As I cross the bridge on my way onto the island, I am hailed by Vinko and Collette, a young couple I met a few weeks ago leaving Flores on their cheap Mexican bikes. Their plans for continuing their journey have shifted somewhat in the meantime and they are now divesting themselves of their bikes and some of their camping equipment. They very kindly give me a fuel bottle for my Primus stove, filled with white gas – a precious resource. My stove has been behaving increasingly erratically on a supply of the locally available unleaded petrol and the MSR fuel bottle I’m carrying is larger than the equivalent Primus bottle which Vinko and Collette are carrying.

Apart from the fleeting meeting with Vinko and Collette, a month ago, I have only met one other touring cyclist since I parted company with Cass, Jeff and Jason in Zacatecas almost a year ago. However, today Flores seems to be heaving with my kind of cyclists. At Los Amigos, Vinko and Collette introduce me to Paul who is riding a Surly Big Dummy from Cancun to Brazil.

Paul and I decide to wander to the market in search of lunch and, as we are crossing the bridge, a couple of loaded bikes whizz past and I jump up and down and scream “Stop! Stop!” making a total spectacle of myself until the riders pull up ahead of us. “Are you cyclists, too?” they query, slightly bemused.

The four of us stuff ourselves with fried chicken, salad and tortillas at the market and discuss bikes, routes, and other cyclists. Sarah and Evan have recently encountered another solo woman cyclist and I am intrigued. Wheels start whirring in my brain – I hope to orchestrate a meeting

I am so excited to meet these folks. I must have been feeling cyclist deprived without really realizing it. I like these guy's style - their bikes are cobbled together with a ragtag assemblage of old but sturdy parts.

I spend most of the day at Los Amigos. It’s the place to stay in Flores among the hip and hippie backpacker crowd. I appreciate Los Amigos for its fast and free wi-fi connection and eclectic and eccentric resident zoo and the odd cool person (my pick, a member of management, confidentially estimates only 3% of the guests actually fit this description) but almost nothing would induce me to overcome my dread of dreadlocks and fire twirlers and actually spend a night there. However, the food is relatively cheap, the servings gargantuan and there are vegetarian options. You could do worse.

Los Amigos is home...

...to a wide array of animals. It pays not to leave your shoes lying around: the three dogs are partial to chewing such tempting offerings.

These beasts are trouble...

...when they are not sleeping.

To sleep, I retreat to Flores' skid row hotel. For less the price of a dorm bed at Los Amigos, you can score one of two tiny rooms under the stairs here. The share bathroom boasts cryptic Spanglish messages but overall I like it.

Jalpa: on route to Queretaro.

On the other side of Jalpa, the road turns to cobbles – visually charming but extremely wearing for cyclists – for an extended climb.

Cobbles always make a climb seem twice as long.

Full of charm but extremely wearying to negotiate on a bike.

After a tranquil few hours riding, I suddenly discover yet again that major road works are clearly high on the Mexican government’s current agenda. Where I expect to be traveling on quiet unpaved back-roads I find myself thwarted by a relentless development push. As I near Queretaro, an industrial city of one and half million people, I start to be sucked relentlessly onto a gigantic new ring road that circles the town. The pull is almost irresistible but I do, in fact, resist and after asking enough people I am finally directed onto a dirt road that meanders through some fields and into the industrial outskirts of Queretaro where there is no escaping the traffic and I have to ride clear through the city to its far edge.

In Queretaro, I stay with Meara, who I contacted through Couch Surfing. Meara is a young Canadian who has moved to Mexico and makes her living creating replica dinosuar artifacts. It’s not my place to tell Meara’s story here but she is one of the more impressive people that I have met in a long time and I am very glad to have met her.

Dinosaurs in Queretaro.

A swarm of trilobytes.

A trilobyte in the making.

I spend Friday morning addressing the ludicrously bureaucratic process of acquiring the maps from the Secretaria de Transportes y Comunicaciones that will make the next leg of my journey possible, before chilling out in a lively plaza in the old town centre. Later, I meet Meara for a relaxed and companionable evening.

A busy plaza in the old part of town.

On Sunday, after an extended mega breakfast that stretches well into the afternoon, I set off well-rested and well-prepared for my next quest, which is to see the Monarch butterflies in the mountains on the border between the states of Michaocan and Mexico.

Shopping for breakfast supplies, I discover that Meara's local fruit shop has one of the most amazing displays I have ever seen.

Food is beautiful...

...and the guy who does this is an inspired artist - it is hard to attract his attention for long enough to purchase the wares.

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 :)

Eureka dunes.

The man welcomes me into the camp and it transpires that the excursion is part of a Christian drug recovery programme. Mike is one of the volunteers managing the programme. He has spent a lot of time in Death Valley and so I get out my detailed map and we discuss where might be the most interesting areas to explore. We continue to sit, chatting about topics ranging from small number bias in epidemiology to art and books, families and travel while Mike plies me with food and water. The participants of the programme are climbing the nearby mountains and dunes and after a while they start straggling back into camp, complaining loudly of heat and tiredness.

