In the summer of 1997 we did a Zippy (our tandem) tour of British Columbia and Alberta, 5,000 kilometers (3,000 miles). Toward the end of our two months, we said goodbye to Steve Richards who’d been with us for three weeks in the mountains of Southern BC. Steve was later to finish his own trans-Canada tour. We got on the, still unfinished, Kettle Valley Railway (rail trail) bypassing Kelona and on to Penticton. The Myra-Bellevue Provincial Park is the most spectacular section of the trail, with 18 trestles and two tunnels in an 8.5 kilometer section. On this section, we met a couple who invited us to stay in their cabin near Penticon. They were obviously experts on riding the trail; they had us riding the unfinished trestles, with 6 inch spaces between cross-beams; we had to keep up quite a bit of speed to keep from shaking the fillings from our teeth, but it was fun. Unfortunately I can’t remember their names, but they might be found in the Canadian Love Story, British Columbia/Alberta section on this site.

We were heartbroken to learn that the Okanagan fires of 2003, burned most of the trestles. Originally built for the Kettle Valley Railway, to stop we Americans from stealing their silver and transporting it south across the border. Begun in 1896 and finished in 1916, it was, and still is, considered an engineering feat given the steepness of the terrain. It became part of the Trans Canada Trail after abandonment late in the last century.

After the fires, Canadians pulled together to replace the national treasures between 2004 and 2008. We decided we wanted to revisit the rail, and see the new and repaired trestles, and plotted a mountain bike ride. All access roads are gravel, and we decided to ride from the nearest paved road to save Turtle (our motorhome) wear and tear, and get in a good workout. We got what we wanted! A 2,000 foot elevation change in five miles is quite a grunt, for two motorhome travel softened cyclists. We wondered how we ever managed to get to the trail on a fully loaded Zippy. It could have to do with the reality that both of us were 13 years younger then. Damn. Hate those reminders.

The Myra rebuilt trestle section of trail has become somewhat a victim of its own success; the trailhead parking area, ¼ mile long, was filled on Sunday. The first few kilometers of the trail was crawling with cyclists and walkers, making the going slow, but we’d had our workout, and just wanted to see the trestles at leisure.

Unfortunately many of the cyclists thought the eight kilometer section of flat trail constituted their workout, and went way too fast for the crowding. Almost no one wore helmets, and tended to pass each other, and walkers, at high speed on the trestles. One unfortunate older woman cyclist was forced off the middle boards and crashed against the railing, unable to handle the cross beams. She was wearing a helmet, but hurt her shoulder and was in considerable distress. A doctor and a trail volunteer were soon on the scene with first aid. I have often observed that, contrary to popular belief, separate trails are in many cases not safer than the roads. I’ve seen too many inexperienced cyclists exceeding their skill level, probably because they feel safe on a trail. We support trails with our dollars and labor, but do suggest that beginning cyclists avoid the week-end warriors and get some experience in mid-week when the trails are quiet. If you are a regular trail user, call-out the speeders and obviously unsafe riders, you could save some proper trail user a painful crash. If you yourself feel the need for speed, get on the road and leave the trails for others.

Father and son building rock cairns, something of a tradition on the Kettle Valley Rail Trail. “I was here!”

“Is this the way to the trail mix?”

We had to leave Alaska without getting to take the Top Of The World Highway out because of a second storm caused blowout of the road in Alaska. In Whitehorse, two days later, we discovered we could have taken it had we waited one more day. Unfortunately the Alaska highway department wasn’t giving out predictions, and the first closure was for over a week.

We did enjoy a great boondock on a lake in Yukon, with a beautiful bike ride the day after, on our way to Whitehorse.

Motorhomes traveling through smoke on the Stewart Cassiar Highway in Yukon Territory

We were unsure if we would be able to travel the Stewart Cassiar Highway into British Columbia, due to ongoing forest fires. The road had been closed for a couple of weeks, but we heard rumors that they were caravaning vehicles through on some days. We were there early among the first in line. It was an interesting 50 kilometers or so, with small flames visible along the road at times, and some thick smoke. It was worth the effort.

