Posada San Andres has something of the feel of a farmyard - a series of rooms open out onto a sunny sheltered courtyard...

...which may be the warmest place in Xela.

The rickety wooden structure is an fine example of hopelessly faded elegance.

The bathrooms boast disturbing electric shower heads - somehow electricity and cold water goes in and a dribble of hot water comes out.

The kitchen itself doesn't have running water but a concrete block room in the courtyard provides adequate washing facilities.

The gas stove rivals a camp fire for the quantities flames and soot produced.

A herd of hungry cats gallop thunderously over the tiled roof above.

...

...

...

While outside, sleeping dogs lie in the streets.

I while away some days attending yoga classes at Xela’s famous Yoga House and chatting to Kevin, who runs the house and instructs most of the yoga classes, in the second-hand book store, where he also works. In between, I investigate the various markets and stock up on cheap warm clothes from the innumerable shops and stalls that dot the city selling last year’s used fashion, imported from the US, in order to ward off the mountainous chill.

One of the things that keeps me in Xela, is the necessity of renewing my visa. Guatemala is part of the CA-4, a border treaty between Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador and Nicaragua which allows the majority of foreign visitors only 90 days within the four countries. I have already been in Guatemala for almost 90 days and so I need to cross the border into Mexico to get a new stamp in my passport which will bring me back to day zero.

I am loathe to make such a boring bureaucratic trip, however, and once I discover that, for a relatively small fee, I can get someone to do it for me I quickly decide to take that option. Handing my passport and cash over to a stranger to perform this slightly shady procedure is slightly nerve-wracking but I take the plunge and am left waiting for the document’s return.

When I finally do get my hands on a map I find that, while there are indeed a few tracks wandering off the main thoroughfares, few of them link up. However, I nonetheless manage to spy out a route that might work – the only issue being a river around the halfway mark that is going to need crossing somehow. I am discussing these route options with an ex-pat American who is overall quite doubtful about my plan but gives me what turns out to be a lucky camping tip; down the highway towards the Belize Zoo are a couple of bar/restaurants that he feels sure will let me camp out the back.

The first of these establishments, which I approach at dusk, gives me a rapid brush off but the second, run by a Hungarian whose overarching philosophy is stated as ‘anyone can do whatever they want here’, is much more welcoming. So, after my tent is set up at the back of the Hungarian’s house, I find myself downing a couple of beers at the bar with an eclectic Caribbean crowd during an extended happy hour chatting to an US archeology PhD student doing some research at a local site. One of the men, clearly a regular, gets up to leave as the happy hour finally draws to a close and the girl I am talking to suggests that I ask him for advice about the roads.

After I explain my potential route to the man, he abandons his plans to leave the bar and spends the next hour making phone calls, trying to track down someone on the farm that the road passes through who can help me negotiate the problematic river crossing. After failing to get a definitive answer, Bruce gives me directions to his house and tells me to drop by in the morning, any time after 6AM, to follow up on the matter.

So the next day, I arrive at Bruce’s house at about 6.30 and, after he has fried me some eggs and made the coffee, the phone rings and the manager of Big Falls farm is on the line promising that someone will be waiting for me at the river to ferry me to the other side. You’ve got to love a small country!

Escaping the highway is not so easy in Belize. Most roads that aren't the three main highways of Belize are private roads. This one runs through a cattle ranch called Big Falls. A chance encounter in a bar gave me the contact I needed to negoitate the river at the end of the road and the right name to drop to the people who accousted me en route to tell me that I was on private land.

Three men are waiting at the river with a canoe help me to negotiate the crossing.

Once across the river, I am faced with having to navigate a confusing tangle of tracks aided only by a few place names: Rancho Dolares, Hill Bank, Indian Church, Lamanai. I am not helped by the fact that mostly I don’t actually know what any of these names is referring to – a village, a farm, a reserve, an archeological site… I have no idea.

The people I make enquiries to are clearly dismayed by the urge to travel. “That’s not in this area!,” they exclaim, while making vague serpentine gestures with their hands to describe the way. One woman tells me that I can’t go to Hillbank because it is a long way and there is nothing there but wild pigs but a group of old men sitting under a shady tree at an intersection tell me that Hillbank is a ‘big tourist place’ where, obviously, as an apparent gringa, I will be welcomed. However, neither of these snippets of information contains very much truth.

Hillbank, it transpires, is a privately owned, protected wildness area that borders the Rio Azul area in Guatemala – it is, in fact, where I would have ended up if I had managed to cross the border at Tres Banderas. Three rangers are hanging out at their post at the barrier which controls access to the area and they ask me if I am expected. I want to give them the right answer so I hedge a little.

“Should I be?”

“Well, yes…”

After I admit that I am not expected, the guy who appears to be in charge radios to some higher authority and then opens the gate. Once I am inside he is much more friendly: he sends me to the water tank to replenish my drinking water, gives me a handful of tiny yellow mangos and then invites me onto the verandah to rest a while. When he see me get out some fairly meagre rations from my food pannier he asks me if I would like to try some of the ranger’s lunch-time fare of chicken, beans and rice.

Three park rangers control access to Hillbank, a protected wilderness area that borders the Rio Azul protected area in Guatemala. I am close to Tres Banderas.

They introduce me to one of three endangered yellow-headed parrots rescued from poachers and now undergoing rehabilitation so that it can return to the wild.

And feed me a fine lunch of rice, beans and chicken.