As the numbers in the camp grow things liven up. Dan, another of the volunteers is an astro-physicist, who flies satellites around the moon for a living, but he is still amused by launching toy rockets into the terrestrial atmosphere. A couple of potato bazookas are part of the camp paraphernalia and men, who quite possibly have had more dangerous weapons at their disposal in the course of their lives, start firing potatoes into the dunes.

Loading up.

Nice t-shirt: "Blessed are the peacemakers."

You might not believe that Dan flies satellites around the moon for his day job...

...given his excitement at launching toy rockets.

That's it!

Mike invites me to join them all for dinner and the campfire circle in the evening and I agree. When I tire of firing vegetable projectiles into the brush, I go to set up my own camp at a distance sufficient for the general chaos to be somewhat muted and go for a walk in the dunes.

Peace in the sand dunes.

Sand and wind is a beautiful combination.

On the dunes.

Tent city, far below.

Californian coast; sunshine and pampas grass.

However, my relentless advance doesn’t stop me having a number of adventures.

I am rescued from the streets of Arcata at dusk by a cyclist who invites me to spend the night at his house, after I query him about camping options in the area.  A range of treats – a hot shower, clean clothes, laundry facilities, pasta, red wine, rhubarb and strawberry pie, and, most of all, congenial company and intriguing conversation -  almost tempt me to stay another night in Arcata. Two book shops further slow my escape and it is two o’clock in the afternoon on the following day before I get back on the highway.

Next, I get lost; first of all in Ferndale, a town which is, itself, lost somewhere in time.

Ferndale feels a bit like a movie set- The Truman Show, perhaps? - but apparently all the people are real.

Or maybe Edward Scissorhands...?

In Ferndale, again, I find myself treated to unexpected hospitality for a night before getting lost on the ‘lost coast’ of northern California – a section of coastal road that the sensible avoid because of its brutal gradients.

Bill, and his wife, invite me for dinner and give me a bed for the night.

Bill, a keen cyclist himself, does his best to dissuade me from attempting to cycle the 'lost coast.'

Bill and Cheryle's house in Ferndale.

Luckily, travelling south, I descend, rather than ascend, The Wall – a one mile hill with gradients of 18 – 22 %. However, there are certainly also climbs in the opposite direction. I find myself topping the final hill on dusk, descending it in the dark with a malfunctioning headlight, completely missing the Sate park campsite in the redwoods and finally finding a place to bed down under a freeway bridge at 9.30pm.

Lost highway.

Horses...

...donkeys...

...and dummies.

The last three days of cycling into San Francisco are a blur of cute coastal towns, separated by stretches of steep, winding road carved into rocky cliffs high above the ocean.

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.

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.

It is early in the day and I have my choice of sites. I stop at the last but one, which is already occupied. I make some lunch and hang out things to dry – tent spread on the ground, clothes dangling from the trees. Then, I turn my attention to the bike. I clean the chain, still gritty from the muddy road construction, as best I can, with a toothbrush, removing muck from the gears.

Frantically ringing bells alert me to some action. A a man on horseback, leading a string of other horses, thunders by and onto the lakeside walking trail. Another guy follows on an ATV. The men are clearly enjoying themselves and putting on quite a performance.

After organising my things, I walk down the trail where the horses disappeared and come across the guy on the ATV. He stops and I ask him what is going on. The men are hunting outfitters – they take rich Americans trophy hunting in the hills – a business their grandfather started fifty-seven years ago.

We talk for a while of the rights and wrongs of hunting, the guy immediately somewhat on the defensive. From the man’s perspective the rich Americans get their trophies, the meat feeds the local villages where they can’t afford to buy meat and it provides a decent living. I don’t like the trophy part, myself, but I can see the need to eat.

I walk on along the edge of the lake until stopped by a river and sit on the gravel bar watching the water and sky. Storm clouds over the mountains shift and seethe and as they edge closer I realise I had better go back and tend to my stuff. I still haven’t put up my tent, a little reluctant to pay the $15 fee that is standard in the provincial parks.*

Storm clouds gathering.

Storm impending.

I get back to the site and still procrastinate until the wind picks up and starts howling across the lake, raising noisy choppy waves. I pitch the tent in the wind, pegging it out carefully, and then stand on the shore watching as the storm rolls over, the worst of it in the distance, on the opposite shore. As I am standing there, another of the outfitters, one of the horsemen, comes to where I am standing.  He opens the conversation with a hackneyed remark about the weather but the conversation continues, in the rain, moving, as we start to get wetter, to the inadequate shelter of the conifers surrounding my tent.

A favourite activity - watching rain fall.

More storm watching.

And yet more...

...and more.

Robbie is one of the local First Nation people, self-depreciating and proud in equal measure. All our various preconceived notions of gender and culture quickly bring us to awkward terrain. He asks me on a fishing ‘date’ and I make a non-committal agreement but we continue to talk until it is almost dark when he leaves to find his Leatherman knife at the river crossing by the lake where they swam the horses to the opposite shore. I return to the lake-shore in the gathering twilight.