Boondock View From Stewart Cassiar Highway

From the Stewart Cassiar Highway we took a side trip to Stewart, BC, on the Portland Canal of the Inside Passage. A fairly short mountain bike ride later got us to a grizzly bear viewing area of the Tongas National Forest in Alaska. We missed a sow grizzly by seconds. According to volunteers, something spooked her up on to the road just before our arrival. We saw her still wet paw prints in the road after we rounded a corner. I sure am glad we weren’t there when she burst out of the brush, scared for her cubs and soon to become mad at innocent us! All we saw at the site was a few bushes rustling. All this time in the far north, and not one grizzly sighting. Maybe the wet paw prints were more exciting than seeing her from the protection of a raised viewing platform.

Grizzly Bait, Spawning Salmon

On the way back to Stewart Cassiar, we boondocked just across the outlet pond of Bear Glacier. The howling, but cooling breeze off the glacier helped cool us in the 85 degree weather.

The coastal mountains and glaciers are the most spectacular we’ve seen on this trip. We could spend a long time exploring the Stewart Cassiar and surrounds. We moved on south because the forest fires, all over BC, were making mountain viewing impossible, and we didn’t want to get trapped on the Yellowhead Highway before Prince George, the only way east or south.

We’re traveling the Yellowhead Highway eastbound, looking for a smoke free passage south. We did get in a good day in Smithers, BC, and rode through bucolic farmland, met and enjoyed a few locals. Claire found her maiden name on a road sign.

Wish for us to find blue skies and sweet peaches in the Okanagan. (Yes, that’s how it’s spelled in Canada)

]]> http://newbohemians.net/goodby-alaska-hello-again-canada/feed 0 http://newbohemians.net/our-best-anniversary-present-ever http://newbohemians.net/our-best-anniversary-present-ever#comments Thu, 05 Aug 2010 23:38:23 +0000 Bob Rogers http://newbohemians.net/?p=1508 By Bob and Claire Rogers

Bob:

“You don’t fu….. care about me!” It came from a young woman sitting in a car beside Turtle. “You don’t treat me like you did before. You don’t treat me the same fu….. way you did before we got married.” A young man, stood tall beside her window, hands at his sides, outer calm mirrored in his desert camouflage uniform, defending himself in an even tone. “It’s not me. It’s you,” he said.

His tone and demeanor seemed to make her even angrier. The recriminations continued, she shrill and emotional, he controlled, uncommunicative.

Claire and I looked at each other. We both had tears in our eyes. It was our twentieth anniversary, and we were witnessing the beginning of the end of a young marriage. It didn’t take words between us to know what we would do. We held hands and walked around the motorhome to them.

Claire: I was really nervous about this type of encounter; domestic disputes are one of the most dangerous calls for police, but we could tell from the vague, repetitive accusations that they had reached an impasse.

Bob: “It’s our twentieth anniversary,” I said. “And we just had to say something. We couldn’t help but overhear.” I nodded toward Turtle. “I hope you don’t mind.” He acknowledged us, “No.” She quickly put the car in reverse and said “It’s okay, I was just leaving.” But she didn’t.

I looked at him. “You don’t understand her emotions. You will when you are older, but for now, just listen. She’s hurting, and you need to hear her” And to her through the window I said, “You don’t understand why he’s so calm, so unresponsive to your hurt.” She nodded, still looking down. “He’s just doing what men are taught. We’re not supposed to show emotion. Fathers and football coaches,” I acknowledged his uniform, “the military, none of them reward a show of emotion.” I clapped him on the shoulder, there were still tears in my eyes, “When you are 66 you will know that it’s okay to cry, but not yet. I understand.”  “But you have to understand her need to see you show her your love.”

She stole a furtive look at him, her mascara left marks of her tears. “You’re being a man, and she’s being a woman.” He smiled just a tiny bit.

Claire: “It’s what men do, it’s called freezing up, it happens when they are feeling bombarded, so they just clam up. Trust me, this happens to men and women all over the world, but it just causes the women to yell more because they think they’re not being heard.”