Eventually, well-fed and rested, I set off again across the savannah, a hot sandy place under the mid-afternoon sun, and struggle towards Hillbank, still unsure exactly what I am going to find there but hoping that it will prove to be a place where I can camp and possibly eat.

Riding on the through the savannah - a hot and sandy business.

I have left the savannah behind me and have re-entered the jungle when I see a couple walking towards me dressed in khaki jungle gear, rubber boots and sensible hats. I guess they think I look kind of strange, too, on my bike. I stop and we exchange particulars – they are ornithologists stationed at Hillbank conducting a comparative study on different swallow species. The objects of their current interest are mangrove swallows.

I ask them if I can camp at Hillbank and they look unsure.

“Well, you can ask.”

They don’t sound very convinced.

I ride off and it is not long before I arrive at a clearing dotted with wooden buildings overlooking a lagoon and, after some dicey negotiation, receive rather grudging permission to stay a night.

Nat and Katy, the ornithologists, return from their walk and, with greater enthusiasm than the management evinced, invite me to the mess hall for an illicit dinner and, more excitingly, to accompany them the next day on their rounds of the swallow’s nests.

The lagoon at Hillbank... with the nesting boxes.

Nat and Katy checking out their babies.

Six day old mangrove swallow chicks.

The chicks are exhaustively measured...

...and even have their nails painted.

Then we stake out the box, having wired it to trap papa swallow...

...a wily bird...

...who nonetheless eventually falls victim to Nat and Katy's evil designs and has his blood taken...

...and vital statistics recorded.

A dragonfly freshly emerged from its shell - still damp and wrinkled, drying in the sun..

It is late in the season and so most of the birds have already flown the nest and the days work is over quite quickly. In the afternoon, after Nat has managed to secure me another night’s camping at Hillbank, we go for a walk which ends in a refreshing snorkelling adventure in a small mangrove lined stream.

Afternoon sees the three of us relaxing on the verandah... (Photo: Nat)

...before a walk which culminates in a swim in a crystal clear mangrove lined creek.

Cool water is heaven.

The next morning, early, before I completely wear out my dubious welcome with the authorities at Hillbank, I set off again.

Packed up and ready to leave at dawn.

Deep black water.

One of my reluctant hosts at Hillbank has drawn me a very detailed and beautiful map to speed me on my way to the border that sadly proves, at the very first intersection, to be utterly useless. I pass through Mennonite communities and ask for directions where I can always receiving elaborate instructions with a myriad of very specific references to local landmarks, accompanied by a fluid wave of a hand that indicates any number of potential twists and turns. All in all, it combines to form a overwhelming fog of hazy information and a number of times I have to resort to my compass to make a reasonably informed decision about the way.

Nat and Katy have informed me that I need $37.50 Belizian dollars to leave the country and this leaves me with exactly $2 Belizian dollars at my disposal unless I happen to find an ATM before I reach the border – which is pretty unlikely – so, with my almost empty food pannier, it’s looking like a hungry day. Things look even bleaker when I discover that I can’t cross the border at the customs post at Blue Creek and not only have I ridden 15 kilometres out of my way but I have to ride an extra sixty kilometres through Orange Walk and up to Santa Elena.

However, I am saved from starvation by a lovely girl called Ingrid in San Felipe. I have been told she sells tamales and when this turns out to be misinformation I clearly look very crestfallen. She tells me to wait, runs to the kitchen, and then returns asking if I would like fried chicken and beans.

I can’t refuse this offer even though it’s probably going to break my budget and leave me in trouble at the border.

She invites me into her house and sits me at the kitchen table where she serves me a generous helping of chicken and frijoles accompanied by a stack of tortillas and a big glass of watermelon juice. After I have polished off the first helping she refills the bowl with beans and then, when I have finished them, she opens a packet of sweet biscuits – an item she surely keeps for special occasions – and gives me a pile.

We chat about our lives as she continues with her domestic tasks, cutting vegetables at a bench with her 8 month old baby daughter scooting around her feet on a walker with wheels. Eventually I get up to leave, asking how much for the meal, but she waves any suggestion of payment aside dismissively and insists that I must come back to visit again the next time I pass through Belize.

Unless I come across an ATM, I have two Belizian dollars to see me to the border so abundant mangoes by the side of the road are very welcome.

The Belizians are not much into signage, it seems. This is one of about four road signs I saw passing through the country. I particularly like its sense of perspective.

I quiz the guy about the border crossing to Mexico and he assures me it is not far but it is the hottest part of the day and I am still worn out from yesterday’s ride so I am happy when the young man points to some hammocks hanging in a thatched shelter. I find myself snoozing the rest of the afternoon away swinging gently in the breeze.

As the afternoon passes, the camp gradually fills up with people. Another man comes over to talk to me and takes me to the kitchen where the camp cook rustles up some re-fried beans and toasted tortillas for me. The first guy I spoke to comes back and shows me a cabin where I can stay the night before I return to the hammock with Como Agua por Chocolate, the novel I am attempting to read in Spanish, and my Spanish dictionary. My attention is constantly distracted from the book by a group of Ocellated Turkeys going about their elaborate courtship rituals.

Eventually the dinner bell rings and I return to the kitchen structure to eat with the workmen.

Later, back in the hammock shelter, the men question me at length about my life and I, in turn, question them about crossing the border into Mexico. They all agree that the border is close and that there is no problem with crossing it. There is, however, no immigration post but no-one seems to think that this small detail is problematic.

Rio Azul work camp.

I get a cabin to myself at the Rio Azul work camp.

