liked about them had nothing to do with their foldability: the super-low horizontal frame allowed me to easily mount and ride the bikes in a tight skirt. The small wheels made them very manoeuvrable when steering around pedestrians on the sidewalk. The kickstand took the challenge out of resting the bike when chatting with friends, and the onboard lighting system made the dark ride home from the bar a no-brainer.

That said, the bikes did need some adjustments to make them trip-worthy. I put a front rack (extra), and bottle cage on the Speed, and Michelle added a cage and swapped the quick-release flat pedals with her own clipless. My Ortlieb bags fit the fat-tubed aluminium racks fine, but Michelle's Axiom panniers didn't have adjustable hooks, so she had to rest the rear hooks on the rear light casing to avoid heel strike. The handlebar stem configurations on both bikes made it impossible to mount our current handlebar bags, so I stored my purse in a front pannier, and Michelle jury-rigged a MEC drybag and a couple of reflective leg bands.

At rest, the bikes folded in three easy movements and a magnetic clip system generally prevented the frame from splaying when lifted and loaded. A former Greyhound driver, Michelle suggested that the folded bikes' size might still be excessive for some carriers, but we agreed that if craftily bagged, they could pass for regular luggage.

In motion, the bikes were a revelation. The smaller wheel size meant that not only did the bikes feel nimble when fully loaded, but stable as well. Steering, braking, stops and starts were agile yet safe. Rather than perform an acrobatic leg swing over a fully loaded bike to get started, you could simply step over the low frame. The fold hinges felt secure. Pedalling efficiency on the smaller wheels seemed fine ~ I normally travel with a 26" wheel bike, so I don't get anal about weight, distance and wheel revolutions per pedal stroke. What we did both notice is that the combination of ergonomic saddle, grips and bar ends kept us pain-free through the whole trip.

Complaints? We had a couple. We were gob-smacked by Dahon's decision to put oversized light-and-motion-sensitive battery-powered lights on the rear. They cracked easily, they didn't come on in low-light conditions, they didn't stay on when stopped when riding or when stopped at an intersection, and they didn't have manual settings to override these shortcomings. This was quite a concern when descending from Bow Summit in a high-altitude snow fall. At dusk.

On the ascent, Michelle reported that her 8-speed MU was a few gears short of ideal, especially when fully loaded on a mountain climb. Go figure. On the downhill her high-pressure tires allowed her to go like spit, but neither of us had travelled with the bikes long enough to trust them full-bore on the mountain drops. I could have used another uphill gear or two more on the 24-gear Speed, but I blame that on operator issues.

Dahon's website (www.dahon.com) tags the Speed TR at $925.99 and the MU XL at $899.95 USD. It's a newsy and appealing site balancing tech-and-spec's with "one of the friendliest bike forums on the web." According to the site, California-based Dahon strives "to convince more people, organisations and governments to use more environmentally-sustainable forms of transport". They support cycling organisations such as Bike to Work Day, Trips for Kids and the Mobile HIV/AIDS Clinic. And, they say, they've been supporting "green mobility" since 1982.

I support green mobility too ~ and if you give me ten bucks, I'll show you how.

Some cautious thoughts on Vancouver's emerging cafe culture

SoMa is three things: a neighbourhood in east Vancouver (where I've alternately lived and hung out for the past fifteen years); a coffee shop in the neighbourhood, and ~ if you want to believe the condo hoarding along Main Street ~ a new kind of lifestyle.

Before it became "SOMA" ~ south of Main ~ this area was always known as Mount Pleasant. It grew then declined as one of Vancouver's earliest residential districts. Immigrants, artists and Ontario refugees (like me) moved into the modest tree-lined area southeast of downtown Vancouver, and staked a place amongst the johns and pushers who circled the blocks.

I can't say what exactly started the "trendification" of Mount Pleasant, but I believe it started with The Whip. Sometime in the 1990's, a few artists started selling coffee and toasted bagels from a gallery at 5th and Main. Starved for good americanos and neighbourhood gossip, we materialized at the space and hung out. Over time, The Whip (as it became known) grew and succeeded. Lava lamps lit the walls. Patio tables lined the sidewalk. Beer poured from taps. Sports teams came for brunch.

It was clear The Whip's owners believed in the community, and so expanded their involvement by opening a bistro up at Main and Broadway, then a coffee shop right next to it. I think half tongue-in-cheek, one of the guys named the new cafe "SOMA". It caught on. It still didn't make it to onto any of the tourist maps, but there is was ~ for us, anyways.

I mention SOMA because today ~ for the first time in several years ~ I had a coffee at SOMA - the coffee shop. Only, it's not a coffee shop anymore, and it's not on Main. About four months ago, the little-brother cafe wandered up Main, took a left at 8th Avenue, and turned into a restaurant.

I'd been shopping and prepping for my bike-and-train trip on Broadway: a 20" spare tube for the Dahon at The Bike Doctor, a travel-towel from MEC across the street, a drop-off of used ink cartridges at the Office Depot and ~ something about the way the fall sun bounced off the brick and leaves and car windows made me decide that I needed just one more patio-cafe iced coffee.

I was test-riding one of two folding bikes that Michelle and I would be taking on the trip and marvelled in its nimbleness in steering around pedestrians on the sidewalk. I rounded the corner from Broadway to Main, then Main to 8th and there ~ opposite The Nice Cafe and just as I suspected ~ SOMA's patio was bathed in full sunshine.

Rather than create a crowd of little cafe tables on the sidewalk, the bistro designed a huge, butcher-block table on wheels that they could roll out onto the sidewalk. If you wanted to sit outside, you slid in on a bench beside the patrons already at the table. Introductions would naturally follow, then perhaps even shared conversation.

I was momentarily intimidated by the set-up, but decided to jump right in with my brilliantly-tiered iced americano. I sipped it neutrally, made eye contact with a dapper older fellow to my right and soon learned that he was Rod and that he had lived in Kitsilano when it went through the same changes that Mount Pleasant is going through now. He introduced me to Diana, a young blonde woman with milky skin, a retro dress, and an indifferent demeanor.

Next to her, Avril adjusted her dime-store sunglasses, flicked her hair continuously and laughed uproariously when the other three people at the table made a joke. It struck me that Avril, Diana and Rod represented my idea of eclectic East Vancouverites. They weren't a particular type - their differentness made them blend in.

The unnamed, un-introduced other three went completely against type. Two men and a woman, they were perfectly coiffed and groomed. They had almost-empty glasses of white wine in front of them, and some eaves-dropping on my part revealed: that despite their extreme attractiveness and manliness, the two men were actually straight; that they were voraciously flirting with with the gorgeous woman to their left; and that she was unknown to them before they met at this very table. Oh, and that this was their second bottle of wine.

Really, they were stunning. I drank it in and became inspired and cowed at the same time. So this is what manicures, hair product and tooth-whitening strips can achieve, I mused. I surveyed my own shabby East Van bike-chic: wind-mussed hair-do, smeared eyeliner, thrift-shop T-shirt, Sporty-Spice skirt, dusty feet, unpainted toenails.

