Cycling up the last hill, mid-afternoon, I see three figures with bikes silhouetted at the top. I pull up and the guys check out my bike thoroughly before bothering with any social pleasantries but I presume it passes muster because before long I discover that not only is Thanksgiving totally sorted but we also have a place to stay in Pie Town.

The Toaster House is a free hostel of sorts, a stopping point for hikers and bikers on the Great Divide route, provided by Nita, a ‘trail angel.’ Nita is away but we are welcome to stay, none-the-less. Once the wood burning stove is stoked up the Toaster House is certainly far, far cosier than than camping in the sub-zero temperatures that I have been experiencing out in the forest en route from Flagstaff. Things are looking good.

The next morning Cass, Jeff and I set off on a ride, unburdened by luggage, to a lookout at over 9000 feet on the Great Divide.

A serious climb on a rough track but at least the bicycle is unburdened for once. Photo: Jeff Volk.

Cass admiring the view from the Davenport Lookout.

Cass and Jeff cycling down a canyon.

After a while we manage to lose the road completely.

The sun is going down and Thanksgiving dinner is waiting back in Pie Town.

After a fine adventure we finally get back to Pie Town in time for Thanksgiving dinner at the Pie-o-neer, one of the two cafes that help Pie Town live up to its name. We eat more than seems humanly possible from a largely vegetarian spread – a more or less impromptu feast put on by the management and staff to which we are very warmly welcomed. Desert is pies, of course.

Thanksgiving entertainment.

Jeff and Jason are waiting for the arrival of a box of food at the Post Office and, since it doesn’t arrive the following day, we stay in Pie Town, hanging out at the Pie-o-neer eating pie..

Peeling apples - I am roped into the business of pie production.

Cathy, the force behind Pie-o-neer, showing off a pie, hot from the oven.

Cherry pie.

Pecan oat pie.

In two and a half days in Pie Town, I manage to sample apple pecan pie, pecan oat pie, triple berry pie, peach pie, cherry pie, pumpkin pie, sweet potato pie*. There are quite possibly some that I have already forgotten and I certainly had more than one slice of each. It’s a good thing I’m on cycle tour.

There are no grocery shops in Pie Town and Jeff and Jason’s food box doesn’t turn up. Cass and I don’t have a lot of food either. Things look grim until George, a late season hiker turns up at the Toaster House at 9pm the night before we are due to set off into the wilderness. He has some left over provisions and a food box which does arrive at the Post Office in the morning which he is happy to hand over to our expedition.

Cass and George at the entrance of the Toaster House.

*Cathy was kind enough to give me some of her pie recipes.

PIE-O-NEER PIE CRUST

This recipe is for a cafe and makes 5 crusts. As changing proportions in a recipe is an unpredicatable business, the best option might be to make the full amount and freeze some portions for future use.

• Sift together 5 cups flour, 2 tsps. salt, & 1/2 tsp. baking powder.
• Cut in 1 cup cold butter and 1 cup lard.
• When you have the dry ingredients sufficiently blended w/the butter and lard, slowly incorporate the following:
• (Mixed together) 1 cup cold water, 1 egg (slightly beaten) & 1 TBS. apple cider vinegar.  Usually requires a little more water, added a little at a time.
• With as light a touch as possible, make 5 patties, dust with flour, securely wrap and chill or freeze for use later.

OATS ‘N PECANS (Makes 2 pies)

• Cream together 1 stick of butter (1/2 cup) and 1 cup of sugar.  Add 1 tsp. cinnamon, 1/2 tsp. ground clove, & 1/2 tsp. salt.  Mix well.
• Add 1 cup dark Karo syrup and 1 cup light Karo syrup (Karo syrup is corn syrup – I imagine other sweeteners can be substituted.).  Mix well.
Gently add 6 eggs, 1 at a time, mixing as little as possible to incorporate.

Add 1 cup oats, preferably old-fashioned.

Sprinkle 1 cup toasted pecan pieces on bottom of unbaked pie shell.  Fill with mixture and decorate top w/ pecan halves.

Bake at 180 C or 350 F (slow oven) for 1 hour or until brown and no longer jiggling in middle.

This pie is wonderful with anything you like, substituting for pecans; try walnuts and apples, chocolate chips, coconut, etc.

The most important ingredient in a pie is LOVE :)

Judy, Greg and Clare are kind enough to let me slip into their busy lives and I become one of the family for the duration of my stay in the Bay Area.