A pair of Ocellated Turkeys. The male is involved in a riveting and, clearly, quite exhausting courtship dance. He keeps at it for hours and then collapses on the ground all tuckered out. The female seems largely uninterested.

In the morning I set off, with the intention of crossing the border back into Mexico. I am heading north towards Cancun on the Yucatan Peninsula where I hope to find a way to hop across to Cuba and this foray into Guatemala has been largely motivated by the need to get a little more visa time in Mexico in order to organise the logistics of the Cuba trip.

On the road towards the border, I pass the Rio Azul archeological site and stop to explore. A group of three Mexican archeologists are currently on site and many of the workmen at the camp are engaged in various tasks to do with the restoration and preservation of the structures, presumably under the direction of these archeologists.

Nobody is around, however, and I wander about the overgrown ruins alone. On top of one of the larger structures, a rickety wooden lookout has been constructed and I climb to the top to view the jungle canopy from above. Circling the structures, I notice each one has an opening, carved through the stones, straight to the centre of it and I hope that it is possible to enter but I am thwarted in each case by a firmly locked steel door.

Overgrown ruins at the Rio Azul archeological site. Rio Azul is a working site with real live archeologists doing their thing.

A raided tomb - grave robbers cut their way into the depths of these structures back in the 70s and looted the contents of the tombs at Rio Azul. Most of the artefacts, recognisable by a unique glyph associated with the Rio Azul site, are now in private collections in the States. When I told one of the archeologists that I would like to see inside she informed me that a hazardous fungus infests the tombs and they have now been sealed.

A lookout built on the top of one of the structures provides a rare opportunity to see the jungle canopy from above.

On the way back to my bike, I spy a walking trail which lures me into the jungle for a diverting hour or two.

Spectacular trees...

Coati or Pizote - this little critter is surprisingly aggressive. He catches sight of me and comes scampering down the tree towards me quite threateningly. I backed off.

Finally back on the bike, I head towards the border. I really don’t know what I was expecting of a border crossing without an immigration post but things start to get a little weird.

First, I met the young Wildlife and Forestry guy from the work camp jogging along the road towards me. He stops and tells me that I am close to the border now and jogs away.

Then, the road ends.

Two other guys from the camp appear out of the brush pushing a four wheeler out of a ditch. I look at them a little confused but they gesture into the thicket and tell me that if I follow the path I will come to the road in Mexico soon. They assure me that everything is OK, the way is clear and I can go on. They check my bike over and ask me if I have enough water. Um, yes. I push my bike into the jungle.

I follow the winding footpath through the forest and the warnings of the people in El Remate suddenly come back to me. They told me I was heading in to the Zona Roja – the Red Zone – where drug traffickers and people smugglers do their business across the Guatemalan/Mexican border. I keep pushing the bike along the path while pondering on whether the guys from the camp had come this way specially to check if the way was clear for the crazy gringa on her bike, or, alternatively, if perhaps they themselves are the drug traffickers and people smugglers. They would be pretty well set up for it but they all seemed like nice guys to me.

Intricate plots for a complicated thriller set in the jungle suggest themselves to me. All the elements are here: an exotic location; a host of intriguing characters – the foreign archeologists, the gang of rough and ready workers, with their prison style tattoos, the handsome young Wildlife and Forestry worker, with his girl trouble, the cook and her assistant, rich foreign collectors, without many scruples; pickup trucks arriving in the early hours of the morning, full of mysterious boxes; there is a shady back story, with tomb robbers; sealed up pyramids with a deadly fungus growing inside; wild animals in the forest; a whole range of illicit activities – drug trafficking, people smuggling, wildlife poaching – to add unexpected twists and turns to a labyrinthine plot line. It is bound to be a best seller and if I can tie it all in with the Mayan 2012 end of the world prophecy then Dan Brown will be eating his heart out and I will be laughing all the way to the bank!

At the end of the road in Guatemala a discrete, but clearly well-used, foot path winds through the jungle towards Mexico.

Just after passing a small clearing on the path where people could potentially gather, while still under cover, I stumble, blinking, out of the jungle into a bizarre space. A bare strip twenty metres wide stretches away in both directions, adorned at regular intervals by white painted obelisks. On closer inspection, each obelisk, it turns out, is graced by four plaques, stating Guatemala and Mexico on opposing sides, while the other two sides are bisected by that imaginary line that makes nations.

I spend a considerable amount of time here, unable to drag myself away from this weird spectacle that makes so little sense to me. The idea of nations, a relatively recent historical phenomena, has never seemed particularly real to me and I am astonished by the way this abstract concept has been physically carved into the landscape.

I emerge from virgin jungle into this weird space.

Just so as you are in no doubt as to where you are...

...everything is clearly....

...delineated and labelled...

...at one hundred metre intervals. Absurd!

Eventually, however, after locating the road on the Mexican side of the line by dint of wandering up and down for a while, I am about to set off into Mexico when it occurs to me that, really, getting my passport back in order if I go through with this is probably going to be quite a bureaucratic nightmare. What on earth, I am going to actually tell the Mexican immigration people when I rock up to their office for my entry stamp? And what about the next time I want to enter Guatemala? How will I explain the fact I don’t have an exit stamp? Suddenly, it doesn’t look like such a good idea and it amazes me that it ever did.

So I retrace my footsteps and head back into Guatemala.