I wanted so badly to know who they were and why they were here, but there were no gaps in their banter, and no breaks in their gaze. Did they live in the neighbourhood? Did they represent what Mount Pleasant had become? Or ~ like the Saabs and BMW's that now park on Commercial Drive on a Saturday night ~ were they just "doing East Vancouver" for the day... a little inter-urban, east-west cultural exchange, as it were?

When the sun slouched into shadow, Rod and Diana stole away on old mountain bikes. Avril ordered another glass of white wine and continued to believe she was a fourth member of the threesome. I finished my coffee and went inside to pay. The bistro was filling up and a staff member in a black T-shirt chalked that evening's specials on the blackboard.

The space that SOMA now occupies used to be Bain's chocolates. Rod told me that towards the end, "Mr. Bain" used to sit in front of The Nice Cafe and smoke cigarettes until someone wandered onto 8th looking for a hand-dipped lemon cream, cherry nougat or hard caramel chocolate. He's jump out of his chair and rush into the store, greeting the visitor with a "How can I help you today, madam?"

As I unlocked the folding bike from a parking meter, I wondered where Mr. Bain is now, and would he ever walk up to SOMA for a coffee? I glanced over at the bistro and felt a bittersweet pang. I'm glad that the rest of the world is learning to love Mount Pleasant. I just hope they leave their Saabs and BMWs at home.

Newcastle and Gabriola Islands are small islands less than 5km off east coast Vancouver Island's city of Nanaimo. They're part of a group of islands in the Strait of Georgia locally known as the "southern Gulf Islands". Both are accessible by ferry.



Newcastle Island has been home to Coast Salish First Nations villages, a sandstone quarry, and a resort. It is now a car-free parkland with trails and a campground. Gabriola Island is an island village of 50 square kilometres and 4,500 residents. It has a seaside campground, nearby pubs and cafes, a farmer's market, and small deer.

Click here to view images of the Nanaimo Harbour Ferries, Nanaimo's car-free Newcastle Island camping and trails, and the Gabriola Island ferry pier.

Click here to view Gabriola Cycle and Kayak's bike festival, Descanso Bay Regional Park and Campground, the Silva Bay pub, rain-soaked cyclists, sandstone sunsets, and a broken plastic knife.

Click here to view photos of Mitey Miss, Stephanie and their friends as they visit a couple of film screening parties (Kranked and New World Disorder), a punk rock bar, a Fetish night, Red Rock Canyon, and a two very nice pomengranates. Interbike is the bicycle industry's annual trade show and attracts manufacturers, retailers, riders and writers from across the world.

Published in the August/September 2006 issue of Momentum Magazine.



It's not even lunch time yet and Joe Breeze has already blown my mind. Breeze ~ who with Gary Fisher, Tom Ritchey, and other Mountain Bike Hall-of-Famers basically invented the sport ~ has just admitted over the phone that if he hadn't been so distracted by that whole fat-tire repack thing, he might have gotten down to what he really wanted to do a whole lot sooner: design commuter bicycles.

"The off-road thing was a diversion from my plan," admits the creator of Breezer Bikes from his Marin County work space, "It wasn't part of the script. It just happened...like life."

"My interest in city bikes came long before mountain bikes," he explains. "My father commuted to his job in the 1950's by bike, so I grew up aware of that aspect of bikes." Breeze rode to school and around his neighbourhood as a kid, but it wasn't until the 17-year-old bike-toured in Europe that his eyes opened to bike transportation culture.

Says Breeze, "Nowhere was this so pronounced as in Holland with their extensive bicycle thoroughfares, cloverleaf interchanges and bicycle traffic signals....I thought, 'We’ve got to do this in America!'"

Joe returned home inspired, and got involved in the beginnings of the region's bicycling infrastructure. Perhaps more significant to the history of cycling, he also paid five bucks for a beat-up 1941 Schwinn Excelsior and turned it into what would eventually be called a "mountain bike".

As Joe puts it, "One thing led to another and soon I was flying down a Mount Tamalpais fire road thinking 'a-ha!'". Breeze's refurbished cruiser, then the series of "Breezers" he built after that, begat a sport that put Marin County on the map and North Americans on their bikes. Breeze continued to build off-road bikes through the 1990's.

"For me, the diversion essentially lasted twenty years. By that point, the mountain bike was well on its way and I kept coming back to city bikes as a way to get more people on bikes." The trouble was, there weren't a lot of non-mountain bikes that fit the bill so Breezer created the Ignaz X: a cruiser tribute to Schwinn's founder. "I know it got style points," admits Joe, "But I wasn't particularly happy with that bike because it was designed after a cruiser, and cruisers will never be very ergonomically efficient."

Joe uses the word "efficient" surprisingly often when he describes bikes. "Bicycling is the most efficient method of transport ever born or devised," states Joe matter-of-factly. "Maybe I wasn’t aware of that when I first learned to ride at age five, but I soon was entranced with how far I could get down the road with so little effort." He also learned that a better pedal stroke and a better bike made biking even ~ better. Jokes the still-ardent commuter cyclist, "it was a self-propelling prophecy."

It was Breeze's love of efficiency ~ as well as his advocacy efforts with the Marin County Bicycle Coalition and proddings from his new business partner John Doidge ~ that prompted his next step. "[John] had been to many bike shops expressing his desire for a purpose-built bike with fenders, a rack, lights, kick-stand, et cetera ~ and the common response was, 'why would you want a bike like that?'"

Joe's answer? Given the choice of a reasonably-priced town bike that is efficient and fun to ride; or an expensive car that is frustrating to drive, why wouldn't you want a bike like that? Breeze created what he calls a "civilised vehicle" ~ a ready-to-go bike that shares the basic features of a car: "...fenders for grimy roads, lights in case it gets dark, ways to carry stuff things and protect your clothes; and the ability to stay upright when parked."

"They're like a European town bike," says Joe of his new Town and Range models, "but I tailored them to my view of the North American market which requires a sportier bike." Unlike the boutique Dutch-style bikes becoming popular with Yaletown flat-landers, a Breezer's geometry and lightness make it agile enough to sprint up Vancouver hills. And unlike the bare-bones mountain-bike styles you find everywhere else, a Breezer is not naked.

"We've been selling naked bikes for decades!" exclaims Joe with exasperation and just a hint of confession. He explains that while experienced bike owners know they have to add after-market accessories to a recreational bike to make it useful in the city ~ novice riders (and the majority of the population) don't. "I've run into people over the years who have said to me, 'why can't bikes be useful?'"

If the Joe Breeze of twenty-five years ago is guilty of denuding bikes of their useful accessories, he's now making amends. Today Breezer's motto is "Transportation for a healthier planet" and the company has officially switched from recreation to transportation bicycles. "It is time to unite cyclists, environmentalists, and health and cycling advocates," Breezer proclaims, "so that bicycles will be fully appreciated as the wonderful vehicles that they are."

