Travel Feature – A 22,000 km odyssey
Growing up, I always thought the coolest job would be as a waterslide tester, but when I realized that wasn’t a real job, I decided my dream was to explore the world on my motorcycle. Everything really began to gel when my parents enrolled me in my first trailbike course when I was seven, and there hasn’t been a summer since then that I haven’t been riding. Fast-forward 11 years, and finally the time had come where I was of age to set off on my first big two-wheeled adventure.
Last summer I was 18 years old, and my father and I arranged to ride together to Revelstoke, British Columbia, and part ways from there – he would go south to Las Vegas and I would continue north to Alaska. With my mom’s best wishes and her usual spiel about road rules and safety, our trip officially began early one morning in the middle of May. While I have had four bikes of my own and ridden dozens of others over the years, it was my mom’s Suzuki SFV650 Gladius that I would use on this trip, fully loaded for three months on the road, and Dad was on a new 2012 Honda Gold Wing.
Northern Ontario was beautiful; the flat farmlands I grew up around were replaced with rugged forests and landscapes I had only dreamed about. On the other hand, Michigan, Wisconsin and Minnesota all blended together; riding through those states made it feel like time was standing still, and the days seemed to drag on, making my destination appear unreachable. Arriving in South Dakota, I finally felt like the trip was magically unfolding as the landscape drastically changed.
Our first sightseeing destination was Badlands National Park in South Dakota. The road twisted through a crazy prehistoric landscape, and I was half expecting a velociraptor to jump in front of my bike. Turning at Rapid City for the Black Hills, we completely bypassed the sterility of Mount Rushmore and headed directly to the Crazy Horse Memorial. It was surreal to see a sculpture so massive being blasted out of a mountain. I believe it started in 1948, and after the original sculptor died in 1982, many of his kids took over the job. They say it will take a few more generations to finish. Imagine working on something your whole life and never seeing it finished.
We headed down the Needles Highway (Hwy 87), a road filled with 10 mph turns where, if you didn’t make the corner, you were either going to ride off a cliff or into massive rock walls. Coming from flat and straight Southern Ontario, I had never imagined that a road like this could exist. Everywhere you looked there was beautiful rock carved by prehistoric oceans and ice millions of years ago. On the flatter, eastern side of the area, we must have seen at least 100 deer darting across the road or standing on the side, observing us. I should’ve taken this as a premonition of what was to come, because later that night, I would find myself in a situation all bikers dread.
It was pitch black and raining lightly, but we decided to ride at night on the Interstate heading north to Spearfish so that we could get new tires on my bike first thing the next day. With just five kilometres to our exit, a deer decided to cross the road. My dad was the first one to see him, and I hit my brakes as soon as I saw his brake lights. Dad swerved to the left into the other lane, and I went to the right. Thinking about my actions later, I realized that swerving the opposite way was my big mistake. I gave the deer nowhere to go – my dad went to the left, pushing the deer right, and into my path. I should have also swerved left.
Upon impact, the deer kind of wrapped around the front of my bike and then swung over to the right side, banging my foot against the right engine case before landing on the gravel shoulder. I remember thinking “Oh shit” as Bambi stopped in front of me, staring at me in fear of what was to come next. Then the splattered blood on my pant legs and boots, and my dad feeling so guilty because he was sure it was all his fault (even though I was the one who insisted we keep riding at night). The only injuries were slightly twisted front forks on my bike and my heart seemingly broken into pieces scattered across the road from killing my first animal.
Dad and I arrived at our hotel, where we discussed if we should tell Mom about the incident. I tried to sound calm when I called her, but she could tell right away I wasn’t okay. Mom was upset, but I think in some way it almost made her worry less. One of the worst things that could’ve happened on the trip happened, but I kept the bike up and I didn’t get hurt.
The next morning we had a new set of tires mounted and removed the deer fur, and loosening the triple clamps allowed the fork to find its own alignment. It took a lot of guts for me to get back on the bike that day. For the first hour I was shaking, reliving what had happened the night before, but I knew there was no way to get home without riding.