When I get back to the road I study my map. The guys at the camp had told me that there were two options for crossing the border and this one had the benefit of being the closest one. The other one is at a place called Tres Banderas, the point where the Mexico, Guatemala and Belize all converge, and the road is clearly marked on the map traversing the border. There is no immigration post there either apparently, but, perhaps, I think, if there is a continuous road, at least, I will have a more convincing story to tell the authorities.

I decide to go to investigate.

I find the junction and set off on a narrow track following a sign which informs me that it is 11 kilometres to Tres Banderas. The road doesn’t appear to get any traffic at all and it gradually gets more and more overgrown but I persevere. Sticks and vines constantly find ways to wrap themselves around the spokes of my wheels and my chain drive and eventually since I am having to stop to remove them every few metres, I get off the bike and push.

Suddenly, some way ahead of me I see a brown shape moving on the road. I stop and grope for my binoculars. A puma! The animal is walking down the track towards me, casually doing puma things, oblivious to my presence. It stops and I lose sight of it for a second as it rolls in the grass and then gets up and continues on its way, pausing again to rub its face on a vine hanging over the road.

The animal moves with a steady feline grace. It seems that the beast is just going to keep on walking down the track until it runs straight into me and I am quite tempted to allow this to happen but at about 80 metres caution prevails and I decide to let it know that I am here.

I wave my arms in the air and say, “Hi, Puma!”

The animal stops immediately and regards me very intently for almost a minute before turning – slowly, disdainfully – and walking, at exactly the same pace as previously, back the way it came before disappearing into the jungle to one side of the track. I wait a little while before continuing on my way past the place it vanished. The forest is so dense that I can barely see 10 metres into it.

It is not long before I come to a point where the track, regardless of the information provided by my map, is suddenly swallowed up by the jungle and there is nothing left for me to do but attempt to get back to Rio Azul before dark.

Puma! I am a bit over-excited (the puma is only about 80 metres away and walking straight towards me) and the light isn't great so, sadly, the quality of this image doesn't do the animal justice. In fact, the photo is barely intelligible and I shouldn't post it but I just can't help myself!.

The men at the camp are astonished to see me. “Couldn’t you find the road?” they enquire. I explain that, really, an illegal border crossing isn’t very convenient for me and they consider this unexpected fact. My only option now is to head due south to where I can cross the border legally into Belize and then north from there towards Mexico – a venture which requires tackling another 100 kilometres or so of muddy jungle road to the border town of Melchor and then traversing Belize to get more or less back to the point where I am now, only about 50 kilometres to the east and legal.

I almost ran straight over this little fellow and after photographing him where he was on the road I heard a rare vehicle approaching so I moved him out of harm's way.

Groups of butterflies in tasteful colour combinations sit on the road.

The mud situation is beginning to get tiresome; after a good start, the track degenerates and I have another difficult messy day ahead of me.

The gateway to the jungle... unfortunately, I am leaving it behind... About fifty metres past this symbolic gateway there is a real barrier manned by military personnel. They were truly astonished to see me appear out of the wilderness on my bike.

A sorry sight on re-entering the lands where humans hold sway.

A uniformed man is sleeping soundly on the other side of the counter, leaning back on a chair, his feet propped up on another. Snores reverberate around the room competing with a television mounted on the wall that is blaring out some forgettable programme that clearly hadn’t retained the immigration officer’s attention either. I wonder if I should discretely withdraw but I really do want to get my passport stamped.

The man is quite charming and slightly bashful on waking. He stamps my passport and queries me about my journey. He discovers that he doesn’t have the change to finalise the financial side of our business. I have some shopping to do so I offer to leave my passport there and return but he graciously allows me to take my stamped passport with me. I don’t think he gets a lot of work at this time of year.

I do so like a relaxed official attitude to border crossings and the Mexicans seem to excel at it. Friendly, charming and helpful; perhaps they could offer some training sessions to US, UK, Canadian and Australian immigration bodies.

In the morning, I pack up camp and head to the boat landing not long after dawn and, after negotiating the best price I can, load my bike and my panniers onto a long narrow blue and red, a small thatched shelter in the middle providing protection from the elements.

Bike on the boat for the border crossing.

The river is turbid, the water brown and swirling. The boatman skilfully negotiates what appear to me ominous currents and eddies and after half an hour, travelling up river this time, deposits me and my belongings in Guatemala.

Travelling to the unknown...

There is something special, I decide, about a river border crossing with ferries that, as in fairy tales and myths, take us to another realm.

Bethel, a tiny village, is still waking up. People are sweeping  and making other preparations for the day. The local shop changes the last of my pesos into quetzals and I then there is only immigration to attend to before I am ready to ride into Guatemala.

The immigration office turns out to be a few kilometres down the road and if I had bothered to go into the building and seek somebody out there is nothing at all to stop me simply cycling into Guatemala, my presence there unrecorded. The Guatemalan official is, like his Mexican counterpart, friendly and charming and speaks excellent English but I don’t find myself trusting him completely. He tells me he grew up in the United States. We chat about different things while he processes my passport and hands it back to me. He then casually informs there is a charge of five US dollars to enter the country and I give it to him without thinking. I realise as soon as I hand it over that he has gyped me but I am too embarrassed to ask for it back or pressure him for a receipt.

Welcome to Guatemala! It's been a long time coming...

The Guatemalan immigration post also appears unmanned at first.

A looming rig on the narrow, shoulderless, road.

We contemplate the map, fruitlessly searching for an alternative route.

A potential contest between bike and truck is hopelessly unequal.

We spy a roadside cafe in the distance and retreat indoors to gather courage.

Trucks rule here, too.

The chicken pen is dwarfed by another giant rig.