Now that sounds like a self-propelling prophecy.

I recommend...
As well as providing links to his favourite cycling advocacy and education organisations, Breeze's web site www.breezerbikes.com also describes the birth of mountain biking in his own words.

Labels: interview

Published in the July/August 2006 Road Trips issue of Outpost Magazine.



To view a photo gallery of this trip, click here -->

Distance: 250kms one-way
Roads: Paved with shoulders. Watch for narrower shoulders and trucks in Strathcona Provincial Park.
Season: June to October

Ask an adventure cyclist how they decide on a bike trip, and they'll likely tell you it begins with a really cool map. Backroad Mapbook's new Vancouver Island edition, for example, shows ~ in full-colour, topographic, map-porn glory ~ that by following an old island highway (19A) up the east coast of the 450-kilometre-long B.C. island and by swinging west onto Highway 28 at Campbell River, you can cross the island's 80-km wide mountain range quicker and easier than the oh-so-popular Nanaimo-to-Tofino route further to the south.

The payoff? Well, not only does the old highway route gently sweep you along a sandy coast of oyster bays and salmon shacks, but it takes you right through the vast acreage of Strathcona Provincial Park: one of B.C.'s oldest and largest. You'll ride along the Campbell lakes and behind the island's massive Mount Washington. You'll also end up on the opposite side of the island at the village of Gold River where you can book passage on a historic cargo vessel and continue your journey by sea.

The M.V. Uchuck heads west towards the village of Yuquot, then curls around Nootka Island to head northwards into long, fingerly inlets with names like Tahsis, Esperanza and Zeballos before returning to Gold River. Like its predecessors, the year round, open-to-the-public M.V. Uchuck has been supplying these coastal outposts for over 40 years. Best of all, it can carry 100 tons of cargo and 100 passengers, but 0 cars.



Every summer the Uchuck adds Yuquot (Friendly Cove) day trips to its regular schedule so visitors can walk around its lighthouse, museum church, and gardens. Yuquot is considered so significant to the history of B.C. that it was named a National Historic Site. It was the location of the province’s first European footfall (Captain Cook, no less), and its surrounding area is considered the ancestral home of the Mowachaht/Muchalaht First Nations. It’s their chief Maquinna who paddled out to meet the strangers, and it’s his descendants who still live and work there.

If you decide to pass on the Uchuck and end your trip in Gold River, you’ve got hot showers at the Gold River Chalet, cheap tenting at the Lions Campsite, and enthusiastic-but-flawed advice at the Visitor Info Centre. “Oh, don’t worry about your food,” a staff member may gush in response to a question about bears, “Just put it into your tent ~ it’ll be fine there.” If a local doesn't offer you a ride back to Nanaimo, try this: position yourself by the side of the road, flip your bike upside down and look woebegone; one of those roomy SUVs or pickup trucks is bound to find some space for you on their way back south.

The Route:
From Horseshoe Bay (30km north of Vancouver), roll onto a B.C. Ferry bound for Departure Bay in Nanaimo. Follow Bike Route signs north until they join with Highway 19, then continue along the busy but shouldered roadway to the outskirts of Parksville. Look out a Highway 19A turnoff. You'll be able to stay on the older, quieter 19A for most of the rest of the trip northwest into Campbell River. Turn onto Highway 28 a few kilometres north out of Campbell River and continue west into Gold River.

Highlights:
1. Rathtrevor Provincial Park - A great place to spend your first night: hike-and-bike camp spots, old-growth Douglas Fir, rabbits and deer galore just south of Parksville.
2. Fanny Bay Trading Company - Landscape supplies, yard art, gift shop, and excellent ice coffee south of Fanny Bay
3. Riding Fool Hostel - Other travellers may head into the B'n'B preciousness that are the towns of Courtney and Comox, but savvy cyclists make a westward detour into Cumberland to hang with their own
4. Strathcona Park Lodge - Hot showers, cold beer, bistro food and bike-friendly staff in the middle of Strathcona Provincial Park. Whodda thunk?

Splurge:
While you're in the neighbourhood, book a kayak trip into Nuchatlitz Provincial Park out of Zeballos. Gabriola Cycle and Kayak is one of several tour companies that offers supported tours. Zebellos Kayaks provides rentals, water taxi and support for self-guided paddlers.

I recommend...
A Traveller’s Guide to Aboriginal B.C. by Cheryl Coull, Whitecap Books

Interested in cycling this tiny Central American country? I travelled in Belize for three weeks in January 2006 to sightsee as well as participate in an adventure race called Temple To Temple (see the "Cycling Belize's temple-to-temple tour" story below). Click a link to tour Belize from a cyclist's point of view.

Like a photo? Order a print!



View photos of independent bike travel in: Belize City, Caye Caulker, Belize Zoo, the Coastal Highway, Gales Point, Dangriga, Hopkins village and the Placencia Peninsula.

View photos of the Temple to Temple bike race including: Placencia village, The Placencia hotel (race start), the Toledo district (Conejo, Bella Vista, Lubaantun temple), Hopkins village, the Coastal Highway, Jaguar Paw, Mountain Pine Ridge, Caracol temple, San Ignacio, Western Highway, Caves Branch, Hummingbird Highway, and the race finish.

Published in the February 25, 2006 Travel section of The Globe and Mail




To view a photo gallery of the 2006 Temple To Temple tour, click here -->.

Caracol, Belize — Eight cyclists scrambled up the moonlit stone steps of Caana, Caracol's tallest temple, to assemble under its curved ceiling of night sky, contemplate its 1,300-year-old ghosts, and practise the Downward Facing Dog. Yellow, our group's bike mechanic, sits a few steps above us with four headlamps strapped to his head. He illuminates Taj's movements as she patiently guides our wisecracking group from one yoga pose to another.

At the beginning of the eighth century, about 150,000 people, 30,000 structures and 88 square kilometres of bustling Mayan civilization would have surrounded us. Now, only howler monkeys and the dark, tropical jungle of Belize bear witness to our awkward attempts to raise our tail bones. It's taken five days and almost 500 kilometres of pedalling to get to this remote mountain plateau and we're goofy and giddy, but not untouched by the sacredness of this place. The ghosts will make sure of that.

"Did any of you sleep up there?" asks a groundskeeper the next morning, sternly motioning up at the pyramid's site. This is a touchy topic for Michael de Jong, the Toronto-based organizer of this Temple To Temple bike event. He negotiated for six months with the archeology department of Belize's National Institute of Culture and History to gain permission for our group of 30 cyclists and support staff to camp here.

Two riders, Anthony and Stephanie, pause in their packing, and the groundskeeper shakes his head. "If you sleep up there," he warns, "your parts will fall off!" Everyone cracks up, though Anthony looks as if he's not sure if t

Published in the August 29 2005 Adventure section of The Province, a CanWest Global publication.


Sea otters, bears show sea kayakers the West Coast way. View Photos ->

NOOTKA ISLAND -- The afternoon sun glints sharply off the rolling blue swell south of Rosa Island and it's difficult to follow Brad's finger to where the glistening bulbs of ocean kelp end and the glossy heads of sea otters begin.

