As I cross the causeway towards the island, thunder rumbles around me and a huge storm front hovers over head. I take the first turn off I can onto the beach and my immediate impression is favourable. Only a few people are visible in the distance, at the other end of the beach. Being – however reluctantly – of Australian origin, I am always vaguely affronted by the idea of having to share a beach with anyone at all.

Eventually I emerge from the sea and set about trying to find a suitable place to camp and, more importantly, something to eat but the sky opens and rain pours down. In an instant I am soaking wet and a stiff wind combines to make me quite chilly* so eventually I strip off again and return to the water, which is comfortably warm, under these circumstances, at around 32 degrees.

Thunderstorm skies. Moments later the cloud drops its burden of water and drenches me and my belongings completely.

As the rain eases a little, I decide to go on my way as it is getting quite late in the day. I return to the paved road and can see buildings and cars less than a kilometre away but things go suddenly awry. I am not really aware of any mishap before I find myself sliding down the road on the palms of my hands. As I come to a halt, I glance, first, at my hands and, second, at my bike which is some distance behind me. Both palms have deep gashes, with the left hand in a considerably worse state than the right, but the bike and my belongings appear unscathed. As I study my wounds I remember that, in my efforts to travel light in Cuba, I have left my first aid kit in Mexico; I have carried the damn thing over mountains for 16 000 kilometres without incident and now, when I finally need it, is not here.

I pick up the bike and gauge the depth of the water-filled pot hole the front wheel was swallowed up by with my foot – it’s deep – and, in reasonable pain, I make my way towards the buildings down the road.

The restaurant is full of people sheltering from the rain. I manoeuver my bike as best I can towards the verandah and display my bleeding hands to the a couple of bus drivers standing by the entrance. One looks queasily away but the other one hurriedly directs me to the bar where I again demonstrate, without the need for any words, my problem. A member of the staff rushes me to the dive centre where a man with a large bottle of iodine splashes it liberally over the wounds.

Once treated I return to the verandah restaurant and sit shivering in my wet clothes. A loud group of young drunken Americans stumble about trying to organise themselves to get back on their tour bus. I strike up a conversation with an Italian couple as gradually the crowd things.

I am very hungry but the restaurant has, apparently already closed. I explain to the men behind the bar counting the days takings that I was intending to camp here and have nothing of substance with me to eat. The security man takes pity on my plight and offers me a plate of chicken, rice and beans for 4 CUC. I realise later that he has probably sold me his own dinner.

Ouch! That hurts.

Once fed, I feel considerably better although I am still in pain and the site of my injuries make doing anything much quite problematic. The two security guards responsible for the area hover around me but their intentions seem more sleazy than solicitous. Eventually, as the day tourists disappear one by one, I go to change into some dry clothes. I am relieved when I return to the bar to find a couple sitting at one of the table, and delighted when I spy their matching handle bar bags.

“Cyclists?”

“Yes!”

“Are you staying the night?”

“Yes.”

We pitch our tents on the sand amongst the white plastic lounges and piles of litter left by the day tourists. As a the sun sets a family of pigs appears trotting down the beach and clouds of mosquitoes and sand-flies swarm around us along with the increasingly drunk security guards. We are somewhat unimpressed with our tropical seaside idyll and after a brief shared meal of tinned tuna, avocado and bread we take refuge in our tents.

Tropical sunset. Who believes that pictures don't lie? Looks like paradise, doesn't it, but there are clouds of sand-flies and mosquitoes to contend with, not to mention a team of sleazy security guards to fend off.

Dawn also looks good...

... until it reveals the litter left by yesterday's beach lovers. A family of pigs appears to function as the only beach cleaning device.

* This is the only time I am remotely cold in a month of travelling in Cuba.

So, I’m feeling kind of stuck.

Rain comes down during a tropical storm called Alex. Who names these things? Is Alex someone's least favourite brother? Their mother-in-law? Or their boss, perhaps?

At the moment, I am stuck on a boat on a marina on the Isla Mujeres and I could choose to look at it as if my wish on arriving in Cancun were granted – I am now a participant observer of a lifestyle that is utterly alien to me. I guess there could be many worse places to be stuck, especially for someone who has had a long held desire to sail the seven seas. The people here are very nice, kind, helpful, interested in me and my life but feeling alien, after a time, inevitably results in alienation.

It’s my own fault because I knew it was hurricane season but I thought I’d try my luck with the boat to Cuba thing anyway. It is another example of me acting on a fairly unrealistic hope.