On Friday night, in the interests of my cultural education, and in order to gain a deeper understanding of American life, I attend a high school football game with Judy and Clare. Clare is one of the cheerleaders who braves icy winds in a short skirt to give moral support not only to the team but also to the moms huddled under blankets on the sidelines during the three hour game – which in this case is a total rout of ‘our’ team. Judy and I defect in search of dinner and end up sipping mojitos and eating tapas in a stylish Cuban restaurant in the local suburb of Alameda.

High school football game.

Cheerleaders giving it their all...

...and more.

Saturday morning, I contact Sam, a friend I met when we both were living in Prague. Sam, a sociology professor at Berkeley, happens to live in Rockridge, about ten minutes away from where I am staying and so we agree to meet in a local diner. While we catch up on the last year or so of news, I partake in my favourite American indulgence – a stack of pancakes for breakfast.

A classic American diner.

The Saturday morning crowd.

Sam, a friend I initially met in Prague.

Sam playing it cool over brunch in Rockridge. (Note the trusty bike visible just out the front door.)

I cruise past the Berkeley Farmer’s Market where I wander about looking at the boutique vegetables. They are certainly all very beautiful and stylish.

Amazing produce at the Berkeley Farmer's Market.

Heirloom tomatoes are all the rage. America is a feast for the privileged.

Next stop is an excursion to the Bike Kitchen, a community co-operative bicycle workshop staffed and run by volunteers in the Mission district of San Francisco. For a small sum, annually, you can become a co-op member and use the workshop whenever it is open. As a casual passer-by, I can pay a donation of five to ten dollars for a day membership. Nobody is turned away for lack of funds and it is possible to yourself earn a bike, built from parts donated to the organisation, by volunteering for a certain number of hours.

I arrive an hour or so before closing time on Saturday afternoon and the place is jam packed, inside and out, with an incredibly diverse group of people working on their bikes. I chat to some of the volunteers and work out the best time to return to give my bike a thorough tune up and service.

The Bike Kitchen - a community co-operative cycle workshop staffed by volunteers.

The Bike Kitchen is an excellent place to work on your bike yourself if you need access to tools and good advice.

On Monday, I go to Emeryville, also in East Bay, to spend a few days with Stella, a friend of an old Australian friend of mine, from the days when I was an acrobat and performer. Stella is an artist, a member of the Flaming Lotus Girls, a group that create large scale pyrotechnic sculpture installations at festivals such as Burning Man. She is also an art and play therapist and I stay in her consulting room, which houses a large collection of plastic personages, to keep me company during the night.

Old ladies.

Analyse this.

Stella and I try to avoid the torrential storms currently drowning San Francisco. We chat over cups of tea and then, braving the tempest, go to a yoga class around the corner. I impulsively sign up for the three class newcomer’s special so I am now committed to a yoga class a day for the next three days; this surely can’t be a bad thing – it is not only my bike that needs a service and tune up!

In the morning, Stella goes to work and I avoid doing the dishes by heeding the admonition above the sink. I take photos of the dishes, rather than washing them, and then have to run off to my next yoga class before they are done. Later, I return to the Bike Kitchen, in the Mission, for the evening to work on my bike.

On the way to the Mission, a couple strike up a conversation with me on the BART and when the man hands me his card I am absolutely thrilled to discover that he is the director of SETI, the Institute for the Search for Extraterrestial Intelligence, at Berkeley. I ask him if he has found any extraterrestial intelligence and he suddenly looks terribly tired.

“I promise that I would tell you”, he says.

Art before dishes.

And I'll say it again - art before dishes!

The next day the rain finally stops and Stella takes me on an expedition to find a new sleeping bag. My twenty year old bag has had me sleeping in all my thermals and my down sweater on cooler evenings recently and, as I’m hoping to head out of San Francisco over the Sierras, I think a new sleeping bag could be in order. REI are having a sale and Marmot sleeping bags are 25% off so it seems a good opportunity to upgrade but all the local stores have sold out.

We take the opportunity to do a driving tour of San Francisco Bay Area and eventually end up in the Castro to visit Stella’s partner, with my brand new, and super lofty, sleeping bag in hand. Tori’s Castro garden provides me the opportunity to satisfy my constant urge to hunt and gather. Stella and I spend a happy hour climbing trees, foraging for apples and quinces. Stella says she will roast the quince with sweet potatoes, which sounds pretty good to me but I would make them into quince paste myself, if I had the opportunity.