We squint from our kayaks' cautious distance to take in the fragile "raft" that the otters have created on a bed of seaweed.

Brad Comeau -- one of two Gabriola Cycle and Kayak guides who've accompanied this group of six paddlers to the edges of Nuchatlitz provincial park -- describes how twenty or so otters will float together on their backs to groom their thick, insulating fur and feed on sea urchins they have gathered on their belly.

Paddling a wide swath past other relaxed-looking rafts, it's hard to believe that it was the sea otter's famously luxuriant coat that led to this creature's near extinction.

A couple of century's worth of fur industry and oil spills diminished their numbers so thoroughly that conservationalists had to bring 89 down from Alaska thirty years ago. Only 3,200 of the threatened species now exist along the Pacific Coast and a few hundred find protection in this 2,135-hectare foreshore park.

Encompassing the northwestern tip of Nootka Island and a number of small island groups, Nuchatlitz provincial park was established in 1996 to do just that: protect significant natural and cultural features that -- like the sea otter rafts -- find refuge in its islets, reefs and coves.

The mostly coastal preserve hosts other threatened species such as the migrating grey whale and the marbled murrelet -- a shy sea bird that lays just one egg a year in high, old-growth trees.

Moist pairs of seal eyes follow us along Nootka Island's irregular shore as we, in turn, watch a black bear beachcomb at low tide. Bald eagles and oyster-catchers dot the sky overhead and they occasionally drop to investigate morsels in the basalt tidal pools.



With its sandal-shredding reefs and sky-high trees, Nuchatlitz initially seems a typical burly West Coast park. But after a few days, its delicate elements emerge: the percolating burble of a retreating tide, the shell-like sheen of a polished bone, the wet echo of a grotto waterfall and the silence of an abandoned homestead.

The Nuu-chah-nulth people have inhabited this part of the coast for thousands of years. In fact, it was Chief Maquinna of the neighbouring Mowachaht band who paddled up to Captain Cook when he rounded Nootka Island's southernmost point in 1778 and "discovered" B.C.

Today, Nuchatlitz provincial park quietly guards a number of archaeological sites that mark the First Nations' earlier presence. Pockets of communities adjoining the park remain their homes today. It's at Nuchatl -- an abandoned settlement that now acts as a water taxi liaison point -- where our group of resting paddlers catches sight of what will become a theme for our six-day trip.

The air is quiet except for the slap of dry bags over beach pebbles and suntan lotion over skin. At the end of the point about 500 metres away, a black bear picks an unhurried path across the wet sand and slippery kelp. It reaches the channel, sniffs it, then leisurely descends into the clear water like a matron into a tub.

"That is one relaxed-looking bear," someone comments as it swims to a nearby island.

We pack the kayaks -- and when it comes time to set out for Belmont Point -- we take a hint from the seals, sea otters and bears that surround us. We dip our paddles into the sparkling ocean and keep our strokes slow and serene.


GOING NUCHATLITZ
Nuchatlitz provincial park is on the west coast of Vancouver Island, approximately 110 km northwest of Tofino and 18 km southwest of Zeballos. Access is by water or air only. To learn more about the park, visit the BC Parks web site at wlapwww.gov.bc.ca/bcparks/explore/parkpgs/nuchatli.htm. Gabriola Cycle and Kayak is one of several tour companies that offers supported tours: www.gck.ca. Zeballos Kayaks provides rentals, water taxi and support for self-guided paddlers: www.zeballoskayaks.com

Coming soon in Adventure West Magazine.


Forests of spruce, cedar and hemlock line the fiord-like walls of Tahsis Inlet View Photos ->

When people ask why I go where I go, I tell them it's "part curiosity and part stubbornness". The curiosity part is usually prompted by a map. My Vancouver Island Backroads Mapbook, for example, shows an east-west Highway 28 between Campbell River and Gold River that ~ by following a river valley ~ allows a shorter and more level crossing of the mountainous island than Tofino's trafficked Highway further south.

More intriguing still, when the solid line of highway ends at Gold River’s pier, a dashed line takes up the roadway's westerly route and continues into the water! It heads west towards the village of Yuquot, then curls around Nootka Island to head northwards into long, fingerly inlets with names like Tahsis, Esperanza and Zeballos.


Vancouver Island is off the western coast of British Columbia, Canada. Nootka Sound is about 110km NW of Tofino.

A bit of digging revealed that the "dashed line" is the route of a cargo vessel that has been supplying these remote coastal outposts for over 40 years. Like its predecessors, the M.V. Uchuck is a year round freight service that can carry 100 tons of cargo and 100 passengers, but 0 cars.

The "stubbornness" part kicked in when I tried to actually get into Gold River to join the Uchuck. I learned that while B.C. Ferries is more than accommodating for multi-modal travellers to the island, Via Rail Canada does not allow bicycles on their Victoria-to-Courtney railway up the island, and Greyhound Canada does not go west into Gold River. "Fine," I told myself as I dug out my panniers, "I'll ride my damned bike."

The road from Nanaimo to Gold River is lovely and well-appointed, but cycling its 250 kilometer distance on a fully-loaded bicycle is definitely not an "adventure lite". As an alternative, I suggest you beg, borrow or hitch a ride to Gold River. If you do bring a bike, flip it upside down by the side of the road and look woebegone; one of those roomy SUVs or pickup trucks is bound to offer you a ride.

Once you get to the mill town, you've got hot showers at the Gold River Chalet, cheap tenting at the Lions Campsite, and enthusiastic-but-flawed advice at the Visitor Info Centre. "Oh, don't worry about your food," the staff member may gush in response to a question about bears, "Just put it into your tent ~ it'll be fine there."

If "Gold River" sounds familiar, you may recall that it's one of the favourite stomping grounds of "Luna" ~ the solitary orca that got separated from its pod a few years ago. I asked Alberto Girotto, manager or the Uchuck if he'd seen the killer whale around the vessel recently and ~ like other area residents ~ he gave a relieved "No". Luna had gotten into the habit of nudging boats and floatplanes in past years, and everyone concerned wanted the orca out of the Sound and back with his family.

The day I set out on the Uchuck, it was all so darned B.C. postcard-perfect, I almost couldn't take it. Ho-hum, I thought as we passed Grieg Seafood BC, just another salmon farm with nets over the pens to prevent the fish from jumping out or the eagles from flying in. Oh right, I tsked as we unloaded a propane tank at a logging camp, ye olde tugboat rounding up cedars in a log boom with a fellow ~ er ~ balancing on the end of a 40 foot log to help it along. Gosh, I paused: a floating resort called the Nootka Wilderness Lodge where American tourists pay thousands of dollars to ~ ahem ~ be in the exact place that I had the priviledge of being via this reasonably-priced public-access boat ride.