The weather had turned on us as we left Spearfish. We had just entered Wyoming and tried to see the Devils Tower, a natural formation of hexagonal rock pillars that form this massive 380-metre tower. In the fog we could only see the base, but it was still pretty cool. We immediately rode into a gnarly storm with torrential rain and incredibly strong winds – the whole time I felt like I was on a 45-degree angle just trying to keep the bike going in a straight line. The Gold Wing had a heated seat and handgrips, along with a fairing as big as a house to block out the blistering cold wind. I, on the other hand, had nothing heated and just a little fly screen that I tried to crouch behind the whole time. We stopped riding in Gillette, Wyoming, after four hours and only 160 km. In the hotel room, I rung out my socks, gloves, shirts and pants. I guess waterproof gear meant nothing to this storm. I was supposed to be in Northern B.C. to pick mushrooms (don’t worry, they weren’t the magic kind), and our short day riding meant we had to hit the road early. We decided to take a road that we thought would be a shortcut, but instead we took a wrong turn and ended up doing a long detour onto an amazing mountain road in Bighorn National Forest, Wyoming. When we first started on Hwy 16 it was about 15 degrees, and within 20 minutes we were riding on snow-covered roads and being passed by sanding trucks and snowmobiles. Once again I should mention my dad had his heated seat and big fairing to block the brisk wind, while I felt like Audrey from Christmas Vacation with my eyes frozen open. A constant chill that I couldn’t shake settled into my bones.
After about an hour and half, we started our descent down the mountain and the temperature slowly rose, along with an intense scent of sage. The left side of the road was a straight drop into a deep river canyon, and the right side was lined with a tall wall of black- and brown-spotted prehistoric-looking rock. In Idaho, we finally saw our first road sign for Canada. I was excited to know that our destination was near, but also quite scared, because this would mean that my father and I would part ways and I would truly be on my own. We made it to Revelstoke, but the last two hours of the trip were nerve-racking for me. It was dusk, and it seems that the many deer along Hwy 23 from the Shelter Bay ferry also enjoy hanging out extremely close to the road. We chose Revelstoke because I had couch-surfed at my cousin Kate’s house for a couple months before this trip, so for me, the town is a nice familiar place. The next morning came too quickly, and it was time to go our separate ways. I felt like my dad was initiating me – setting me off on my own. I had become a true biker, proven worthy, and now it was time to create my own path, and whatever happened next was solely in my hands. Other than wishing me safe travels, my dad really only had one rule for me: Do not go on the Dempster alone, or with this bike! Since both of us want to tackle the Dempster, he promised we would try to do it together in the future. I made my way up to Williams Lake in northern B.C., where I met up with my new friends, Jon and Sheryl, to pick mushrooms. I did this for a month and I loved it. We’d hike about 20 km a day, and at the end of the day we’d sell our mushrooms for about seventy bucks. It wasn’t the vast amount of money that we were expecting to make, but camping was free.
One afternoon, we were heading back from town in a Jeep when we got a flat tire. We soon realized that we couldn’t get the tire off, because the vehicle owner had lost the key for the anti-theft lug nut. After two hours of random passersby stopping to help and failing miserably, a logging truck came down the road, and out came a very short pudgy man who resembled Gimli from Lord of the Rings. He brought a chisel and a sledgehammer and had the nut off in no time. The jack was also giving us problems, so we still couldn’t take the flat tire off. At this point we had given up hope of moving the Jeep before dark, but as our eyes filled with disappointment, Gimli’s eyes filled with excitement. Where there’s a will, there’s a way . . . with a big-ass crane that was attached to the back of his logging truck. He hooked the crane to the Jeep and lifted up the whole back end up to change the tire – very efficient! After a month of mushroom picking, I had a bit of money in my jeans and figured it was time to hit the road again. I rode northeast through B.C. to Dawson Creek and the Alaska Highway. I met two brothers in Watson Lake, Yukon, who were heading in my direction, so we rode to Whitehorse together. They were the first people that I travelled with, and they really gave me the feeling of being at home on the road. I stayed for a couple of days in a great little hostel in Whitehorse and enjoyed a music festival, but Dawson City was calling my name. I rode into Dawson and was taken aback by all the old-style buildings – it’s as if Dawson hasn’t progressed from its glory days of the gold rush. I stayed at the Dawson City River Hostel, which was owned by a very interesting German man. Dieter started the hostel 20 years ago, and there’s still no electricity – if you want to bathe, you have to start a fire to heat the water. I could have listened to Dieter for hours about his world travels and his obsession with hats. The rafters of his store were filled with hats that he’s collected or that people have left to be put on display.