Even in the Castro my urge to hunt and gather can be satisfied.

Stella, a proud quince hunter.

Quinces.

Quinces and apples - urban bounty.

The Castro is the heart of San Francisco’s gay community and rainbow flags fly in place of the ubiquitous stars and stripes. A pretty mosaic outside the Harvey Milk Civil Rights Academy preaches tolerance and respect and other worthy ideals.

Worthy ideals espoused on the mosaic mural on the Harvey Milk Civil Rights Academy in the Castro.

Ginko leaves turning on the streets of the Castro. I couldn't help including this - simply gratuitous prettiness.

The next day I return to Judy and Greg’s house and set off in search of a haircut. Getting a hair cut sits somewhere close to a visit to the dentist in my personal hierarchy of stressful life events and this long-time phobia has been somewhat exacerbated by two and half years living in Prague where ‘fear-of-the-Czech-haircut” is a well known phenomena among expats.

I finally settle on Cuttin’ Up on College Ave where the price is reasonable, the decor stylishly idiosyncratic and the staff friendly in a no-bullshit kind of way. Mary-Anne, who I entrust with my ‘do’, is flabbergasted that someone can ride from Alaska to San Francisco and regales the other staff and customer with relayed accounts of my adventures.

Enticing window dressing.

She has style, for sure.

Mary-Anne: Trust me, I'm a barber!

Friday, I have an opportunity not only to show off my new ‘do’ but to finally wear the black dress that I have been hauling with me for the last 6500 kilometres, just in case I ended up with a dinner date. Stella and I go to an exhibition opening of some Gothic inspired art appropriate to the Halloween season and have fun dressing up for the occasion.

Dressing up to go out to an exhibition opening. The black dress I've been carting for 6500 kilometres finally comes into its own.

We finish off the evening eating the wicked chocolate mousse that I learnt to make from Danusia in Whitehorse.

Chocolate mousse - according to Danusia's recipe.

I spend the last few days in the Bay Area devising the next section of my route. My preference is to cross the Sierra Nevada and head east from San Francisco over the Tioga Pass in the Yosemite National Park and into the desert. The far less exciting alternative is to continue down the Californian coast and turn east at a lower mountain pass further south. However, the recent storms bringing rain to San Francisco have meant snow in the mountains and resulted in temporary closures of the Tioga Pass and the weather is currently uncertain.

Greg and Judy tell me cautionary tales of winter misadventures in the mountains but Greg, an experienced winter camper, seems supportive, overall – and, after all, it is still only October! We discuss my onward journey over various family meals and I start to make preparations for the mountain pass. Even though the road is closed again by yet another storm, the weather forecast for next week seems promising and might provide a small window of opportunity in which I can squeak over the mountains.

*Not everybody is lucky enough to have a fairy god-mother, but I am, and it often comes in handy.

MAPLE ROASTED QUINCES AND SWEET POTATOES

• oil
• 2 large quinces peeled, cored, cut into cubes
• 1 red–skinned sweet potato (yam), peeled, cut into cubes
• 1 tan–skinned sweet potato, peeled, cut into cubes
• 2 teaspoons coarse kosher salt
• ½ cup maple syrup, divided
• 1 tablespoon chopped fresh sage

Position rack in centre of oven and preheat to 220°C. Grease a large rimmed baking sheet with your favourite cooking oil. Cut quince and potatoes and combine with ¼ cup of maple syrup in large bowl; toss to coat. Spread in single layer on the baking sheet. Roast quince and potatoes until tender and beginning to brown around edges, stirring occasionally and turning sheet around in oven halfway through roasting – about 40 minutes. Transfer quince and potatoes into a serving bowl. Mix in sage and remaining ¼ cup maple syrup. Season with pepper. Serve warm or at room temperature.

The Pacific Ocean is so beautiful that it never stops surprising me.

After the racoon incident, I obviously need to replenish my supplies and I make a number of stops at various grocery stores in the towns I pass through during the day. I am irritated to discover that in the majority of regional supermarkets in the US the only thing you can reliably buy from bulk bins is candy, while things like oats are much harder to source. Buying from bulk bins means that I can control the quantity of each item that I purchase which is pretty handy with the limited space I have available in my food pannier.

I finally arrive at Beverley Beach State Park campsite late, after a long day. Night has fallen and I ride to the hiker/biker camp in almost complete darkness. The only thing I can really see is a guy standing tending a fire in the middle of an open grassy area.