I quickly made like a tourist and snapped some photos, then actually read what an on-board newspaper called The Nootka Sounder had to say. Thick with photos and stories, it told how a village just across the inlet by the name of Yuquot (Friendly Cove) was considered so significant to the history of B.C. that it was named a National Historic Site. It was the location of the province's first European footfall (Captain Cook, no less), first non-native settlement (Russians and Spaniards), and first non-native industry (sea otter fur trading).

As important, Yuquot and its surrounding area is also considered the ancestral home of the Mowachaht/Muchalaht First Nations. It's their chief Maquinna who paddled out to meet the strangers, and it's his descendants who still live and work in here. Every summer the Uchuck adds Yuquot day trips to its regular schedule so visitors can walk around its lighthouse, museum church, and gardens; or stay overnight in a MMFN campground.

Bound for Zeballos, I put the paper down and contented myself on the sun-warmed upper deck by lazily watching the passing forests of spruce, cedar and hemlock that lined the fiord-like walls of the inlets. The scent of oven-warm gingersnaps drifted up from the homey coffee shop.

When we arrived at the old gold mining town, I waited while the crew helped a tour group of senor adventurers unload their suitcases. They would spend the night in Zeballos, then drop in on Yuquot on the way back to Gold River. I found myself admiring their willingness to forgo more conventional destinations for this tour of remote villages, camps and outposts. It probably took a lot of curiosity, I decided as I hoisted my bike on the gangplank, and a little bit of stubbornness.


INFO LITE:

- Vancouver Island Cycle Tourism Alliance - www.cyclevancouverisland.ca
- M.V. Uchuck schedule, fares & info - 250-283-2325 - www.mvuchuck.com
- Nootka Sound history - www.mvuchuck/historic.htm
- Mowachaht/Muchalaht First Nations - www.yuquot.ca
- Luna the Orca news & sightings - www.reuniteluna.com
- Gold River tourist information - 250-283-2202 - www.village.goldriver.bc.ca
- Vancouver Island Backroad Mapbook - www.backroadmapbooks.com
- A Traveller's Guide to Aboriginal B.C. - Cheryl Coull, Whitecap Books

Published in the July 29 2005 issue of the Georgia Straight


Photo by Luke Moloney

Thinking of hauling your out-of-town visitors to Tofino for some whale-watching? Think again. This summer, four local tour operators are guaranteeing sightings with departures right out of the Lower Mainland. Vancouver Whale Watch and Steveston Seabreeze Adventures (both departing from Steveston), Wild Whales Vancouver (from Granville Island), and Pier’s End Adventure Centre (from White Rock) are all offering boat tours across the Strait of Georgia and down to the Gulf and San Juan islands to watch the whale pods play. Read Story ->

Got two weeks for a holiday? Sit on a bike instead of a barstool! As I discovered in March, fourteen days is plenty of time to explore Cuba's Circuito Norte by bike. From resort-town Varadero, through Havana, to the peaceful Vinales valley, it's a perfect, paved, almost-flat view of the island's less known northwestern coast. View Photos ->

Georgia Straight writer Andrew Scott's experiences with casa particulars Read Story ->

I Recommend...

MAP:
The Rough Guide Map: Cuba - excellent 1:850,000 scale with contours & distance markers
GUIDEBOOK:
Lonely Planet "Cycling Cuba" - a bit out of date (2002) and the routes are a bit picky, but good overall touring info and maps
WEBSITES:
- Cuba's version of inexpensive B&B's: www.casaparticular.info
- Hotels in a variety of price ranges: www.particularcuba.com
- Bike-friendly Skyquest flies economic direct flights from Vancouver to Cuba with no charge for bikes, and no need to box them (they provide a $5.00 plastic bag) www.sunquest.net
- Bicycles Crossing Borders: a Toronto-based organization that ships used bikes and parts to Cuba. www.bikestocuba.org

Published in the July/August 2005 Road Trips issue of Outpost Magazine.



Length: 360km loop
Duration: 2 weeks by bicycle, less by car or if you bypass the unpaved portions
Roads: 143 km of rental-car-repelling hard-packed sand/dirt ~ rolling except for continuous drops into arroyos (dry river beds) on the East Cape Road; 217km of pavement ~ equal parts isolated blacktop and shared highway.
Season: November to April (May to October are the worst for heatand rainfall)

""

Mexico’s Baja peninsula has a reputation for banditos, buzzards and bad water; and a road trip down its arid 1,300km length would certainly seem to earn you bad-ass points. The trouble is, thousands of RV-drivin’ retirees are taking the same route down Mexico 1, and if you want to see more than the backend of a Winnebago, you’re going to have to take it where they can’t go: off the grid.

At the peninsula’s southernmost tip, that isn’t such an intimidating idea. A perfect loop of multi-surfaced roads circles the popular Cabo region and offers up a backroads perspective of its Mexi-gringo nature and culture that ~ if you’ve got the cajones to try it ~ is better on a bike.

Traditionally, "bicycling Baja" involved a paved-surface trip down Mexico 1 or singletrack day-rides into its trails. This intermediate-level tour combines the best of both. Arroyos make the East Cape and El Carrizal roads unpleasant for most vehicles but on fat tires they offer up days of unhurried coastal cruising and secluded beach camping.

From Cabo Pulmo to Los Barriles the road is smooth and untrafficked. The towns’ scuba and wind-surfing scenes are low-key touristy and supply road trip luxuries like hot showers, cold beer and fresh fish tacos.

West of Los Barriles the Mexico 1 leaves the Sea of Cortez to tackle the bracing job of crossing the Sierra de la Laguna range. Historic mining towns, village fruit stands and rancho campgrounds appear along the way and the cooler mountain landscape is forested by cacti and conifers.



Traffic is steady but courteous on Mexico 19 south and a quick turn-off back onto dirt leads to serene stretches of agricultural ejidos and Pacific Coast beachfront. In Todos Santos, surf lessons, eco-tours, and wine bars mark the return of full-fledged tourist amenities in the corridor of all-exclusive resorts between Cabo San Lucas and San José del Cabo.

Baja serves up a warmer, cheaper and spicier road trip adventure than anything north of Tijuana; and it doesn’t take much get your bad-ass self off the beaten track and onto a tasty circuit of cardons and coastlines.

THE ROUTE
Start in San José del Cabo; head east on East Cape Road and north along the Sea of Cortez to Los Barriles, northwest on Hwy 1 across the Sierra de la Laguna mountains on to Hwy 19 junction, south on Hwy 19 to El Crucero (unsigned, approx. 26km south of Hwy 1 & 19 junctions), west on an unmarked road to "Agua Blanca" sign then west to the Pacific Ocean, south into Todos Santos, south on Hwy 19 into Cabo San Lucas, then east back into San José del Cabo.