The Top of the World Highway was washed out, so I really had no choice but to stay for a week. One of Dawson City’s claims to fame is the Sourtoe Cocktail, which is made with a severed toe that’s been fermented in whisky. I decided one evening after a few drinks that I could handle this fearsome cocktail so I sat down with the captain of the toe, and as he gave his speech, I began second-guessing my reasons for wanting to do this. I tipped the cup up and I felt the toe hit my teeth and lips. Being successful, I received a certificate proclaiming that I belonged to the Sourtoe Cocktail Club, which I left in the hands of a friend and forgot to pick up, but I do have a photo of it.
Finally, the rain had stopped long enough for the Top of the World Highway to re-open. I left my Peace River hat on Dieter’s porch as a sort of promise to come back at some point in my life, whether it’s in five years or 50 years. I made my way through the snow-covered road to Chicken, Alaska, probably the best-known place in this area because of its name. It’s a quaint little town with a restaurant — and that’s about all. There were dark clouds rolling in and luckily the rain held off, as this stretch of highway is made of clay and could be treacherous if wet. The Top of the World Highway was a slow ride, and eventually I made it to Fairbanks, where I was on a mission to find a charger for my camera’s battery. Before leaving on this trip I triple-checked everything that I packed, and in all that time the thought didn’t cross my mind that my camera might just die after three months of daily picture-taking. Unfortunately, I missed out on some great photo opportunities. I soon realized that I couldn’t use my debit card or take money out of my bank account in Alaska, so I was more or less screwed. I made do with $75 Canadian in my pocket and headed back to Yukon the next day. I was happy to touch down on Canadian ground again, except that it happened to be very rough ground. Turns out that the section of the Alaska Highway from the border to Whitehorse isn’t well maintained. It was all washed out, with big craters in the road. I actually saw a Harley FLH in the ditch. I was long past the onset of loneliness, where talking to the different characters in my head was quite normal, and where I could partially finish words and skip sentences because everyone in my head knew exactly what everyone else was talking about. My point is, trying to hold a conversation with actual people after a month of only hearing your own voice is rather difficult.
And if most of the people I met didn’t think I was crazy for doing this trip by myself, they definitely thought so after hearing me talk. In between the long lonely stretches and internal conversations, I found that one of the great things about riding is the people you meet on the road. I met lots of people during this trip, but a biker from Atlanta, Georgia, was a great help to me when he noticed my worn tires. It never occurred to me to keep an eye on the tires I had installed in South Dakota. With my bike fully loaded, my rear tire was completely worn out, cords showing, and the front tire wasn’t much better. There weren’t any shops for at least another 300 km. He was heading to southern B.C., so the next morning, we hit the Stewart-Cassiar Highway together – very cautiously. I tried to ride on the sides of my tires so that I might have a slight chance of making it to a shop. Luck was on my side that day and we made it. Of course, they didn’t have the tire I needed, but they had a very worn rear tire that was in better shape than mine. Luckily it fit, and I was on the road again in the afternoon. I returned to Williams Lake, and my search for tires finally came to an end at New Life Cycle. I bought a new set of tires for $750 installed. That’s a lot of money even for a rich traveller, and when you’re an 18-year-old who’s been saving for a year, it’s a hell of a lot of cash. They were great at the shop and got me back on the road in decent time. Shortly after leaving, I lost my second jerry can of the trip by hitting a bump; it slid over to rest on my hot exhaust and melted there. I’m fortunate I didn’t turn into a fireball. With my savings and mushroom-picking money now exhausted, I had lined up a job at the Calgary Stampede in order to make enough cash for my trip home.