Even indoors the respite is only partial. Trucks feature here, too.

Fortified by burritos, we venture outside again to take on the behemoths. We ride only a short way down the road before Oscar, our friend from the border appears. He has passed by the immigration office in Janos on his way home, only to be reminded that tomorrow is a fiesta, followed by the weekend. This means that we would spend three days illegally in Mexico, since our entrance still hasn’t been officially registered, and so he offers to drive us back to the border, with our bikes, to process our papers and then drop us back on the highway. Eventually it is agreed that Jeff and Cass will accompany Oscar back to the border post with our passports while Jason and I wait on the highway minding the bikes, chatting and admiring the sky.

After an hour or so Jeff and Cass return with our passports in order with a generous allowance of 180 days to spend in Mexico. We ride on and as dusk falls we spot a gate that we can wiggle under with our bikes and head into the scrub to make camp and watch our first Mexican sunset.

Mexican sunset...

... over the mountains.

Jeff in his mosquito net cocoon at dawn.

The road stretches 45 miles south to the border.

The road on the US side of the border is heavily patrolled by well equipped border guards.

Yuccas dominate the landscape with their alien punk forms.

I like the heart shaped seed pods...

... and the crazy silhouettes .

We ride until dusk and set up camp in a paddock to the side of the road. We are relaxing, after dinner, by the campfire when a border patrol van pulls up a few hundred metres away by the fence. They remain there for some time and we theorise that they are studying us in the darkness with infra-red night vision binoculars to ensure that we are not a bunch of careless illegal immigrants who haven’t considered the possibility that a fire might make them obvious. I have a moment of anxiety, inspired by The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada, that they might simply open fire but after a time they clearly decide we are harmless and roar off into the darkness.

Campfire - more than a luxury in the sub-zero temperatures.

Morning dawns and we discover that we have set up camp where the sun must top the highest of the local mountains before warming us and starting to melt the ice crystals on our tents and bikes. I make coffee and porridge on the embers of last nights fire, huddled shivering in the shadow of the hill.

Cass making a warm drink in the morning over a revitalised fire. Sun rising slowly over the mountain.

The sun finally frees itself from the mountain...

... and starts to thaw everything out.

When the sun finally rises we pack and set off to the border post. On the US side we are greeted by signs warning of poisonous snakes and three uniformed officials. Despite an officious demeanor the guards are relatively friendly and chat about other cyclists who have made the crossing here recently, including a couple who completed the Great Divide Ride on uni-cycles and another on a tandem. We spend some time hanging about, filling our water bottles, checking the exchange rate on the office computer and taking photos before the guards remember their official duties and ask us to move on.

The US side of the border. Beware of poisonous snakes.

The border fence running away into the distance.

We make it as far the actual border, the strangely abstract concept of nationalism embodied in barbed wire and high security fences, and stop again to take photos. The sign on the Mexican side of the border warns of children at play, rather than poisonous snakes.

As we enter Mexico, we are warned of children at play rather than poisonous snakes. Does this say something about national psychology?

The dirtbag gang poses in front of the US inspection station. From left: Cass, Jason, me and Jeff.

Goodbye, US. Hello, Mexico.

Moments later we line up on the Mexican side.

The pair of Mexican border officials are more laid back than their US counterparts. They are casually dressed in what can only be considered a uniform at a fair stretch of the imagination. When they see Cass on the ground trying to set up his camera for a time release photo of us all in front of the sign welcoming us to Mexico they wander over to assist before eventually we get to business of passports and stamps. Oscar, who appears to be in charge, informs us that since the border post is without electricity – there is no way to tell if this is a temporary or permanent situation – that it would be better for us to drop in at the Immigration Office at Janos, a town some fifty miles distant, tomorrow to get ourselves sorted out there.

We wave affectionate goodbyes to Oscar and his companion and set off, in high spirits, on an unpaved road into Mexico – an environment that seems magically warmer and sunnier than the US only a few hundred metres away.

We are a rag-tag gang of dirtbags, happy to see unpaved road again.

A ferry leaves from Salt Springs, close to Jane and Eric’s house, at Fulford Harbour to Swartz Bay. From there, it is a short ride to Sidney where another ferry will take my to Anacortes on Whidbey Island, one of the US Gulf Islands. Eric assures me that the transition will be quite a gentle one but I am not looking forward to heading back into more and more populated terrain.

I pack, resisting Jane and Eric’s urgings to throw away half my gear. It’s true that I probably carry more stuff than I absolutely need. but I don’t think I carry anything that I haven’t used at least once. As a concession, I leave behind an extra Phillips head screwdriver and I decant some grease and leather treatment for my Brooks saddles into smaller containers. I keep my black dress for possible dinner dates. I haven’t worn it yet.

Jane and I swap books. She gives me a copy of Monkey Beach, a novel by a young First Nation Women from coastal BC, in exchange for my tattered copy of South of the Limpopo by Devla Murphy.

In the morning, Jane rides me to the ferry. I am happy to have spent time with her and Eric again.

Jane with a morning coffee, next to my bike - packed and ready to leave.

Eric keeping the house in order.

I have little over half an hour to get six miles from one ferry terminal to the other and I have to negotiate customs and US immigration. I am expecting to see Canadian officials but the ferry to Anacortes is controlled by the US and, no matter that we are still on Canadian soil, the fare is charged in US dollars and it is US border guards barking commands at me and the other travellers. Two fellow cyclists turn out to be a couple that I saw in Stewart – an Australian woman and her Canadian partner who live in Dawson City.