“Is this ‘hikerbikerville’?” I enquire.

He admits it, somewhat reluctantly, not seemingly overly pleased to have his solitude broken. However, as I case the area in the dark for a suitable tent site he points out what he considers the most favourable position available. I pitch the tent and then address myself to the matter of dinner. My food pannier is in total disarray and I need to repackage and reorganise the new supplies before I can even think about cooking.

The guy seated at his fire behind me is silent. The fire pit is in communal space but it seems a little problematic making friends in the dark, with someone who I can’t really see. I rustle through plastic bags as I dispose of bulky packaging and place various food-stuffs into zip lock bags.

After a while he announces, somewhat irritably, that I am welcome to join him at the fire. I explain about the racoon disaster. When I have sorted the food, I cook some pasta and stir in tomato paste – not a culinary highlight, but I have no patience left to make something nicer – and go to the fire. It is cold enough to be grateful for it.

We sit side by side at a picnic table facing the fire in silence while I eat my mess.

“If you’re interested in edible mushrooms, there are a lot of lobster mushrooms around here,” the man informs me suddenly.

Mushrooms are a subject that interests me enormously but not one that I know a huge amount about. I have been mushroom hunting a couple of times before in the Czech Republic, where the pastime is something of a national passion -  rivalled, perhaps, only by beer and ice-hockey.

“What are lobster mushrooms?” I inquire, eager to expand my knowledge.

“They are red and orange – like lobsters. They are in the woods, there… and there…,” he gestures into the darkness.

I am not satisfied and press for more information. Eventually he offers to show me and so we walk, not ten metres away, to where the nearest trees are, with our torches and he points out a lumpy misshapen reddish-orange funghi. I am thrilled to have learnt a new edible mushroom – especially such a colourful one.

We return to the fire and our conversation is more animated now; we discuss mushrooms we have seen, mushroom expeditions we have been on, mushroom books. My new-found mushroom mentor describes a funghi called chicken-of-the-woods and I feel sure it is one that I have seen recently. I drag out my computer to show him the photos of mushrooms that I took in the forest around Forks. I proudly show off the takings of a particularly fruitful mushroom hunt, with my first mushroom guide, in the Czech Republic.

Eventually talk drifts to other topics and I discover that Dave makes hand-made vegan truffles for a living, in Portland. I am impressed.

In the morning, I get up early eager to search out some lobster mushrooms for breakfast – especially since I haven’t managed to replace my oats yet. I wander into the wooded area beside the my tent and immediately see numerous reddish-orange forms pushing up through the bed of needles carpeting the forest floor: there is not much searching to be done here.

Lobster mushroom (Hypomyces lactifluorum) - this mushroom is actually two: a parasitic funghi engulfs it host (a gilled mushroom - usually the short stemmed russela) forming this brightly coloured intriguing creature.

Another one.

Breakfast.

I look around for the most attractive funghi, choosing firm ones with the prettiest colouring. I return to my table with four choice specimens but I feel dissatisfied. The thrill of the hunt is lacking in this experience. I walk across the road and climb a steep bank passing a multitude of the lobster mushrooms; they no longer interest me. Clambering up the hill, there are numerous funghi that I stop to examine but none that I recognise.

Unidentified white mushrooms.

Mystery black mushrooms.

Brown funghi.

There are so many boletes that I never know which ones are good to eat and which ones are not.

Towards the top of the hill my progress is halted by a sturdy wire fence and I walk along it for a while before turning to descend. I see a flash of yellow and, scrambling over fallen logs and evading the trailing blackberry brambles, I make my way towards it. More frilly yellow circles come into view. I find myself in the middle of a sizeable patch of fresh chanterelles. Luckily, I had the foresight to bring a bag with me to collect them in.

Chanterelles are really yummy.

I make my way back to the campsite where Dave has emerged from his tent and is already cooking his breakfast. I show my find to him for a second opinion. As he examines the contents of my bag I see a flash of envy and new respect in his eyes as he confirms my identification.

Chanterelles - yummmmmy!.... this is a really good breakfast!

“Would you like to have some for breakfast with me?”

He seems a little surprised by this offer but doesn’t hesitate for long. We both voice regret at the lack of butter. We discuss cooking methods and the benefits of dry sautéing* mushrooms. Dave lends me a bigger pot as I still haven’t managed to replace my tiny cooking pot that is barely capable of feeding one adequately.