HIGHLIGHTS
1. Cacti Mundo Botancial Garden - Tour rare and endangered cacti in an environmentally sensitive habitat (San José del Cabo)
2. East Cape Road – Camp backcountry-style on secluded white sand beaches (San José del Cabo to Cabo Pulmo)
3. Parque Marino Naçional Cabo Pulmo – Snorkel the only coral reef on North America’s west coast (Cabo Pulmo)
4. Rancho Verde RV Park – Sleep under tree-tall cardon cacti on a lush family-run acreage (Kilometre 141, Hwy 1)
5. Art and Beer – Sip a hippie freshy at this roadside art installation, funky residence and kickass juice bar (Kilometre 69, south of Todos Santos, Hwy 19)

BEST DIGS
In Los Barriles, a $10US/night camp fee buys you full pool, palapa and party privileges with the resident kite-surfers and marlin-fishers at Martin Verdugo’s Beach Resort.

OFF THE MAP
Once a parcel of speculation land, "Agua Blanca" is now a grid of dirt roads that square off endless acres of rolling land, deserted beach, and wandering cows. Rusty street signs inconguously mark each corner. The road can be rough, steep and sandy, but if you’re on a bike your seclusion is guaranteed. (El Carrizal, about 22km west of El Crucero)

Published in the May/June 2005 Outpost Magazine.

Looking for a tougher than normal back-country excursion this summer? How about 1,600 kilometres by kayak, on foot and bicycle through B.C.'s north?


"It was Day Two of a ten day hike. There was no trail and no turning back." VIEW PHOTOS ->


Gregg Drury is a Minnesota-raised outdoorsman, social activist and eco-entrepreneur who ~ I discovered ~ has a lot to say about menstrual products.

I’d agreed to join him on an exploratory section of his 60-day self-propelled "The Odyssey Tour," and inquired ahead of time ~ as any inexperienced gal about to go hiking through northern B.C.’s grizzly country might ~ if it was okay to bring "Aunt Flow" along.

"Well," I could hear him deliberate over the phone, "There is no doubt in my mind that a woman who is menstruating while on a wilderness trip increases the risk associated with a bear attack ~ both for herself and her travelling companions." He went on to describe the dangers of conventional disposable tampons, the benefits of reusable menstrual cups and where in Vancouver I could get one.

Simultaneously terrified and impressed, I made the necessary gear adjustments and met Gregg, assistant guide Fiona Brodie and fellow guinea pig John Harrison over topographic maps in Gregg’s Iskut, B.C. base about 320 kilometers south of the Yukon border. We’d be helped along by Tahltan elder Pat Etzerza, his nephew Clarence Quock, and five of their pack horses.

Long before "amazing", "extreme", and "adventure" races became a reality, Pat’s ancestors regularly migrated between their winter hunting grounds in the Cassiar region’s Spatzizi Plateau and the summer fish camps at the confluence of the Tahltan and Stikine River. A 100-kilometer portion of this trail still exists, and Gregg lives about ten minutes away from its easternmost trailhead.



He’s discovered that if you hike the old trading route to the Stikine and then paddle to its mouth, you can ocean kayak south down Alaska’s Inside Passage past Wrangell and Ketchikan, tuck into the Portland Inlet and paddle northeast up into Stewart. From there you can access Highway 37; cycle back into Iskut and have yourself one hell of a tour. He’s completed the 1,600-kilometer circle route a couple of times and can’t see why others wouldn’t want to try it too.

Gregg must have warned Pat of my tenderfoot status because he shot me a conspiratory look. "I’ll be your packer," Pat grinned, "I’ll throw you on top of one of the horses if you get tired."

"With all that gear?" I asked, half joking.

"Oh, those horses are strong, full of vinegar!" he said by way of reassurance, "They can carry moose meat, horns and cape ~ 500 pounds worth".

One of the reasons Gregg brought Pat and Clarence on board, he told me later on the trail, was to offer them a different way to make a living than catering to fly-in trophy hunters.

"If you pick a flower, a berry, or a plant in a provincial park," Gregg fumed, "That’s illegal. But if a trophy hunter wants to shoot any animal ~ moose, bear, lynx ~ they can do it." He shakes his head. "These are protected and managed wilderness areas?"

Since Pat and the horses could travel faster than us, we got a head start out of Kluachon Lake and set camp on a small beaver-dammed lake with just a minimum of supplies. The sky was still light at 11pm when I approached the green fly of Gregg’s tent and broke the bad news. "Gregg," I hesitated, "I’m gonna need to get into your first aid kit."



Despite our earlier efforts to surround ourselves with the grizzly-repelling smell of smoke and fire, I was oozing the scent of blood with no freakin’ menstrual cup to stopper it. I managed to macgyver two safety pins and a Kendall "Tendersorb" bandage into a makeshift sanitary pad, but I was not feeling solid about the 19 kilometers slated for the next day.

Pat had warned us that there was "a little trouble with beavers" in the area and as we joined the side of the Klastline River, it became clear that our trail was in fact completely washed out. Smooth beaver chutes dropped into the wide river terraced by serpentine, 150-meter long dams. We were obliged to traverse a steep slope of scrub willow and birch. As towering poplars gave way to lichen-covered pillows of wet, spongy moss the terrain became flatter but denser.

Feeble with menstrual cramps, I was losing a battle to push through the dense webs of stunted willow branches. I called out to Gregg, Fiona and John and we formed a huddle as the gloomy skies opened to a cold rain.

"I’ve got my period," I admitted wearily, "The cramps are pretty bad and I’m running about 75 per cent power right now. Plus…" I held up my foot, "My soles are falling off." The rubber soles of my ten-year-old Raichles had peeled away from the toes like a ridiculous clown shoe.