So – realistically – I now have three options available to me; a. fly to Cuba, b. not go to Cuba, or c. wait until November and try to get on a boat then. Option A is practical but uninspiring. Option B is disappointing and still leaves the problem of what to do about muddy jungle roads in Central America during wet season. Option C confronts me with what to do in the intervening months and leaves me wondering about the nature of my forward trajectory on this journey – five months is a long time and by November I will have spent almost a whole year in Mexico.

People were mostly occupied with the Mexico-Argentina World Cup game during the worst of Alex so it was only the moment when the satellite TV connection failed that caused an uproar. The wind and rain themselves were largely met with stoic indifference.

Misty mountains stretching in the distance... and into Guatemala.

More christmas stocking nest - I love these birds.

Two rivers meet: the clear blue one comes from intact jungle, the muddy brown one comes from disturbed land and is carrying a load of eroded soil.

The rivers are rising at the onset of the wet season.

A bare tree draped with bare vines.

Wild colours in the wilderness.

The wet season has definitely begun – rain falls, heavily, and the rivers are muddy and full.

A cloud building as the sun sets. There is a lot of water in that cloud, I discover.

Zacatecas - a bustling lively town, with great markets.

Victor lives near the centre of town in a tiny semi-derelict house. Amazingly, the limited space Victor has at his disposal doesn’t prevent him from unquestioningly offering four cyclists accommodation. Victor is a member of one of Mexico’s only reggae bands and his house appears to be something of a hub of alternative social activity in Zacatecas. The main room downstairs houses a drum kit and equipment for band practice.

Once our four bikes and all our gear are also installed there is little room for anything or anyone else. Victor gives up his tiny bedroom to accommodate us and goes to sleep at a friend’s house while the four of us squeeze in where we can, spreading out our sleeping maps on the bare concrete floor. I opt for bedding down in the closet. When the morning reveals that the bathroom doesn’t boast running water, Cass is the first to crack and flees for a hostel.

Victor, our first couch surfing host, in his student digs.

Jeff, Jason and I spend a day exploring the bustling markets around the centre and then wander up to La Bufa, the hill overlooking town, to investigate a museum on the history of the Mexican Revolution. The photos are fascinating but I leave without feeling I understand much more of this confusing episode in Mexican history.

Pancho Villa: Viva la Revolucion!

A girl in the market attracts Jeff's attention. She is selling an intriguing array of products to address any number of ailments and problems...

... including an odd collection of herbal teas.

After another night with Victor, Jeff and I opt to move in with another couch surfer for a few days, in the suburbs between Zacatecas and Guadalupe. Monica, and her daugher Andrea, generously put us up in their very comfortable home, where there is ample outdoor space for us to do some much needed maintenance work on our bikes and repair various items camping gear. There is also a sewing machine that Monica kindly has repaired and  Jeff dedicates a couple of days to finishing his frame bags – a ongoing series of sewing projects that started back in Silver City.

The days at Monica’s are very well spent but after a short time in the suburbs we are keen to meet up with Jason and Cass in Zacatecas again.

The aspirations of the middle-class in Mexico.

The dirtbag gang is reunited at Hostel Villa Colonial, a relaxed hostel overlooking the cathedral, but Zacatecas marks the end of an era – my way diverges here from that of the rest of the gang; the boys are keen to strike out for the coast and I am heading towards Puebla.

The view of the cathedral from the roof of the hostel...

... and a detail of the hectic facade.

Cowboys in town - Zacatecas is still cowboy country but it is, apparently, something of a border zone and further south the culture starts to change.

Zacatecas is a town of curiosities.

So, after another day or so organising themselves, Jeff, Jason and Cass head off toward Guadalajara and I am left alone in the hostel dormitory. The next day heavy rains fall and I stay a few extra days in Zacatecas, contemplating my future as a solo traveller again.

Sunny days as summer drifts into autumn.

I exist in a total media blackout, paying not the slightest heed to news bulletins or weather forecasts and I find it quite comforting not knowing what is going on outside my immediate realm or having any expectations of my environment beyond the ones I develop on the basis of what I can see in front of me.

Some things filter through, though.