Once we negotiate customs and are aboard the boat we find a sunny place on the deck. The boat chugs away from the Canadian shore and out among the islands. A pod of orca attracts our attention as we talk and suddenly the deck is inundated with people.

We sit and exchange our basic information. Richard is from Montreal on a three-week trip. Having laid the out the essentials, we continue to talk and find sufficient meeting points to agree to have dinner together at 7 o’clock – I have heard that there is outfit in Hyder selling a seafood dinners out of an old school bus and I am keen to try it.

In the meantime, Richard goes to see the bears and I turn my attention to the Internet.

It is almost 7pm when I am reminded by a fellow internetter that I shouldn’t be late for my “dinner date” and I pack everything onto the bike and set out across the border for Hyder. The crowd around the bus suggests a good meal and I am pleased. People waiting for their fish dinners ply me with questions – mostly the standard ones but someone with greater imaginative faculties asks me, as I find a place to lean my bike, if I happen have a map which details all the best places to eat which led me here. I inform him that this is an innate ability.

The seafood bus - well worth a visit if you happen to be in Hyder.

An Australian motorcyclist, armed with sardonic wit and a world-weary air, launches without much preamble into challenging verbal contest. He is reasonably respectful of my miles pedalled but Richard is a little late and Grant teases me unmercifully when I say I am waiting for a dinner companion. When Richard arrives, Grant immediately mocks, referring to him loudly as my ‘hot date,’ however we sit together and feast on crab and prawns and the evening passes pleasantly enough.

Grant and Richard at the dinner table.

The aftermath.

The bus closes and, on my advice, we all make our way back to the Stewart Provincial Park, crossing the border yet again. I admit, at the border post, to having entered the States for the purpose of eating dinner and after a dicey moment the uniformed girl’s officious façade cracks for a second in a wry smile.  She recognises me from last night anyway and waves me through without thoroughly scrutinizing my passport again.

The camp has been invaded by a large group of boisterous campers with matching tents who are sitting together in the picnic shelter and threatening, collectively, to sing. We pitch our tents and then Richard sits by my tent in the dark to talk a while. We are soon joined by Grant, who dominates the conversation with his decided opinions on everything.

We retire. I sleep badly, the beer and wine I consumed with dinner making for a restless night.

The rowdy neighbouring group rise early, with much shouting and stomping, car alarms going off, oblivious to all but themselves. Richard is the first of our trio to rise and he peers into my tent. Outside the weather is dank and grey. Grant also materialises and we all pack and head for the King Edward Hotel, an architecturally undistinguished building on the main street of Stewart, attracted by the breakfast special prominently advertised throughout town.

Eggs, bacon and hash browns make a very welcome change to porridge as does sitting at a table watching the light drizzle and swirling mist from the other side of a sheet of glass. Again talk is dominated by the droll repartee favoured by Grant. His discourse is largely a mixture of boasts and insult, only slightly softened by wit. He is originally Australian, but has been living in Canada for years and is currently travelling the Americas by motorbike searching for, or fleeing from, himself – it is not entirely clear which. Sensitive and cruel in equal measure, he is engaging and funny but fends off connection and human warmth.

Richard and I decide, despite the weather, to ride to see the Salmon Glacier. We organise to leave our panniers at the King Edward and set off. It is still drizzling and the clouds are swirling around the visible mountain tops which doesn’t bode well for our mission as we will climb around 1000 metres to our destination. However, we stock up on snacks at the store and set off in high spirits. The border post marks the end of the tarmac and we soon hit the muddy gravel surface, cycling past the bear viewing platforms at Fish Creek.

I have already ascended this road with Debbie and Wendy so I have some idea of what to expect. The road winds along the bottom of the valley, flat initially, passing various abandoned mines. As we start to climb, we cross the international border again back into Canada – this imaginary line is etched into the landscape with a 3 metre wide cleared corridor running across the mountains. Every ten years this Sisyphysian labour is repeated in the interests of national integrity.

The US/Canada border etched into the mountain.

The road rises above the river valley steeply and as we climb we enter the cloud. Far below, the glacier shifts in and out of sight through the drifting tendrils of mist. I have seen the glacier with Debbie and Wendy but Richard is disappointed. A few other tourists pass us in an assortment of cars, RVs and motorcycles. They pause, on their return journey, to tell us that there is nothing to see at the summit, only rain and mist.

We are undeterred – if rain and mist is all that there is to see then we will see rain and mist.  We climb steadily – around 1000 metres over twenty kilometres on the muddy wet surface. Towards the summit, we pass a hand-written sign advising us that the bear man is on the glacier. Since the glacier is veiled, meeting the bear man becomes our alternative mission.

Richard surveying the Salmon Glacier. (Movie reference please?)

Finally, the silhouette of a pair of outhouses and a small orange tent come into view. We have reached the summit. It is raining quite heavily now and the bear man, the inhabitant of the orange tent, is sheltering in the back of his station wagon. A licence displayed on the window of this vehicle legitimises his business of selling DVDs, books and post cards, all featuring quite extraordinary images of bears going about their lives.

The bear man reclines in his car, a softly spoken man 74 years of age. His bicycle, which he rides down into town along the road we have just ridden, to restock on supplies, leans up against one of the outhouses. He has been coming to this place for decades, living on the summit from June until September, walking and photographing the wildlife.