Following the Stampede, I had some loose ends to tie up back in B.C. before my journey home. Being the thoughtful daughter I am, I stopped in Kelowna for a three-part tattoo to commemorate my parents’ 20th wedding anniversary, and then I made my way down to the Crow’s Nest Highway. I would highly recommend you ride this road if you ever get the chance. I spent the night at my friend Julie’s house and got to meet her crow and hear a near-death grizzly-bear attack story from her husband, Mike. Because Julie is kind of family in a roundabout way, I started going through withdrawal from not seeing my parents. Now I just wanted to ride home to Ontario as fast as I could. The last couple days of my trip blew by. I was so focused on getting home that I had forgotten to stop and look around. What really caught my attention in Manitoba was the abundance of little yellow butterflies. I’d pull into gas stations and see myself in the reflection of the window, and it looked like I had been painted with sunshine.
My bike was no longer blue and white, it was yellow and it almost glowed. When I finally reached Ontario, I felt like I was on the home stretch of my trip. I couldn’t wait to get home, see my parents and hug my big fluffy dog. Of course, what I hadn’t realized is that Ontario is a much bigger province than I had ever expected. I had blown through the prairies, so I thought I’d be able to cover some ground and get home within the next day. As I passed through Thunder Bay I couldn’t help but notice that the town was crawling with cops, and about twenty minutes later, I got pulled over for speeding. Not one of my proudest moments, but after blabbing and apologizing profusely for what seemed like a decade, the cop stopped me and said, “I miss my Kawasaki Ninja I had last season.” A bit thrown off, I quickly changed the subject to bikes and got out of the ticket. I woke up the next morning filled with excitement, and as I stepped out of my tent I smiled at the many rabbits hopping around. I hit the road with sun glaring in my eyes and anticipation in my heart. The day seemed to drag on. I had hoped to be home by suppertime, but I felt like the road was a treadmill – no matter how long I rode or how fast I went, I wouldn’t arrive home that night. Just to thicken the plot and make it agonizingly suspenseful for me, my chain had stretched out, and as I passed through Espanola, it fell off and got jammed in my front sprocket. The suspicion that I wouldn’t make it home that evening had become reality. I called CAA and waited very impatiently on the side of the highway, picking grass and waving to fellow bikers. Luckily, my father and I had planned to meet in Sudbury, so that’s where I got dropped off with my bike.
As soon as I saw my dad, I felt like a little kid overwhelmed with excitement. After our sentimental reunion, Dad and I (mostly Dad) fixed up the bike and we went on our way back home. This was the first time I had ridden in the dark since the slaughter of Bambi, so I was on edge the whole time. Finally, I made it home around 1:00 a.m. As soon as I saw my mom, tears filled my eyes. I was with my parents again, the people who brought me to this moment, who’ve helped me and been so supportive, the people I owe everything to. I was overwhelmed with happiness, relief and accomplishment. It started to sink in that I had just been on my own three-month motorcycle adventure and seen some amazing things, met some wonderful people that I’ll never forget, and that it was now completely over. That’s when the sadness kicked in. I wanted to take off again and explore more. Travel is addictive, like a drug that courses through your veins – you yearn for it in your sleep. When you’re on the road and there’s no one and nothing else around you except the true beauty of nature, you really connect and realize what matters to you in life. Being in a town where no one knows your name is a very unique feeling, and you really see a place for what it is, not based on the people in it. It’s as if you’re a ghost picking out the little details of everything as you silently pass through, slipping past everyone; it made me feel alive, and I realized I was on a journey for myself. There was no obligation to socialize, I could just observe and experience at my own pace. It may not happen soon enough for me, but I’ll be out on my own crazy journey again. It’s just a matter of time . . . and money. My advice to anyone who wants to travel: do it! Life is short. Live it, love it and explore the hell out of it.