It was Day Two of a ten-day hike. There was no duct tape, no trail and no turning back.

~~~~

"So, if you don’t mind me asking, how’s that Diva Cup working out for you?"

Gregg had been hanging back, either to offer moral support because I’d gotten repeatedly stung by wasps plodding over stump roots in his oversized gumboots; or because I was still a bleeding liability at the back of his herd.

As euphemistically as I could, I explained that I was "having challenges" with the menstrual cup and had fallen back on a stash of O.B.s. When I confessed that I had been burying the used ones, he looked betrayed. He said something about burning them in the Trekstov ~ the one we cooked our meals on ~ but my mind was elsewhere.

With each sloppy step, coin-sized blisters burned between my toes. The horses had passed and were hours ahead of us, and sheer stubbornness pushed me forward. I began to imagine myself loaded on one of them ~ not astride, like a human being ~ but draped, like one of those moose carcasses.







In the next four days, we navigated two derelict bridges, zip-lined one swollen river, and walked endless buckling, boggy, mosquito-thick kilometers. During the day Gregg, Fiona, and John offered mute support while I stumbled clumsily. In the evenings Pat and Clarence served up warm solace by their barrel stove.

"Do ya think you could ride one of them horses?" Pat asked me one day over Spam and chicken soup. We were sitting at Creykes Camp, a cached clearing carved out of the Buckley Lake shoreline by Pat’s "relatives", as he put it. Beyond the warm green glisten of the lake, the volcanic cone of Mount Edziza ~ named after Pat’s family ~ glinted white against the warm, rustling July sky.



Gregg, Fiona and John had gone up to the mountain’s nearby Eve Cone for a day hike and Clarence was down at the dock fishing for rainbow trout. I was left with Pat to recuperate and prepare for the last portion of the trip.

I looked up at him, and for the first time in a long time, I started to laugh.

Except for the few months that the Iskut band brought them in for hunting trips, it turns out the the half-Clydesdale, half-wild "pack horses" usually ran unfettered in the boreal forest. Those animals were so smart, I’d seen them work their tethers loose and ~ hobbled and cow-belled ~ silently sneak away from Pat’s wall tent. A day with the horses meant I’d be expected to sit on the back of one of these beasts and help keep it from bolting the pack line when it had half a chance.

It also meant I’d share the last 25 kilometers of the Tahltan’s ancestral trail with Pat, Clarence, and all their relatives before us.

"Hey!" I hollered in Pat’s best horse-whooping voice, " ‘Smarten up, why don’t ya?!’ "

Published in the March 2005 Adventure West Magazine.


"Take a moment to enjoy the simple pleasures that surround you every day".

The Canadian customs line was moving slowly. Most of the passengers coming up from Seattle on the Greyhound waited sleepily in line, but I was curious about the unusual baggage of a couple of travellers in front of me.

Gurney-style, they'd carried a couple of beaten-up and duct-taped cardboard boxes out of the bus's luggage compartment. They also unloaded two old canvas backpacks, a milk crate with a wire basket bungyed inside it, and a plastic Chinatown-style shopping bag. The tip of a bike's front fork peeked out of one torn-up corner of one of the cardboard boxes.

Standing behind them in the line, I helped push their considerable pile of gear forward each time a passenger stepped forward to be questioned by a customs officer. I turned to one of them and asked if they were in the middle of journey. Her eyes shone as she explained that they'd just biked down the Baja Peninsula and would be finishing their trip in Coquitlam.

She was in her late twenties, with a light tan and French-braided ponytail. She wore a beige hoody and cargo pants. The fellow with her seemed a bit older: also tanned, he wore his salt-and-pepper hair close cropped, and ~ when he wasn't bustling to move the boxes forward ~ kept his hands in his Mexican sweater and listened as she spoke.

While we were comparing notes, I watched her boyfriend and noticed that although he listened and participated actively, he didn't say much. I got a sense that he was comfortable stepping back and not feeling obliged to do all the talking, and remembered how important an attribute that is when travelling with someone; the ability to perform a silent kind of dance so that you take turns at standard tasks like dealing with curious conversation-makers.

He reminded me of my last boyfriend. P.H. was arguably the best person I'd ever travelleded with ~ and that's saying a lot, because I usually biked solo.

Pierre-Henri was a consummate cyclist who'd grown up surrounded by the Tour de France. On weekdays he spent the entire time on his single-speed as a bike messenger, and on weekends he road raced to Richmond with the UBC clubs or track raced in Burnaby. I'd never ridden with a man who regularly cycled with a heart monitor. I was duly intimidated when I joined him on the Oregon Coast portion of his own Vancouver-to-Baja bike tour.

I wasn't stressed about the ride or the distance…I'd cycled solo in southeast Asia for four months and knew I could handle weight, kilometers and culture shock if I had to. I was more worried about the delicate dance of our own interactions. I feared he'd either ride faster and further than me and ask ~ as one boyfriend did ~ if I was riding this slow on purpose; or he'd hang over me and ~ as another boyfriend did ~ continuously ask if I was okay, did I need a break, was I hungry and was this hill too big?

P.H. did neither. He followed his own pace and allowed the distance between us to naturally lengthen. Then he'd pause for a drink, photo or contemplative moment so that I could eventually catch up and share it with him. P.H. simply trusted that I was fine and capable and would let him know if I needed him.



As I learned to trust him, I discovered I could gently tuck my independent feminist rhetoric away into a pannier side pocket. I was happy to let him tune up our bikes before each day's ride, and he was happy to let me deal with the 20 Questions we regularly played with head-shaking car campers.

After two weeks of letting the Pacific breezes push us southwards down the coast, P.H. and I had had enough funny, scary, wet, wonderful cycling days together that we could boast a confident beginner's understanding of the travel companion dance. In Florence, Oregon, he boxed my bike at a cyclist-friendly hotel room as I booked a seat on a Vancouver-bound Greyhound bus. P.H. figured out a way to bungy my panniers and bike box onto his B.O.B. trailer, and I figured a way to double on his Surly and get both of us to the station without a cab.

Unlike the couple at the border, our adventures would end in different places: I'd return to my bike shop job in Vancouver, and P.H. would continue south to Baja Norte, then return to Vancouver just long enough to die suddenly and break my heart.

At the Coquitlam bus station, I peered out the tinted glass and watched the bicycle couple efficiently unload their gear and backpacks. As she pulled them out from the bus's belly and stacked them on the asphalt, he carried them to the platform and leaned them against a bench. "I'll get that, sweetheart," I heard him call to her as she tugged on one of the bike boxes.

I could see him pull strips of duct tape off the smaller box and get ready to reassemble a bike. I waved to them through the glass, and as the coach backed out of the loading bay, watched them continue their practical dance under the depot’s warm yellow light.

Published in the February 10, 2005 Single In The City issue of the Georgia Straight

Would you like a good spanking? Would you? Because if you're single and like to travel, expect to get spanked hard when you go to pay for that fabulous all-inclusive holiday. In addition to the taxes, surcharges, and fees everyone else pays, solo travellers must submit to an additional smack called the "single supplement" merely because they have the cheek to journey alone. READ STORY ->

Published in the February 2005 Adventure West Magazine.



I’ve lived in Vancouver for thirteen years and naively believed I’d left winter driving behind. It waited for me one December weekend at the crux of Yoho, Kootenay and Banff National Parks. Winter road report: packed, slippery in sections with occasional panic patches.