Bob: “You gotta work together. That’s the hard part of marriage, but it’s the rewarding part too.” I turned to him. “We travel, just the two of us, on our tandem bicycle all over the world.” His eyebrows went up. “Last year we rode over the Tibetan Plateau, through Laos, Vietnam and Cambodia, three thousand miles.” He was really listening now; man stuff I guess. “A few years before, we went from Beijing to Istanbul.” I touched his arm. “Across Central Asia; I hope you don’t have to go there.” I didn’t expect him to be as attentive as he had become; he was really hearing what an old man (to him) had to say. “A couple doesn’t do something like that without knowing how to work together.”  I smiled at what I’d just said. “There’s nothing like it.” “But, it takes some time, and a lot of listening.”

Claire: The writer in me spoke to her: “If you aren’t able to communicate what you need, try writing it down, write what’s wrong and write what you think would fix it, but don’t give up.” She cracked the window a bit more and went back to twisting the beautiful wedding and engagement rings.

Bob: She rolled her window down further and looked up at him, he down at her. “Touch each other,” I gently insisted. They slowly reached out to touch hands and lock eyes. “We’ll go away now.”

We hurried to Turtle, threw things where they wouldn’t fall and started the engine. As we drove away, he was leaning through the window and they were kissing.

We could have gifted ourselves a cruise to Alaska, celebrated at the Captain’s table with expensive Champagne, and seen Alaskans at a safe remove. Instead, we had leftovers and box wine in Turtle in a library parking lot, and maybe, just maybe, made a difference in two young lives. No contest.

Grizzly Track

A bit of a look back at our time in Alaska, so far:

In nearly a month in Alaska we’d had precious few days without rain or heavy clouds. Our hopes of seeing much took a first blow when we tried to drive across the Denali Highway to Denali a few days after entering from Canada. A hard all night rain produced a serious leak over our bed, and the sky looked like more to come, so we beat it to Anchorage to get the link fixed. We wouldn’t have seen any of Denali anyway. We went to Karen’s RV, and the tech assured us he’d fixed the problem; except it didn’t work.(Karen agreed to refund our money). We met Barry and Joyce Weiss, friends of friends in Tucson, and they took us for a hike Flattop and had us for dinner. We also got in a bike ride on one of the Anchorage trails, with some tantalizing blue patches. Anchorage is the best place in Alaska to see a moose, and probably a grizzly, though we apparently just missed that pleasure also.

We had two weeks of rain, save three separate days, one hiking along Turnagain Arm (just missed a bear encounter, same day, same trail), one in Kenai Fjords National Park (wonderful) and one at Homer (great bike ride). We enjoyed some great boondocks on rivers and lakes, but the constant rain and black skies began to take a toll.

Back in anchorage we had two more nice days, one spent on the leak and one getting an oil change. We did have a great pizza at Moose’s Tooth with Barry and Joyce before turning north in hopes of temperatures above 55F, and at least a little sun. By this time we’d pretty much given up on seeing Denali. We had see the mountain from the Turnagain Arm trail, very far away, impressively so.

Turning North:A spawning salmon in Denali State Park

We went back to Palmer, mostly for the library, but also the “famous” farmers market. All three of the farmers at the market complained of the rain and lack of sun this year, and their vegetables proved their point.

We tried to find some wi fi at Wasilla and it wasn’t easy. The library seems a volunteer operation only, but the highway is lined with big box stores. We judge a town by its library, not number of highways and stores, all are important, but not as welcoming as a well-loved, well-supported library. It was raining, so we couldn’t see Russia. Wasilla seems to be a good place to bypass. The lady at the visitor’s center was brutally honest about her town, not something we expect from Chamber of Commerce operations. Good on ya gal!

Alaska RV Travel 2010

Talkeetna was very worth visiting, though the pouring rain kept us from walking the charming street. We did enjoy the library. It was in an old house, but had great wi fi and lots of visitors. We could have stayed for days, but were expected the rain to continue, and it did.

Caribou in Denali National Park

On the George Park’s Highway headed north we found saw a few little blue patches and decided to stop at the Denali Viewpoint South, to give the mountain a chance to peek at us, and a hundred or so other tourists. It stopped raining, and the distant clouds, over Ruth Glacier, began to rise and larger blue holes broke through the gray. We decided to stay as long as it took to get a peek of the mountain. In late afternoon we were rewarded with a bump on the south ridge, and finally the summit. Within minutes the clouds closed in again, but our hopes were so high we decided to park for the night. We had a windshield view of where the mountain should be, just in case, and we awoke several times to check. No luck.