It is not long before we are sitting eating mushrooms, straight from the pot – definitely friends now, in the daylight, over a shared meal.

Dave, a new-found mushroom mentor.

After polishing off the chanterelles I remember the lobster mushrooms. I decide, in the spirit of discovery, to cook them as a second course. They do, in fact, look remarkably like lobster flesh as they cook and, while they are certainly not equal to chanterelles, they are pretty tasty.

Cooking up lobster mushrooms in my tiny pot.

I have had trouble, as I always do, with the public phone when trying to ring Sheila for directions and to let her know that I am impending. The beast had swallowed large quantities of quarters without result, as the ferry threatened to leave the wharf with my bicycle already loaded. A man organising his bundles of groceries on the boat lends me his mobile phone when he learns of my predicament.

Sheila gives me a long set of directions – clear enough – but I am without pen and paper to hand and so I recite them aloud, as she speaks, in order to remember them. The man and his girlfriend are paying attention and give their opinion when I get off the phone. They find a map somewhere on the ferry which they mark with some vague clues as to my presumed destination, potential camp sites and their address and present it to me with an invitation to visit them.

Getting off the ferry I am greeted by name by Sue, Sheila’s neighbour, who offers to take my bags, corrects the errors of the map and quickly produces a hand-drawn supplement. I set off through the forest on a good packed unmade road towards the south of the island.

Turning, finally, off the road onto a narrow track with a sign forbidding motor vehicles, but welcoming walkers, I come across a woman wielding an axe next to a pile of split logs and a wheel barrow.  Sheila greets me with the statement, “You travel light!” In my enthusiasm to arrive, I have sailed straight past Sue’s truck parked at the end of the track with my panniers still sitting in the tray. I backtrack and return laden and then we make our way to the house.

Sheila.

If I had to describe my dream house it would come very close to matching Sheila’s. It is a small wooden shingle structure sitting on the water’s edge. The decking, which extends over sea-water at high tide, is probably equal in area to the inside space. To the right of the back door, steps lead down to the sea, a bath tub is set into rocks to one side with a space underneath to light a fire to heat the bath-water. To the left of the house are boats, two kayaks and a slightly decrepit row boat and a series of small sheds – one for the wood pile, one for boat stuff and one closed.

Sheila's house.

Dishwashing view.

We lunch from Sheila’s garden; fresh lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber and peppers, supplemented by crackers and cheese. Sheila then returns to the garden while I nap, first on the deck in the sun and then in the loft bed at my disposal.

Later in the afternoon, I go out in a kayak and paddle along the rugged shoreline, exploring hidden bays and coves for an hour or two. Clouds above like fish scales, lichen on the rocky cliffs making patterns like the stylised wave forms in oriental paintings.

In the middle of the night, thunder rolls and lightening cracks and Sheila gets up to move things inside off the decking but the morning dawns bright and clear.

I spend the day lazing around the house and in the afternoon we visit the garden and then tour the neighbourhood. Sheila’s daughter-in-law and grandson live close by and Sue and Peter, also. Sue and Peter are harvesting potatoes in their garden. Sue finds a perfect snake skin on the ground, abandoned as thoughtlessly as a piece of clothing of last year’s fashion.

We return to the house to cook pasta with pesto made from fresh basil and fennel stewed in olive oil. We discuss books, family, life.

Sheila harvesting fennel.

In the morning the tide is out and I dig for clams on the exposed mud flats. The bay is home to a small commercial operation and so we use their gear to do our poaching. Sheila shows me how it is done; a small rake drags the clams unresisting from the mud. The creatures do not move at all so the amount skill and effort involved is small – especially compared to that required to collect pipis, clam’s ocean-going antipodean cousins with which I have previous experience and provide a far greater challenge, burrowing through sand with surprising speed and determination. Once they are in the bucket, however, the two are pretty similar.

Mudflats at lowtide.

Gathering shells for dinner.

Oysters are also plentiful and I gather a few even though mud oysters don’t have the same glamour as rock oysters. A bucket of seafood quickly gathered, I return to the house. We sprinkle oatmeal into the water with the idea that it will speed the clams’ digestion and encourage them to expel all grit before dinner. Unfortunately Sheila is going out in the evening so I can’t share them with her. In the meantime, she entertains me by reading aloud from Between Pacific Tides, a book on marine biology, a treatise on the sex life of oysters.