Toqued and goretexed, Jen and I bravely slushed into Revelstoke after a couple of hours of front-wheel driving along the Trans-Canada. While I concentrated on keeping the Mazda inside two furrows on the road, Jen ~ fresh from a stint in internet marketing ~ remarked how the endless flakes of alien snow looked like a screen saver flying into the windshield.

"When does snowmobile season start?" I asked a Chevron attendant, noting the parade of Ski-doo-toting pickup trucks gassing up at the pumps. "Honey," the attendant drawled as she handed me a tourist map, "It’s been snowmobile season for two months".

Jen and I decided to save Roger’s Pass for the morning and checked into a $24.95 a night room at the Monashee Lodge. Our options for a Saturday night were to join the hairy-chested snowmobilers chugging cans of Canadian in the lodge’s lobby hot tub, crash the mill workers’ Christmas dance at the Rec Centre ("they’d be glad for a couple of ladies," pointed out the Chevron social director), or a couple of rounds of amateur pool at the Regent Inn.

I left Guelph Ontario for three reasons: the snow the cold and the ice. I’d had enough of pulling on layers-upon-layers of clothes for a five-minute walk to the corner store. I was no longer willing to drive for five hours to stand in a double chair lift line for a pimple of a ski hill, and I was done with the sudden lurches and sickening spins on black ice.

I imagined a mossy, emerald place of ocean and mountains with sandy beaches in the summer and moistened forests in the winter. A place where 4,000 metre mountains of snow wait respectfully twenty minutes away should I deign to visit them.



A cyclist by choice, I’ve enjoyed a relatively car- and snow-free existence on this side of the country. I attribute my carlessness very directly to surviving three crashes and one near miss. I’ve been in three separate Mazdas ~ GLCs, all of them ~ that were back-ended, front-quartered and head-oned beyond repair.

If you’ve ever been in a car accident you know there is a moment before impact where you do not know if you will die or survive. Adrenaline-charged time inverts itself; it slows down enough to be able to wonder if death could come at the end of this thought. Driving terrifies me ~ in the snow, doubly so.

A move to the West Coast marked a snow-reduced, death-defying direction. Emboldened, I learned to ride a motorcycle, downhilled north shore single track, and biked solo in Southeast Asia. Sure, I dropped the 450lb Honda CB400 a couple of times and destroyed my knee on Grouse’s Peugot MTB trail, but these set-backs did not bring me close to that thought-quick view of death I’d glimpsed on the other side of a steering wheel.

The next day we gratefully drafted a beacon-red truck trailer through the wind-blown whiteness of the Selkirk range. "I’m afraid…" I confided to Jen somewhere past the gas stations of Golden. "I’m afraid I’m going to die in a car." She’s driving now, confidently as an Ottawa and Edmonton-raised driver would. At 80 km/hour, she’s nonplussed abut the cakey layers of snow under her tires as we descend into the sanded curves of the Kicking Horse River and arrive to a Lake Louise astonished by its own depth and breadth of feathery snow. A foot of it covers the cars in the ski hill parking lot and my first few steps out of the car are miserably reminiscent of a lifetime of cold, hateful snow.

"Fucking winter," I curse as I pull ski equipment out of Jen’s hatchback, "fucking snow".

The snowy roads still terrorize me and prove that I have indeed become a web-footed West Coaster. For some reason I continue to cross snow-covered mountain ranges and provincial boundaries to prove ~ in some obscure way ~ that it’s all just recreation to me.

Published in the January 13 2005 Winter Adventure issue of the Georgia Straight


Ski buses are for skiers and 'boarders who'd rather ride than drive. Photo by Luke Moloney

Mittens firmly in the 10 and 2 o'clock positions, I was driving behind a Greyhound bus one winter morning when an impatient driver turned a Celica from a side road in front of the coach, lost control on the icy shoulder, bounced off the side of the bus, and--shooting off fractured quarter panels and shattered glass--spun to a stop five metres in front of me. I realized then that I'd be better off inside the bus than behind it.

Ski-tour operators and bus companies agree. Moose Travel Network, Destination Snow, Canadian Outback, Snowclub, and even Greyhound have hit the highways with stress-free bus services to B.C. mountains. Cheap and flexible, the ski-bus trips are ideal for adventurous skiers and snowboarders--both locals and tourists--who'd rather ride than drive.

Unlike the SUV driven by your mom, boyfriend, or buddy, these vehicles are steered by professional drivers. Other benefits? They're righteously HOV, they often include movies, giveaways, and discounts, and (ahem) they're a great way to meet new people with similar interests. READ STORY ->

Published in the December 2004 Adventure West Magazine.


Marney and son Coulter of Up The Creek Backpacker's B&B in Roberts Creek

I used to sell panniers at Vancouver’s Bike Doctor and when novice cyclists would come in and say they were going to spend a "relaxing" weekend biking the Gulf Islands, I’d cringe. There’s got to be an easier way for these people to discover the simple joys of bike touring, I thought; a destination with less gravity-defying hills, a shorter ferry ride, comparable island cachet and cheaper accommodations.

Since then I’ve thrown my bike on the #257 Horseshoe Bay bus and confirmed that this place does exist but the catch is ~ it’s not an island; it’s the thirty or so kilometers between Gibsons Landing, Roberts Creek and Sechelt known as the Sunshine Coast.

Each of the three villages are spaced fairly evenly apart and are linked by the Georgia Strait coastline, the paved-shouldered Highway 101, and a bike-rack equipped Sunshine Coast Transit System. The curious traveller can sample a day’s worth of arts, eats and adventures by bike or bus, then settle into an cozy hostel-type accommodation when it gets dark.

Now, I’d heard that backpacker digs were popping up along the Coast but I always found it difficult to find them. It turns out that ~ with the exception of Sechelt’s Upper Deck Hostel which is located in a business area ~ zoning restrictions require them to refer to themselves as "backpacker B&B’s": Gibsons has the two-year-old Wynken Blynken & Nod Backpacker’s B&B and Robert’s Creek has the new Up The Creek Backpacker’s B&B.

Martin, Marney and son Coulter Prestage opened the roomy Up The Creek in June. It features a stove-heated shared kitchen, library and music room, wooden deck and hot tub, and a studio where Marney guides yoga on Saturday mornings. The couple are crazy-eager to show visitors the area’s bounty and will gladly lend bicycles for the neighbouring Mount Elphinstone trails, send you down to Alpha Adventures for a kayak or snowshoe rental, or just suggest a walk down to the Gumboot Café’s legendary desserts.

Tanya Hall, husband Paul and mum Shirley at the Upper Deck Hostel also harbour a wealth of local and world travel knowledge. Guidebooks, brochures and vintage travel magazines line their casual rec-room lounge, and they’ve themed each of the clean and comfortable sleeping rooms to the different countries they’ve visited. Having lived in the area for over 23 years, Tanya and Shirley have the kind of local knowledge visitors crave; on Tanya’s suggestion I visited the new timber frame Visitor Centre, walked along Snickett Park’s curvy shoreline, wandered past the Sechelt band’s townsite and totems, and dropped into the gorgeous Raven’s Cry Theatre for a boffo screening of The Incredibles.

A denver sandwich at the Village Restaurant the next day fueled me up for a southward ride all the way back to Gibsons Landing. The roadway is a bit narrow out of Sechelt but opens up to a festive beach walk of motels and snack bars through Wilson Creek. The two-lane Highway 101 has wide shoulders for stress-free riding all the way into Gibsons; but an even more relaxed ride is to follow Lower Roberts Creek Road as it glides past cottages and cedars, rejoin 101 until Pratt Road, cruise down towards Gower Point Road and then follow it along the arbutus-lined shore until you roll into Gibsons’ caféd main street.

The Wynken Blynken & Nod B&B entrance hides behind a hedge just past Coles Marine on Marine Drive. Built in 1937 and formerly a fishers’ boarding house, the main building and courtyard cabins have an enviable location right on Shoal Channel. Proprietor Suzanne Senger bought the property in 2002 and moved quite a number of historic relics over to the
Elphinstone Pioneer Museum. Despite ongoing renovations WB&N is ~ at this stage ~ the most rustic of the three Coast hostels and may appeal t