A man at a campground informs me that he was told to evacuate a campground a little further down the coast the night before because of a tsunami alert. There are tsunami warning signs on all low lying coastal areas on the US coast and after a while you don’t take a lot of notice of them but this alert, apparently, was in earnest. The warning came in response to the earthquake in Samoa, and it was in this way that I learnt of that event. No tsunami made its way to the coast of the US, however, and I was unaware of any potential threat, as I cycled along, until after it had passed.

I cycle out of the supermarket car park in an Oregon town with people anxiously warning me of approaching rain squalls. Exactly what they expect me to do, I am not entirely sure – check into a hotel, I guess, to watch television or something like that until the inclement weather passes. However, the idea of getting wet doesn’t frighten me unduly so I ride out of town.

I stop to admire the oncoming storm front moving across the sea parallel to the coast. It is a lovely cloud formation that brings the predicted rain in its wake.

I ride in the rain. It is not so bad.

A weather front advancing. Beautiful, isn't it?

I think I could become a storm chaser - but then I might have to have a faster means of transport than a bike at my disposal.

Bucolic country scenes.

Rosehips line the path. They are best picked after the first frost.

I stop at an information centre to pick up the cycle maps of the peninsula and study them carefully. My next definite destination is Forks, where I will stay with Babs, who I met at a campground in Tok, Alaska. The maps indicate a number of mountain bike and walking trails in the Olympic Nation Park that attract my attention. I can, potentially, avoid some miles of highway.

Leaving Port Angeles, the major port on the peninsula, I ask a couple of cyclists for advice about how to get out of town and show them the off-road trails that I am considering taking. They tell me that the tracks are ‘rugged’ but not too steep and so I decide to attempt it.

I follow Highway 101 out of town and then turn off onto the 112 to find the trailhead of the path I want to follow. A sign at the trailhead indicates that the path is suitable for mountain biking but warns that steep grades and rough ground make it unsuitable for road bikes and that barriers exist to deter motorised vehicles that are too narrow to permit easy access for bikes with luggage. I pause to consider this information for a moment and then plough on. I am never predisposed to turning back.

Within five minutes, I am off the bike pushing up a steep narrow track but it levels out again and I can ride the bike for a while. Then the trail is crossed by a gravel road used by ATVs and the first of the barriers appears. I struggle to lift the bike over the sturdy steel barricade with a small gap just wide enough for an unburdened bike to coast through with one pedal raised and then get back on the bike. A few minutes later I am confronted by another of these obstacles and I stop, nonplussed. A group of three on mountain bikes hurtles suddenly down the hill whizzing through the barrier unimpeded. They grin and give me a thumbs up. I stop them to inquire if they feel that I can manage the path ahead, pointing out my proposed route on the map as there are a number of interlocking trails to choose from, and ask where it is possible to rejoin the highway. They assure me that all will be well and help me lift the laden bike over the barrier.

The path winds through dense fir forest with undergrowth of diverse ferns and my heart lifts. I do love to get off the road and my bike was made for this kind of terrain. From time to time I have to get off and push where the path is very steep or very rough but overall I am happy. The barriers which occur every time the path is crossed by an ATV trail are the biggest annoyance.

A sedate section of the trail.

After a time I turn off the main mountain bike trail and follow a track that is obviously shared with ATVs and 4WD vehicles. All seems to be going well but things degenerate when I try to find the place where I should rejoin the highway. I can hear the traffic on the 101 passing and a number of paths turn off the track in that direction but they all peter out uselessly in the bush. I waste time pushing my bike along these dead ends, all the time aware that the sun is fast disappearing behind the hills. The track I am on is increasingly muddy and torn up by ATVs and therefore increasingly difficult to negotiate.

I come to a very steep side track and I can actually see a tarmac road, beckoning like a mirage, not far away, through the trees. I take the bike down the precipitous descent and follow the track until I come to a deep ditch, impossible to cross, separating me from my goal. Cursing, I back track.

At the steep section, I have to unload all the panniers and carry them individually up the rise. I reload the bike and continue until I come to another abrupt dip in the road which requires me to unload again. I am not feeling so happy now.

I decide to walk for a while, without my bike, to survey the scene. The track continues to wind through the trees, innocuously now, but with no sign of where I might be able to reach the road which is so close but so unattainable. I return to the bike without having solved my dilemma and continue – what else can I do? I round a corner, negotiate yet another almost impossible section of road, and then abruptly find myself ejected from the forest onto a smooth blacktop which leads across a bridge and back to Highway 101.

Dusk is gathering, thickly, as I speed along the 101 and then turn off to skirt the northern end of Crescent Lake. The road winds above the water and I keep an eye out for a place to camp. It doesn’t seem very promising as houses line the shore.