He informs us that 15 kilometres further down the road on the other side of the mountain the weather is clear and another glacier is visible. Going down the mountain means coming back up again on the return trip and I am reluctant. I suggest trying to hitch a lift with the next car that arrives and then wander off into the fog towards the actual summit of this mountain we are standing on.

Drawn up onto the summit.

The mountain, off the road, is a mystical landscape, the gnarled forms of the stunted spruce in clumps on rocky outcrops, sit above clear pools of water connected by fast flowing streams. Everything is cushioned by rounded pillows of thick green moss. Flowers in all the colours of the spectrum lure me onwards and upwards, stumbling and slithering on the slippery mossy rocks. Banks of snow lie on the ground amidst the delicate flowers, yellow, orange, red, blue, purple, white – I am totally awestruck by this beauty.

Wildflowers on the mountain top.

What were all those people in cars thinking when they told me there was nothing to see at the summit?

Beautiful - I was truly awestruck.

I cannot imagine a more beautiful place.

Looking down I see the car park and our bikes far below. A car has arrived and Richard is disappearing into it – he has his lift to see the glacier on the other side of the mountain. I find my way back down chilled and wet.

The bear man invites me to sit down on the edge of his station wagon and offers me a slice of buttered raisin bread and then, noting how fast it disappeared, a second. I ask him about his family and his life as the bear man of the Salmon Glacier.

Suddenly, I realise how cold I am and go to change my wet fleece top for my down sweater which I had the foresight to pack in a couple of plastic bags. I can’t make my frozen hands function well enough to operate the zips and fastenings on my clothes and I’m still struggling with them when Richard reappears in a similar state. He changes and then helps me do up my buckles and zips and we jump on our bikes to descend. Warmth is now utmost on our minds.

The descent is faster and easier on our legs but hard on the bikes. They bounce and rattle over potholes, corrugation and stones and mud coats everything, grit grinding away brake pads. The King Edward boasts a laundromat and this is our destination.

On arriving in Stewart, we pause briefly at the general store to eat yoghurt and gummy bears. Grant is seated on the veranda holding forth, his audience a starry-eyed youngster with a jeep planning a pan-American tour and a sceptical Dutchman with a motorbike. They are swapping traveller’s tales.

Richard and I make for the warmth of the laundromat and I search my panniers for something to wear while I wash my essentials, which are all equally filthy. We unpack, sort and order, making ourselves totally at home to the evident dismay of the hotel staff and the discomfiture of fellow launderers.

Getting steamy in the laundromat.

With the washing finally rotating in the dryers, we move to the dining room to join Grant. Dinner, sadly, does not measure up to the standard set by breakfast but I am content, nonetheless, with my cod and chips. Eventually warm and fed we repack our bikes and venture out into the persistent drizzle. The noisy campers still preside over the campground; they spill out of a van, as we are setting up our tents, with loud exclamations and an astonishing array of uncontrolled bodily sounds. We hide in our tents, giggling in dismay.

Next morning as our little trio break camp there is an unspoken agreement that Richard and I will continue to ride together, at least for the day.  Grant moves off to the bakery, a brief pause outside the window reveals him leaning back in his chair declaiming from the central table, a wary audience in thrall.

We decide to repeat the breakfast extravaganza of the previous morning at the King Edward. I upgrade today to the “Hungry Miner” – a three-egg affair with not only bacon and hash browns but also sausages. Next stop the general store for a final top-up of the food pannier, some minor bike adjustments and then Kylie’s Carwash, a coin-operated pressure hose. Clean and lube completed, we finally hit the road.

The sun shines sporadically, the clouds lifting as we cycle the road back to Meziadin Junction. We take innumerable photos and pause at Bear Glacier for a while. We make good time and turn back on to Highway 37 in the afternoon sun. Cycling past a creek with a track running beside it we stop to make camp – cooking and housekeeping companionably, filtering water and taking turns to bathe in the river. Conversation without Grant’s input is less combative.

Passing by Bear Glacier on the return journey.

Bear Glacier.

The morning brings clears skies and warm sunshine as we go about the laborious daily business of breaking camp. On the road we are just settling into cycling when a lake distracts us. The water is cool, much colder below the sun-warmed surface; I swim across the lake while Richard tries his luck at fishing. I float on my back awhile and then return to shore to sit in the sun, relaxed and easy. Richard fishes without success and I try my luck, after adjusting the rig, with a similar result. We set off again and too soon we reach the turn off to the Nass River Valley where our ways part. We say our goodbyes briefly and go our separate ways – mine a gravel road, narrow and rough, with little traffic and Richard’s continuing on the tarmac surface of Highway 37.

Fishing without result.

The afternoon sun is hot and in the valley is unrelieved by any breeze but I enjoy the tranquillity and isolation. The sun shines through fireweed stands. The plants are releasing their seed – pinpoint stars of light floating lazily in the warm air. A young black bear pads calmly down the road ahead of me and I slow down to watch him. He stops and glances at me and continues on his way, disappearing momentarily into the brush and then returning to the road and ambling on. A car approaches from the opposite direction and the bear disappears. The driver pulls up and we discuss the bear, bears in general, the road, potential campsites.

Fireweed has been my roadside companion just about all the way from Deadhorse. When the last flower drops summer is over.

A distant bear going about his bear business.

Riding into Stewart.

As I crest the summit of Windy Hill and come down the other side I am still battling. I am cycling past Bear Glacier when two women picking through the rocks on the embankment greet me. Debbie and Wendy are from Smithers, on a day trip to Stewart and, after a moment or two, of conversation I, somehow or other, find myself in their battered pick up truck, my bike and belongings bouncing around in the tray. The psychology of this is interesting. I would never, ever, accept a lift on what I consider to me my main route down the highway but on a ‘side trip’ where I know I will have to return along the same road I feel it is (almost) acceptable. Nonetheless, I feel slightly guilty and uncomfortable in the vehicle.