I spend a lazy afternoon in the garden collecting vegetables and herbs for dinner – tomatoes, a pepper, a few carrots, parsley, thyme – and picking blackberries.

Gathering vegetables and berries.

When I return to the house the tide is in and I take the kayak out again, paddling in the opposite direction this time, past a series of small islands. A seal is playing in the distance and I paddle towards it but as I approach it disappears below the surface. I continue parallel to the shore line until a huff behind me alerts me to a seal, perhaps the same one, swimming in my wake – grey head bobbing in the water as it gazes after me. We regard each other curiously until the seal tires of it and sinks below the surface again.

I continue to the point in the gathering twilight. I can’t see the sun behind the clouds but I know it is descending as the surface of the water is darkening rapidly – smooth ripples making intricate patterns in grey, brown and fawn. I head back to the house and as I enter the bay, another seal is there to greet me, peering earnestly at me for a long moment and then submerging. I stop and float, bobbing gently in the twilight water trying to see the seal under the surface but it has disappeared without a trace.

After an evening swim, I steam the clams in a tomato sauce and eat them with freshly harvested potatoes.

Clams for dinner.

It is the season of plenty on the island: harvest time – fruit and vegetables ripe and abundant, flowers still blooming in the gardens. The sun shines enough to provide power.

Sheila's garden.

Beefsteak tomatoes.

Onions.

Squash.

Pinto beans.

Pinto, black and orca beans.

Abundance in the greenhouse.

From mid-September through October things are not as easy for Sheila, the solar panels are starved of light and there is not yet enough water to spin the water wheel – and I guess when the tomatoes, peppers and eggplants are all gone the garden seems less bountiful, too. Sheila’s larder is full of preserves and pickles but I imagine the winter can seem long.

Sheila’s house has no locks. She has lived on Lasqueti for thirty-five years. At first her house floated on the water – tethered here and there, in the places where she was able to – before she dragged it up onto the shore and fixed it to the ground, slowly adding a room on here and there.

Neighbourhood messages.

I sit and watch the water.

Imagine thirty-five years of watching the tide rising and falling, watching the changing sky and the succession of the seasons, knowing the names of the trees and which birds will visit, day after day.

I wonder if I will ever be so part of anything. To watch a child grow, a grandchild grow, the garden grow.

CLAMS STEAMED IN TOMATO SAUCE

Ingredients:

• tomatoes
• olive oil
• garlic
• onion
• parsley
• oregano
• freshly ground black pepper
• salt

Chop garlic and onions and saute until transparent in olive oil. Add chopped tomatoes, herbs, salt and pepper and cook down for a while. When the tomato sauce is ready add the cleaned clams. Close the pot with a tight fitting lid. Steam until the clams open, tossing or stirring from time to time. Serve with rice, pasta or bread.

While I am camping and carrying all my food on my bicycle what I eat is obviously more limited than when I am in towns but I still like to eat well. I intend to document both styles of eating.

Since leaving Whitehorse, where Jane shared some of her home-made trail food, with me I have been thinking of other travel food options, such as home baked granola bars, which I will experiment with when I have the opportunity to.

One of my favourite camp dinners is a variation on a spicy tomato lentil soup that I often cook at home. The original recipe came from one of my favourite food blogs – delicious days. All that is really lacking from the original recipe is the roasted mustard seeds which are stirred in just before serving and a dollop of yoghurt and fresh coriander to sprinkle on top. At home, I generally use fresh tomatoes (blanched and skinned) rather than the tinned tomatoes suggested in the original recipe but when camping I substitute with sun-dried tomatoes and tomato paste.

This is not the quickest of camp meals as the lentils need to simmer for about 15 minutes but it is very warming and nutritious.  The sun-dried tomatoes are not essential but they add a bit more oomph.

SPICY TOMATO LENTIL SOUP

Ingredients:

• red lentils
• sun-dried tomatoes
• tomato paste
• garam masala
• cumin
• hot chilli
• garlic
• oil
• bay leaf

Soak the sun-dried tomatoes in some hot water for as long as possible. Fry the garlic and spices in oil. Add the red lentils and stir for a minute or so. Add water to cover. Add a couple of bay leaves and the soaked tomatoes and tomato paste. Simmer until the lentils are soft. Yum.

Spicy tomato lentil soup for dinner.