Night falls. Luckily there is little traffic as I cautiously navigate the road in almost complete darkness. There is a campground marked on the map and I think, if all fails, it will do but it turns out to be the most vile form of RV resort and I cannot bring myself consider staying there let alone pay the $25 dollar fee.

I continue and finally, at the end of the long narrow lake, I find a path leading to a grassy patch, hidden from the road by trees, on the shore. A sign informs me that camping is forbidden but I decide that it is too dark to see it. I cook some noodles and put up my tent in complete blackness.

I wake early and take down my tent before cooking breakfast. I am disturbed while finishing my coffee at around 6.30AM by man, on a bicycle, with his dog but he is unfazed by my presence. We chat for a while and I ask him about the Spruce Rail Trail, the next section of my off-road adventure.

“You’ll be fine!” he says. I trust him.

I set off and, after a steep start, the path is relatively level and easy to negotiate, although, in sections, tree roots and rocks make riding an uncomfortable business and so I get off to push from time to time. The forest is beautiful and the morning light shoots down in golden shafts through the canopy. Glimpses of the water in Crescent Lake below are stunningly blue. I am happy again.

Blue water.

Morning in the forest.

I cross a foot bridge and the crystalline water below seduces me completely.  I lean the bike against the bridge, strip naked and slide into the clear blue water. I swim out into the middle of the lake, floating on my back looking up at the sky. Heaven is simple things.

You might miss the bike path in this photo unless you look pretty carefully.

The trusty steed on the footbridge resting in the morning sun.

My own private swimming pool under the foot bridge.

I stand in the sun on the bridge, drying out, watching the traffic speed along Highway 101 on the other side of the lake. Why would anyone want to be there when they could be here, I wonder. I dress again and continue through the forest above the lake until I reach a gravel road which leads me back to 101.

The path winds through the forest. Why would anyone want to ride on a road?

Autumn colours. It makes more sense to call autumn fall here.

Rainforest trees.

On the highway again, it starts to rain heavily and I have thirty odd miles to ride before I reach Forks. About eight miles out of town I ring for directions and Babs and her husband, Denis, offer to come to pick me up. I agree to meet them wherever we intersect on the highway and am happy enough to avoid the last five miles or so of sodden riding.

Leaving Sheila’s house on a wet Sunday morning to catch the 10AM ferry, I turn back onto the Main Rd and head in the wrong direction. Ignoring every last visual clue, which clearly informs me that I am going somewhere I have never been before, I continue riding in the pouring rain and it is only when I arrive at Pluto that I acknowledge that I am far from the centre of the known solar system.

The street signs on Lasqueti are idiosyncratic but, nonetheless, informative.

On a pleasant day I might have stayed to explore Squitty Bay but, as the rain is relentless, I retrace my path to the other end of the island and arrive at the ferry terminal twenty minutes late for the 10 o’clock ferry and two and a half hours early for the 1 o’clock ferry.

A cafe next to the terminal looks inviting but the doors are firmly closed. I sit on the steps, soaking wet and cold, until 11AM when the establishment opens and make my way to a table in the corner where a heater sits under the table. I arrange myself strategically to make the most of the hot air and address myself to drying out.

I board the ferry fortified by excellent pancakes and soon arrive in French Creek where I discover that I am without a clear plan. I hit the road as rain cascades down again.

Late in the day I find myself on the south-side of Nanaimo soaking wet and miserable. In a car park where I am futilely looking for a public telephone to ring a Nanaimo contact that I haven’t forewarned of my arrival, I ask a women for if she knows where I might find one. She enquires where I am staying and on hearing that I don’t really know she doesn’t hesitate, even for a moment, before inviting me home to her house for dinner and a bed.

Chris and I talk late into the evening. People constantly tell me that I am brave for merely getting on my bike. When I hear Chris’ story I realise that I know nothing of bravery. She raised two boys in very difficult circumstances, tragically lost her youngest son in an accident seven years ago, when he was thirteen years old, and still manages to find time and energy to help a total stranger in need. I leave in the morning in awe of Chris’ strength of spirit and tenacity, her ability and will to survive.

Chris in Nanaimo.

I have been tarrying the last few days, in Stewart and here in the Nisga’a valley, and I feel the need, now, to cover some miles. I cycle back through the Lava Bed Valley to the road towards Terrace watching a storm running up the valley before me. A rainbow arches over the road.