First glimpse of Bear Glacier.

We drive through Stewart, a shrinking coastal town with a moribund set of industries that no longer provide any local employment, and across an international border to Hyder, which is in Alaska, USA. Hyder, even smaller than Stewart, is also a dying town of tumble down buildings and we quickly pass through it to arrive at Fish Creek where a boardwalk over the stream allows visitors a bird’s eye view of fishing bears during the salmon run. We pause for long enough to learn that the there aren’t any bears currently performing and continue along the gravel road up the mountain to view Salmon Glacier.

Salmon Glacier.

Debbie and Wendy cannot be silent; they pass comment on everything, but particularly the weather. They resent the clouds for spoiling what they imagine might be the perfect photo. The road continues to rise and Wendy, the passenger who is afraid of heights, becomes increasingly agitated, Debbie, the driver, is alternately sympathetic and mocking. Half way up the hill, neither at the head nor the toe of the glacier, we stop and, after some indecision, return to the bear viewing station in the valley.

Two young bears are concealed in the brush. Their audience, the majority armed with cameras sporting massive lenses, worth thousands and thousands of dollars, is patient and resigned. The bears rustle around, teasing their public for a while, before making a casual entrance. As the bears appear, there is a sudden flurry of activity and motor drives start their rapid clicking.

The bears are sleek and handsome, a couple of three year old males – regular performers here, apparently. They wade into the shallow water making short careless sprints after the fat salmon which swim sluggishly, almost spent in the stream. One bear musters up the enthusiasm to run down a catch and feeds on the huge fish. Bones crack as the bears uses teeth and claws delicately to eat the favoured parts – skin, roe, and brain – discarding the rest of the carcass. The smell of rotting fish is dense.

Gathering up the energy to chase down a fish.

Getting serious about chasing fish.

Grabbing one.

Wendy and Debbie have to return to Smithers to tend to their dogs and so I unload my bike and belongings from the truck, relieved to be independent again, and return to watch the bears a little longer. The bears fish, wrestle, play. One sits down and then rolls coquettishly on its back to appreciative signs and murmurs from the crowd.

Messing around.

Relaxing.

Side act: mother duck and her sizable brood.

Eventually I leave, wanting to avoid getting caught in the dark on the road, since I will have to ride on the other side of the creek from where I have been standing, protected on the boardwalk, with nothing between the bears and me. I make my way back to Stewart singing bear songs and ringing my bell, stopping briefly at a rather desolate inn, which advertises a camp-ground, in the self-professed ghost town of Hyder. I pay to pitch my tent but flee after giving the campsite a cursory glance, pausing only long enough to get my money refunded. The provincial campground in Stewart is dark and damp but more welcoming.

Dinner is followed by an abortive attempt to shower. Armed with a ‘loonie’* I go to the shower block with the sole aim of washing my hair. Bathing is an activity I have largely neglected since leaving Whitehorse, lakes and rivers have provided an occasional opportunity but now hot water seems called for.

I am forewarned that my ‘loonie’ will only give me a four-minute supply of hot water so I strategically line up my shampoo and conditioner. Everything ready to go, I strip naked in the cold concrete washroom structure, deposit my coin and…. nothing happens. … no water, not even cold water. I curse, prolifically, shake the moneybox, push buttons but to no avail. Vanquished, I dress, pack up my things and return to my tent sadly frustrated.

Next morning I breakfast and pack up early and head to the main street. Restocking my food pannier is the pragmatic reason for me being here in Stewart, which boasts of not one but two well-stocked grocery stores. Food shopping in regional stores is an uncertain business but here at one shop I am rewarded with a bag of dehydrated vegetables to top up the supply bought in Anchorage – a lucky find – and at the other a package of stylishly shaped multi-coloured organic veggie pasta.

At the check out, I discover the more attractive of the two shops, an old-fashioned general store, has free Wi-Fi and so I settle down with a coffee and a pastry on the veranda, which commands a view down the main street, to attend to my communications.

*A loonie is a dollar coin and a toonie is a two dollar coin in Canadian lingo.

By the time, I leave the building the black mass of clouds that had been looming over the mountain range is dumping icy rain which, as I set off, turns to hail.

Storm clouds to welcome me to Canada.

Beaver Creek is also a disappointment. Neither ATM will process VISA bank cards and, unaccountably, people stare at me. I haven’t looked in a mirror for a long time and I wonder if there is a good reason. The guy at the tourist information office is charmingly eccentric, though, rushing from behind his counter to shake my hand and plying me with free maps.

The nearest campsite is thirteen miles down the road and so I set off for an hour or so of pedalling before setting up camp and dinner. Some miles out of town I spot a punnet of cherry tomatoes and a red, green and yellow pepper lying by the side of the highway. This gift from providence cheers me a little.

When I finally arrive at the camp site it is still cold and grey. I eat the peppers raw relishing the fresh vegetables but the tomatoes I cook up with garlic and dash of olive paste and ate with pasta – a lavish feast. Wandering down to the lake to do my dishes I pass a Yorkshireman and chat briefly. On the way back, I pass he and his friends campsite and invite myself to their fire. I am rewarded for my fowardness with a beer and some friendly company by a roaring fire which warms me a little more to Canada.