At Cantwell we drove a few miles of the Denali Highway to a boondock with a spectacular view of the wide glacial tundra valley. We took a nap, and when we awoke there were fresh caribou tracks by Turtle’s steps. Then the sky fell again and was raining by morning.

Giving Dinali A Chance:Denali at Last, Sunshine at Last

The rain continued the last few miles to Denali National Park entrance, and we almost drove past, but we decided to go to the Wilderness Access Center to at least check the weather. The forecast — mostly been wrong so far — looked a little better a day out, so we decided to camp at Riley Creek and see. We had time to hike a couple of miles and happy that the rain stopped.

The next day we discovered that a biker/hiker campground 23 miles in was available, and the weather was already improving. By noon we’d loaded the mountain bikes, and we were off. The traffic was not bad, the hills fairly long. We saw the mountain (hooray!), two caribou, a family of ptarmigan, a snowshoe hare, and a huge set of grizzly tracks. We arrived at Sanctuary River with plenty of time to organize our camp and stow our food safe from bears, and from attracting bears. No bears. Oh, wrong! Claire surprised me with Lucky! She figured if our little stuffed panda had traveled through Tibetan Sichuan and all of Southeast Asia with us, he ought to come on this little trip too. I was very happy with the surprise. Claire says I’m easy to please. She knows how.

Filtering Water

After packing up everything the next morning, we decided to stash our gear in the bushes (no food) and ride further into the park. We hoped we could get a lift on one of the green buses (they have racks for two bikes). The landscape becomes more spectacular as you get deeper into the park. We didn’t however see anything more than a few small critters; still no bears, except Lucky.

Cycling Denali

We waved down a green bus that was almost full, but had room for us, and our bicycles, and the driver agreed to stop for our gear. Claire and I were separated, and amazingly we able to talk to two different groupings of the same Chinese family. We had a lot to talk about and they really enjoyed hearing about how much we enjoy traveling in China. Most of the family is U.S. citizens from Chicago, but the patriarch still lives in China and is just visiting. He told Claire he really missed Chinese food.

Bushwhacking Denali

We stayed another day, took a green bus out 15 miles and hiked most of the day, most of it cross-country; still no bears. But we did have another day of sunshine.

Flower of the Tundra

Denali Bus

Fox Scat With Tooth and Fur

It’s been sunny since we crossed north of the mountains, and hot, 85 each day. It’s a challenge to go from days of mid 50’s to mid 80’s, but we like it. Both of the roads we had planned to take from here back through Canada are restricted due to flood damage or fire. We hope the fire is out before we get to the Stewart Cassier south of White Horse.

First a picture:

This is a direct photo through the windshield of our motorhome, Turtle, of The Mittens in Monument Valley,  Arizona. I doubt there is a very expensive RV resort, or Five Star hotel, that could offer an equal view. This was a no service parking spot on the Navajo reservation. Boondock spots (sometimes called dry camping) are free, but we paid $5 for this one. I’d say $5 is close enough to free to qualify.

We almost never park in RV resorts/parks. We have nothing against them. We have a park model at Far Horizons Tucson Village, a great RV resort in Tucson, AZ where we spend most winters. We love it, and the annual fee, while high, is not unreasonable spread over a few months. But when we are traveling, we refuse to spend $20 to $50 per night to be packed together with other RVs just to have electricity, water and sewer. We need all that once a week or so, and we can get it at fuel stations and parks for free. Saving an average of $30 a day allows us to travel indefinitely, instead of budgeting tightly for short trips.

This summer trip to Alaska and back, from Tucson, close to Mexico, would be beyond our budget if we spent approximately $1000 a month — we’ll be out for six months — for RV parks. For the first three months, we have paid to park a total of $37 for two nights on Homer Spit and one night at a Forest Service campground overlooking Turnagain Arm, both on the Kenai Peninsula in Alaska. What we saved went to food, a 30,000 mile service on the motorhome, fixing a leak (important this wet summer) diesel, food and a boat tour of Kenai Fjords National Park.