Robbie passes by again with his knife and reiterates his invitation. I am shy and a little embarrassed but also keen to accept; I would like to catch a fish and the man interests me. He is knowledgeable and funny and has a way with words. When he leaves, I prepare myself for a boat trip, putting on my waterproof gear, even though I’m not sure if he will return. I am hungry but I snack out of the pannier instead of cooking in case he comes back, as promised, in his boat.

Dusk has deepened considerably by the time I see the boat approaching and I hover on the shores trying to appear ready and willing but not too expectant. The surface of the lake is still, the last light reflecting off it, silver and grey, with the darkening mountain looming above, trees jagged and black.

Dusk falling after the storm.

Dusk on the lake.

The boat comes ashore, Robbie introduces Ray, the navigator of the craft and we set off across the water. A rifle leans casually against the side of the boat. We are going, not fishing, but to feed the horses and check on the gear at the corral – a grizzly has been seen there. We skirt a gravel bar and some underwater snags and come to opposite shore.

Horse bells ring out over the water. We disembark dragging the boat up onto the beach. Ray goes ahead into the forest of huge trees with the gun and Robbie and I follow.

There are fifteen horses in a corral in a clearing: fifteen sleek, solid workhorses. Robbie and Ray distribute hay and I wander amongst the huge animals, towering well above my head. I make friendly overtures but they are only concerned with their feed. Robbie tells me the names, and points out the special qualities, of various horses. They are fine beasts and I dearly wish that I were heading into the mountain on the fifteen day expedition they are preparing for on the back of one of these horses.

We return to the boat, which has taken on a substantial quantity of water in our absence, and Ray takes it out onto the lake to drain leaving Robbie and I on the darkening shore. We talk of bears and hunting. I tell him that there was a population of eight bears in the Beskydy Mountains in Moravia – the last bears in the Czech Republic – until somebody shot one of them, probably rendering the remaining population of seven bears unviable. He laughs and tells me that there are more than eight bears on this side of the lake. He asks me to hold the gun for a moment, assuming it to be the first time I have had one in my hands. However, I have shot both a rifle and a pistol previously and I let him know.

The gathering dark.

Blue nightfall.

Ray returns and we chug across the velvety black water. They drop me on the shore near my tent and we say somewhat abrupt and awkward goodbyes. I go to bed contemplating the encounter. In the morning, I would like to see Robbie again before I go, to say goodbye and thank you. I pack up and cycle past the outfitters lodge but I don’t see anyone around and I’m too shy to enter without an invitation. I ride off regretfully, continuing my half of an imagined dialogue in my head.

It takes me two days before the desire to return to the lake is no longer constant. When talking of hunting Robbie said of wolves, “Sometimes you see the beauty in them and you don’t shoot them.” He sees a wolf as a competitor – a hunter, too. He watches the caribou. He knows the mountain and their trails, talks of them with an easy familiarity. He had a way with words.

Kinaskan Lake is a dreamscape of water surrounded by mountains and fragments of poetry.

*In this case I needn’t have worried. The camp operator is very bike friendly and when she passed by she let me know that she generally waives the fee for bikers.

However, the next morning, as I am riding on my way, I pull into an dubious RV camp at Johnson’s Crossing because of the bakery sign – I am developing a serious and often misguided addiction to cinnamon buns. I have bought my bun (one of the more misguided ones) and a couple of indifferent fruit turnovers and am eating them standing by my bike having the same tired “where from/where to” conversation with a couple from somewhere in the ‘lower 48’* when I hear a sudden commotion behind me.

I turn and see a man getting out of an unfamiliar 4WD. It takes a moment for me to the make the right connections but then Renate and the boys also emerge from the vehicle. The couple I was conversing with are instantly and totally forgotten. We are all overjoyed to see each other again – I am heart-warmed by the fact that our previous lunchtime encounter obviously made an equal impression on these people that it made on me.

There is a flurry of addresses exchanged, photos taken, promises made, and I happily learn all the missing names – Gunter, Malte and Jannik – and then we have to go our separate ways again. They are about to set off on the canoeing part of their holiday on some remote lakes and rivers in the Yukon.

Reunited for a moment with Renate and her family. (From right to left: Renate, Jannik, me, Gunter, Malte.)

The air is still thick with smoke as I ride on to Teslin Lake and stop after a short day, seduced by the opportunity to swim. I spent the afternoon sitting watching the smoke, the sky, the water.

Smoke billowing over Teslin Lake.

Green bushfire light and grey smoky skies.

Smoky sunset at Teslin Lake.

Red moon in the smoke.

The following morning brings a murky haze which testifies to the presence of the numerous blazes burning across the Yukon, Alaska and British Columbia. Having spent February this year in Australia, where fires of unprecedented ferocity destroyed millions of hectares of bushland and destroyed whole towns with massive loss of life the scene was familiar, if not welcome.

The murky view over the lake in the morning.

The smoke is so thick that it is now utterly impossible to see the opposite shore.

* The ‘lower 48′ is how Alaskans refer the parts of the USA that are not Alaska.

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!