As I wheel my bike out Tracy’s back gate, Danusia appears from next door with an invitation to dinner with Eric and Jane, who are also preparing to leave on a bike trip down the Cassiar. They are currently camping on her back lawn. I give in gracefully and wheel my loaded bike into from Tracy’s back yard to Danusia’s – which has to be my shortest day cycling yet!

Danusia’s house turns out to be a place of amazing beauty, every object a joy to behold.

Objects of beauty in Danusia's house.

More beautiful things...

...and again...

...and again...

...and again.

Unknown (but beautiful) device. Does anyone know what this thing is for?

Even this is beautiful!

Dinner comes together slowly – roast lamb chops with puy lentils and a salad. Eric attends to the salad, Jane, to the meat, while Danusia fixes the puy lentils and concocts an amazing chocolate mousse, the principal ingredient of which is, surprisingly, avocado!* I would never have guessed it if I hadn’t seen it being made myself.

Chocolate mousse with a surprise ingredient.

Eric working on the salad.

We eat outside in the company of two blue heelers. I didn’t think there existed anything in the world that would make me homesick for Australia but the sight of a blue dog proves me wrong. They are so quintessentially Australian that I experience a momentary pang.

Queensland blue cattle dog in the Yukon.

Everything down to the wine is perfect for the moment and I am very glad to spend one more night in Whitehorse.

Perfect wine for the occasion.

Good wine (like the logo!) and good company.

Danusia at the dinner table.

The next morning it is finally time to leave. Jane gives me a last minute supplement of home dried fruit and vegetables to add to my food pannier and accompanies me to the edge of town taking me on a detour to view where the Yukon flows through Miles Canyon, a narrow gorge on the outskirts of town.

Jane at Miles Canyon on the outskirts of Whitehorse.

Saying goodbye to Whitehorse above the Yukon River.

* CHOCOLATE MOUSSE

• 3 avocado
• ½ cup medjool dates
• agave or maple syrup to taste
• ¾ cup of cocoa
• ½ cup of water (water the dates soaked in)

Whizz it all together in a mixer.

Chocolate mousse with an avacado base - it's really yummy!

On my second night in town, Tracy invites me to a dinner at a Mexican restaurant for an early celebration of her birthday. When she arrives home from work, Tracy suggests a swim before dinner and I am as excited as Kita, the resident black Labrador, at the prospect. We drive to the lake in the forest on the outskirts of town. The vehicles of half the population of Whitehorse are parked in the woods and there is a festival atmosphere on the shores of the lake. People are picnicking and soaking up the exceptional sunshine.

Uncommon sun in the Yukon - Whitehorse residents enjoying summer by the lake.

We arrive at the restaurant only a little late and the evening passes happily in the company of half a dozen women at the restaurant and later for a delicious home-made cake and bubbly white wine back at Priscilla’s apartment.

The following night is another culinary occasion, with a guest for dinner at Tracy’s house. Tracy and Lea come home from work and whip up a quick but scrumptious meal of salmon and avocado rolls (a variation on the Vietnamese fresh spring roll) and a salad with candied pecans. I am designated the role of candying the pecans, which transform a simple salad into something quite luscious.*

During the days, I lounge about the house, making the occasional foray into town to attend to some small adjustments to my bike and minor repairs to my equipment. Tracy is leaving Whitehorse for a two week trip to visit family and asks me if I would like to stay on for a few more days to kitty-sit her aged black and white cat, Sylvester, as Lea is also away for the weekend.  I am very happy to oblige and luxuriate in a house to myself for a while.

Tracy and Sylvester.

I am well looked after by Tracy’s friends in her absence. Chris, from the birthday celebration, is renovating her house and offers me a few hours work scraping lino and glue from the floor. I meet Danusia, Tracy’s neighbour,  while Chris is showing me the wild strawberry patch by the driveway and she invites me to dinner on Saturday night with some friends who also ride bikes.

Everybody knows each other in Whitehorse, it seems, although apparently there are two camps; those who own canoes and those who own ATVs. People who canoe don’t mix with those ride ATVs.

Dinner is at a house out of town on a property overlooking the Yukon, a brighter, greener river here than where I crossed it thousands of kilometres away in Alaska, far north of Fairbanks, cloudy with glacier silt. We scramble down to a wooden landing at the bottom of the steep valley carved out by the water and I swim in the cool, clear, green river.