“But aren’t you afraid?” We have been hearing that since we first began bicycle touring in 1995. 40,000 miles and hundreds of tent boondocks (we call it bush camping in a tent) and several years worth of motorhome boonedocks, and we have never had a problem, save for a very few overzealous hire-a-cops. Barney Fife lives out there folks, and he might just make you move on to prove his authority, but not very often.

(I’ve written an essay on why Americans are so afraid. Read it at:Just One Opinion

We’ve boondocked at Walmart and other commercial establishments with space who allow parking. We’re don’t open an awning, put out lawn chairs or haul out the barbicue, we just park, cook inside and sleep. But our favorite ones are dirt roads on public lands where parking is almost always allowed. Last night we spent about one foot above the almost flooding waters Matanuska River near Palmer. We decided on what we call “anchor watch” by setting an alarm on our Android every two hours to make sure we weren’t trapped by rising water. All was well each watch, and we got to see the light change throughout arctic the night. You can’t buy that.

So now you can impress your friends with a news word of the day, boondock.

After 35 years, the first Khmer Rouge mass murderer has been convicted in Cambodia. We’ve all heard of the killing fields of Cambodia, when the Khmer Rouge murdered between one and two million other Cambodians. It was one of the worst periods of mass murder in history. It was the Chinese Cultural Revolution gone crazy. The Khmer Rouge, in attempting to bring about an agrarian utopian society, sought out and murdered anyone with an education, and anyone associated with them.

I remember following news reports of the carnage in this far away land, and wondering how such a thing could happen in a society. After Claire and I bicycled the length of Cambodia near the end of our In Search of Shangri-la tour, I am even more puzzled, and not a little disconcerted.

While the Cambodians are not as laid back as Lao, or as industrious as Vietnamese, they were friendly. Though not as outwardly happy as the irrepressible Lao, they were reasonably outgoing. And yet, some of the older Cambodians we saw must surely have been murderers. The Khmer Rouge were peasants, and we traveled through the rural countryside at twelve miles per hour, bought food from them at markets and street restaurants, slept in their guest houses. We smiled and received smiles in return. And yet, there was a pall of uncertainty for me, as I watched a landscape roll past, a rice small field that just might have been a killing field.

The Image most people have of the killing fields and mass graves, are of one central location near the Capitol, Phnom Penh. But, the killings took place in villages across Cambodia and the mounded mass graves still stand above the rice paddies, sometimes marked by simple concrete altars festooned with flowers and incense. Someone remembers and makes offerings to the gods, offerings of remembrance, and perhaps a hope that such a thing never happen again. It is an eerie sight to see the rice people working their fields so close to the bones of those killed there.

The reason Cambodia has been so slow to begin the process of justice escapes me, but I am not Asian. I didn’t grow up working dawn to dusk fighting the vagaries of nature, just to have a bowl of rice. From what we saw in Laos and Vietnam, Southeast Asians tend toward forgiveness. They hold no grudges against the former enemies in what they call the American War. Perhaps the Cambodians have passed on opportunities for justice all these years because they are either forgiving, or they are guilty. Now a generation is coming of age with no memory of those times. Perhaps the justice beginning now will educate them.

If such a gentle people were capable of those atrocities, what society is not? If Cambodians could become so divided that they began murdering other Cambodians, could we? How far must civil discourse erode before “the other” is so reprehensible to deserve killing?

For more on Cambodia go to New Bohemians, In Search of Shangri-la

A woman sat at a nearby table smoking. She had that rode-hard-put-away-wet look off women of a certain age who have experienced an interesting life. Shari introduced herself to us, and in the same sentence told us a long story about how she was in the original cast of Up With People in 1968. I vaguely remembered such a quasi-religious hippy vocal group and their brief fame. Her participation seems to have defined her life for the last 42 years. She measures the value of a year by whether or not there will be an Up With People reunion. There is one in Tucson later this summer and she is very excited. Note the new tie died t-shirt, made special for the occasion. She’s wearing it early to get in the mood, or more likely to stimulate conversation.