Rainbow over the road.

I notice now that almost all the road signs in the valley have been altered, the English text carefully edited out. I am impressed by the skill, dedication and thoroughness with which this task has been completed and I wonder if the original signs had stated the local names first, with the English names subaltern and parenthesised, the same person or persons would have bothered with it. I suddenly recall Fred mentioning that road signage was a contentious issue in local politics.

After the turn off to Terrace, the road runs along another pretty valley with numerous pools and streams of  milky aqua water to both sides. The quantity of water means the valley doesn’t offer a wide choice of camp sites and I ride until I arrive at Lava Lake where I decide to stop at the picnic ground despite prominent signs prohibiting camping. It is dusk and still quite wet so I figure no-one will come to bother me.

Water on both sides of the road makes camping a bit tricky.

I am unpacking my food pannier, deciding which of my three staple options – pasta, cous-cous or lentils – I will cook tonight, when a car pulls up and a group of youths tumble out, shouting and laughing. The picnic tables are amongst trees and screened by bushes and as one guy starts up the path towards me he is clearly startled by my presence which wasn’t betrayed by a car in the parking area.

“Bikers?” he says. It is a query, I think. I am grateful for the assumed plural even though there is no evidence of my phantom companions. “Yes,” I reply, firmly and calmly. He backs away and returns to his friends. “Bikers,” he repeats and manages to make the word carry the same impact as if he had said “Vipers!” his voice laden with a wary distaste.

The kids laugh and shout raucously for while around their car but nobody approaches me again. I set about cooking my dinner mentally preparing a story about my friends who will appear now any second having finally repaired their flat tire. My bear spray is to hand. However, the kids soon jump back in their car and leave.

The traffic along the road is quite heavy and cars continue to pass regularly. The local communities seem very well resourced with cars – favouring sporty numbers in red or white. The vehicle’s sinuous interlocking curves and sleek angles are strangely reminiscent, it seems to me, of the various creatures represented in the carved totem poles.

Totem poles on a bridge.

I eat dinner and put up my tent and then light a fire as an alternative to an early night. I’m still slightly anxious about my exposed campsite but there is not much to be done about it at this stage. It starts to drizzle again and I go to bed. Sporadically cars pull into the car park – to use the outhouse, I presume – and each time I wake, wary and tense. It is Friday night, I realise.

The following morning I set off and it starts to rain again. I arrive in Terrace early in the afternoon soggy and cold and stop at a bike shop to replace my break pads. The ones I put in at Bell II, on the front, have not lasted well and back ones also need attention. Bike tended to, I then retire to the internet café to see if I can organise some accommodation, hopefully in Terrace, but also in Prince Rupert, tomorrow’s destination, and on Vancouver Island.

Riding into the Nisga'a Lava Bed Memorial Park.

At the Nisga’a Campground I circle the campsites which are set in a thicket of tall rainforest trees. As usual, the sites are designed with the needs of RVs, rather than tents, in mind and the hard gravel patches are swimming in water. Setting up my tent or trying to cook something to supplement the slice of pizza I consumed at New Aiyansh in this environment is an unattractive prospect.

I return to the entrance and take shelter underneath the information board outside the Visitor Centre and start to cook some ramen noodles. People wander past  from the car park opposite and  give the information above my head a cursory perusal.

A woman approaches to ask if I would like to accompany her and her daughter for a drive in their car. The only real alternative, in the current conditions, is to continue sitting under the information board and so I agree on the proviso that she doesn’t mind waiting until I finish cooking and eating my noodles.

Those tasks completed I lock my bike and go to the woman’s car – a large white four-door pickup truck. Laura, her daughter, is about 14, a pretty blonde girl, sitting in the front of the vehicle. She gets out to let me into the rear of the cabin and I peel off my dripping wet-weather gear before climbing in. Sharon and Laura are from Alberta and spend their holidays each year exploring different parts of Canada and Alaska.

We set off on the road that goes to the coast sixty kilometres away, passing through a number of First Nation communities on the way. As we drive around the villages, Sharon comments disparagingly about the state of the houses and I find myself wishing that I was still alone on my bike in the rain. She has an anecdote to share on everything that we see which she uses to illustrates her poor opinion of First Nations people, none of which I can match with my own experiences and conversations with the local people.