At dusk we head back to the house to eat sushi rolls and dips, followed by barbequed salmon, salads and home-made bread. The talk is of adventures and travel. Jane and Eric are preparing for a biking and hiking trip around Telegraph Creek off the Cassiar Highway and Jill and her family are leaving for an extended trip to Europe and Africa.

Yum!

The following morning Priscilla drives me around town to the supermarket and other shops to stock up for the next leg of my trip. Danusia drops off some lime slice she has baked. I feel very spoilt.

* CANDIED PECANS

• 1 tablespoon butter
• 2 cups pecans
• 2 tablespoon brown sugar
• 1 teaspoon chilli powder
• 1 teaspoon coriander
• ¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper
• ½ teaspoon cracked pepper
• 3 tablespoons apple cider vinegar

Melt the butter and brown the pecans over a moderate heat for 5 minutes. Add brown sugar stirring constantly until it has melted. Add spices and stir. Deglaze with the apple cider vinegar and stir until the liquid has evaporated. Spread out on a parchment lined baking tray and bake in the oven for 5 to 10 minutes at a moderate heat.

The shop is largely un-illuminated and for a second I wonder if the place is closed but the middle-aged couple inside indicate that I can enter. In the gloomy light, I survey the produce available and select a Snickers and a couple of packets of Ramen noodles, more out of politeness than actual need. As I pay for the goods, the man asks me where I am intending to stay for the night.

“Oh, some place in the next ten miles or so,” I answer, noncommittally.
“We have a bus out the back where people can stay,” he volunteers.
“Hmmmm…,” I say.
“It’s free,” he adds and then elaborates, “There is a bed and a stove and a big steel door so that the bears can’t get in.”

I am intrigued now. He points out the back door to a beaten up old grey bus and tells me that it is nicer inside than it looks. If I stay, he will leave the back door of the shop open so that I can access toilets and water.

We go together to the bus, Jay accompanying me to make sure that the last people who stayed have left it clean and tidy, and I am instantly charmed by its interior. Beyond the basics of a comfortable bed (and it’s the first one I’ve slept in since Palmer) and cooking facilities, everything a travelling cyclist might need is provided – a first-aid kit for body maintenance, hand de-greaser for post-bike-maintenance, a tin of camp stove fuel for a top up, some magazines for entertainment. There is a table with bench seats inside the bus and folding lounge chairs to make the most of the evening sun. Electricity and gas are laid on.

I quickly realise that I am not the first person to have discovered this bus. Other cyclists have stuck their cards and written their web-blog addresses on the walls and I suddenly remember reading a post in another Pan-American cycle blog that must be about this place. Curious, I ask about the history of the bus and Jay tells me that some moose hunters used to have it in the woods but they didn’t need it any more so they towed it to the store. He and Debbie maintain it for passing travellers, with no thought, apparently, of recompense. I tell him that I think they are extremely generous and he merely replies that it was it was generous of the hunters to give it to them.

A chance to spread my things out and relax in the bus.

Interior of the bus.

The view from the bus.

My bike and the bus.

I spread out for the evening and make the most of the opportunity to download my photos, recharge my batteries, and read and write in comfort. I cook on the stove, unfortunately, still restricted to my ridiculously small saucepan which, although it fits neatly in my panniers, invariably leaves me hungry.

In the morning I go to the shop and chat for a while to Debbie about life in Slana. We talk of winter and bears. The subject of bears leads to a story about picking fireweed and I discover that you can make jelly from the blossom of this ubiquitous, but beautiful, flower. I wish that I was here long enough to do so – it must turn out the most amazing colour!*

Fireweed.

Debbie in the shop.

The shop is full of stuffed animals and photos of bears, moose and other beasts that have fallen victim to hunters adorn the walls. Hunting is very much part of Alaskan life.

*For those that find themselves with the opportunity, here is a recipe for fireweed jelly:

FIREWEED JELLY

8 cups fireweed blossoms
1/4 cup lemon juice
4 1/2 cups water
2 packets powdered pectin
5 cups suger

Pick, wash, and measure fireweed blossoms (flower part only, no stems). Add lemon juice and water. Boil 10 minutes and strain. Take the strained juice and heat to lukewarm. Add pectin all at once and bring to a boil. Add 5 cups sugar and return to full boil. Boil hard for 1 minute. Pour into hot clean jars and seal. Process in boiling water bath for 10 minutes.

It is also possible to make fireweed ‘honey’ and fireweed ice-cream and I am dying to try all three recipes!