Seeing us on bicycles made here vociferously apologize for her smoking. She went to great lengths to tell us of past failures, and her next attempt – just as soon as she gets back from the reunion – Up With People, don’t forget – and she gets a few other things in order. She gave no timeline.

Lighting another cigarette, she rambled on for a long while, telling us very personal things about her life, just happy to be hearing the sound of her own voice, and having us listen. This happens to us often. I guess we look like we need to be entertained. She was entertaining. Maybe that’s why she was an Up With People cast member so long ago.

Just then John arrived, smoking and semi-controlling a large but young and hyper black lab mix, jerking repeatedly on the short leash. Shari told us John lives in a tent, by choice she added — no doubt. She began to tell us his life story in great detail while he tried to shut her up so he could tell us the story of him being sick the previous night. He paused, stalking and cursing, to his dog tussling with a less enthusiastic dog and owner nearby.

John awoke sick to his gut at 2am, ran for the toilets, nearest bush, whatever and, “I swear to god I shit my pants.” He threw up repeatedly and then began to cough violently. This went on for hours. Could have been alcohol involved, or worse, who knows? He told this story with great relish, taking particular pleasure in the most savage details.

Shari broke in and suggested, “Maybe these folks don’t want to hear all this while they’re eating.” Did I mention the ice cream was delicious? “We don’t mind. We’ve heard and seen worse.” We didn’t mention that our experiences were always in overcrowded poor countries where privacy is not a priority or even an option.

He finished with a good-natured curse, slapped the picnic table, jerked on the dog’s leash and walked away, apparently satisfied that his adventure had been adequately shared with the wider world. It doesn’t take much to make some people happy.

There was a third visitor. He was also of middle years, forty something, and had obviously had a stroke of some sort, signaled by his cane, halting walk and slurred speech. Shari said he was probably, “on something,” since his speech was worse than usual. He wasn’t in a sharing mood, just wanted to borrow Shari’s phone to call for a pick-up.

Young stroke victims are not all that uncommon, among populations of substance abusers. The substances abused include cheap fat sugary food. Of course we were eating ice cream at the time, lots of ice cream.

Shari hated to see us go, but we had a few hours of sunshine left, and wanted to spend it on Homer Spit with the kittiwakes, sea otters, the lone bald eagle and a few tourist campers. Sunset is before 11pm now, so we have to make use of a rapidly diminishing resource, and it looks like rain again for the next few days.

A truck with a camper pulling a boat, typical Alaskan rig, swung in ahead of us and stopped abruptly. The passenger door flung open, a woman jumped out and stumbled into the woods. After a few minutes a man got out the driver’s side and stood looking at the woods, hands in pockets, looked at his feet, called out loudly to the woods. He was still for tedious time, suddenly decided, and hurried into the woods.

Some loud voices, quiet, more commotion further away, then quiet again. We moved from mild interest to slight concern and finally worry. A half-hour passed. Should I do something? What? Was this just a couple’s spat or something more serious?

 He’d turned off the truck, but the headlights were still on, the driver’s door open. I hoped he’d seen us, but what if he was blinded with anger, unaware that the drama was not being played to an empty house.

I decided to make sure he knew someone was listening, aware. I walked to the truck, and yelled in the direction I’d last heard them, “Hey! You guys okay? Silence.

Then I had an idea and yelled: “Your headlights are on.” After a few seconds the man walked from the woods. “Yeah, we’re okay. Thanks.” He looked a sad tired man. “I figured you were having a bad day, and didn’t need one more thing to go tits up.” He smiled at me. “Yeah, thanks man.” His smile was soft, sincere. He went back to the woods and she came out with him soon after. He got a blanket from the back and put it gently around her shoulders, and they drove away.

 Sometimes you just have to do something. Small things matter.

(I had a photo to illustrate this but the Anchorage Library won’t let me upload any more than text)

We were shopping later that evening and I overheard this conversation from one woman to another, “Ha! I can’t buy anything for the freezer, there’s room for nothing in there but fish”

I should have such a problem. Salmon is $11/lb here, more expensive than the lower 48. Can’t figure that one out.