I return to my bike somewhat dispirited by my afternoon with Sharon and Laura. Sharon’s ignorant bigotry left a very sour taste in my mouth. I try hard to reconcile her blatant racism with her obvious kindness to me but I fail to find the connection. The rain holds off for long enough for me to put up my tent and cook in relative comfort and I crawl into my tent. The rain pours down again relentlessly all night.

The Cassiar Highway.

Mountains and sunshine.

Talk and berries make for a short day, only 45 kilometres, maybe the shortest yet. We cross a river and turn into a rest stop set off the main highway. The area was clearly built to service the old highway which now serves as the access road to it. There are a couple of semi-derelict outhouses and a grassy patch in the middle of a turning circle. We discover a prolific blueberry patch. Walking down to the river, we see another open area on the opposite bank where a second river joins the larger one. It looks inviting and so, in a sudden rain shower, we ride a kilometre, or two, back down the main highway to find the access road.

I set up my tent and then submerge myself briefly in the cold, cold river water. Fish are jumping, the water so clear that they are visible swimming in the fast moving stream. I remember the lure that Lea gave me in Whitehorse and toss out the line, hooking a sizable fish in an instant but as I land it the knot gives way the fish flops back into the water, swimming off with the pink lure still visible in its mouth.

Another perfect campsite.

Tents by the river.

We try to make another hook and lure with a sewing needle and a piece of tin from a drink can but it is not a success and I end up losing the line in the water - so it is pasta again for dinner. We light a fire and sit and talk, shifting occasionally to avoid the smoke.

Campfire by the river.

Campfire.

I wake in the morning and cycle back to the other side of the river to collect blueberries for breakfast. The boy has still not emerged from his tent by the time I am packed and ready to be gone so I sit by the river and write.

Fresh wild blueberries for breakfast.

Eventually we leave the campsite, late in the morning. He is keen to get to Dease Lake, 90 kilometres of rolling hills with a steady rise in elevation, for the bank. Cycling with the boy, I push myself a little more than usual. The last section of highway is under construction. It is muddy and wet, with gravel trucks constantly to-ing and fro-ing with their loads. As we top the summit, black clouds gather, the sky opens and we race downhill in to the icy rain.

Storm on the hills on the descent into Dease Lake.

We arrive in Dease Lake wet and chilled to the bone. Dease Lake, like most of these tiny settlements, is something of a disappointment. There is a store and a restaurant but neither quite measures up to some indefinable ideal. We go to the restaurant, more to warm up than to eat but food is also welcome. The boy is sullen, only reviving a little with the arrival of a substantial pizza. I eat a burger and I am still hungry. After eating, we find a place to put up the tents on the edge of town. I hide myself in the woods as best I can but this area obviously gets a fair amount of use – condom wrappers and other debris dots the area. I don’t like camping so close to town but we both need to restock our food panniers in the morning.

Even an inadequate campsite has its attractions.

It rains all night and I wake from uneasy dreams to the sound of a frantically barking dog a little way off. The boy is up and says he heard something around our camp, a bear, maybe… We break camp and head for town without breakfast. I wander the supermarket looking for things to replenish my supplies and breakfast on some overly sweet apple turnovers and then we seek out the local community college to use the Internet.

Leaving town, the boy and I go not separate ways but at our own pace which separates us.

The road rises again out of Dease Lake. Clouds hang ominously but I feel good. Snowy mountains lie ahead. Rain comes down again after I cross the Arctic/Pacific divide on the long steep descent to the Stikine River. On the other side of the bridge the boy is sheltering from the storm – he has no waterproof gear. I go on, climbing seven kilometres out of the valley. The snow topped mountains pass by and the boy catches up to me. We end up seeking a camp not together but at the same time and place and find ourselves neighbours in a paddock beside a motel/restaurant. It is too late and dark to cook, the location unprepossessing, and so I dine on a tin of tuna, peanut butter and pita bread. It rains again during the night.

I leave early without breakfast and set off with low clouds draped over the mountains, a greyscale landscape. Fifteen kilometres down the road I pass a ‘wilderness resort.’ I enter, hoping for a bakery but find myself in a luxurious lodge restaurant, packed with well-heeled patrons. I order pancakes; the woman at the grill is struggling to feed the crowd and looks exasperated. I sit amongst the stuffed moose and loud bombastic Americans patiently waiting as the room empties. I am the last person served. I eat my pancakes and talk to three female parks and wildlife officers who have just finished an eight-day hike through the ranges. I would love to go up to those mountains.