(Western Montana to Banff – 476 miles, 12 miles running, a hike and a kayak)

Rocky Mountains? A piece of cake! I like climbing on my bike. And I love mountains. Ok, for sure, I wasn’t naïve enough to think that the amount of ascent would be my only challenge in the Rockies. And in the end it wasn’t the elevation profile that stymied me. Yet now that I had been stymied, it was the least to hope that my exit strategy might be straightforward. But no. No. I didn’t like the feel of this at all. I have travelled enough with my bike that I knew what was coming. The bus driver from Rider Express photographed my bike, wrapped in bubble wrap as requested, and walked away a few metres to email head office for authorisation to transport. A few moments later the reply arrived; I could catch the next bus, 14hrs later, at ten past midnight, but only if I wrapped her better!

‘But…!’ In fact, not one but a whole stream of ‘buts’ issued from me; Gran had told me from a young age that there’s no such word as ‘but’, but this didn’t stop me. But I had gone to the hardware store the day before to buy two 3m rolls of bubble wrap and duct tape. But the customer service rep from the bus company had said that bubble wrap was fine! But I had nowhere to go, nowhere to stay here; I had booked the day bus at no little expense to enjoy the views…I left my coup de grace in reserve. But I was escaping the forest fires and needed to get to Vancouver since my plans of going to Jasper had been scuppered. It wasn’t entirely untrue. I’d been headed that way; Jasper town had already been evacuated, and the national park closed. I didn’t want to take the bus. This was a cycling trip, but I didn’t feel like I had many other choices right now, and my efforts to source a bike box in the Banff cycling and outdoors shops had been in vain. It’s just not an old bike box given-away-for-free kind of a place.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ said Spike. As if being seen out in public covered in bubbles wasn’t humiliating enough without all this attention. I suspect she’s going through adolescence.

Catching public transport is definitely the most stressful bit of this trip – it’s out of my control, and apparently dependent on the whim of drivers. I hadn’t felt certain that my bike would appear off the Amtrak train, and the fact that one woman’s luggage didn’t suggested that my fear hadn’t been unfounded. The bus driver in Nova Scotia told me I needed to have reserved my bike online, despite there having been no means to do so on their website, and the local bus company people telling me it was fine. I now showed the driver the email I’d received yesterday from customer service about how to wrap the bike in bubble wrap, but he wasn’t moved.

‘I’m just doing what my boss is telling me,’ he said. ‘You can call them if you like.’

I really must sort out a way to make phonecalls on this trip. I’m using a data only sim, but Skype and other similar apps offer a data telephone service, and sorting this out hasn’t yet made it to the top of my to-do list; fortunately on this occasion a fellow British traveller came to my rescue.

‘You can use this,’ he said, handing me his phone. And strangely, when I got through, there was suddenly no issue. Customer service relented with barely a whimper; the woman on the other end asked me to pass the phone to the driver so that she could instruct him to allow both me and Spike to board. What on earth?! It was the second strange episode in 24 hours with this bus company. The day before I’d emailed them about my credit card payments continually failing. I’d tried two different ones, and kept on getting error messages even though the cards seemed to be working elsewhere. Apparently their system doesn’t accept foreign credit cards! What on the moon?! Aren’t tourists some of their most likely customers?!

I’ve been reflecting back on all of the above while sitting on a bollard outside the bus which has stopped for a comfort break, and biting into a slice of homemade Rocky Road (a chocolate / fruit / biscuit bake). And yes, the piece of cake is right, I reflect (as if cake is ever wrong when cycle touring). My road through the Rockies since I left Glacier National Park has been a bit rocky, and I’ve not done nearly as much cycling as I wanted. Marvellous for sure in terms of scenery. Awe inspiring. And great to reconnect with my old Canadian friend Todd after many years. But also confusing. Stop start. There is a certainty of purpose that comes with the idea of cycling around the world which perhaps other forms of travel lack somewhat. But during the last while, various things have come in the way of this purpose. Caused me to drift. And this has unsettled me. Getting ill paused me. My realisation that neither Komoot nor Google maps recommended cycling my planned route to the coast along Highway 1 troubled me. Were bikes not allowed ? How dangerous was it? And then the arrival of the wildfire season threw many spanners in the works. I’d known this was a risk; when I’d toyed with a cycle tour hereabouts a couple of years ago various local cyclists on online forums had warned me that wildfires could be an issue. Not only the immediate dangers of the fires themselves, but even more so the effect (and greater reach) of smoke. I’d need to keep a close eye on the regional wildfire and smoke maps, and be willing to re-route where necessary, and even abort if things became bad. All of the above has turned out to be true – I kept a regular eye. I re-routed. I aborted when things got bad, hence this bus trip to Vancouver.

Back in Montana, fortunately my cold went away almost as quickly as it had arrived. After a day sleeping it off at Logan State park I didn’t feel better exactly, but I was itching to be back on the road which I took as a good sign. I was also almost out of food. My bear canister boasted ten pieces of dry pasta and half a tub of peanut butter. Hardly the daily diet of the food monster I’ve become. Meanwhile, another forecast of temperatures in the high 30’s was enough to get me up and on the road at 6.50am – the earliest start yet.

‘Where are you going today?’ asked an old man, taking his blind dog for an early morning walk.

I relayed my 72 mile plans, with a little bit of swagger.

‘Oh, that’s not very far,’ the man replied, to my surprise. 72 miles is more than a decent mileage for a day on a loaded bike! And it was certainly further than I’d have planned to ride had the day’s elevation profile not been predominantly downhill. By the time I arrived in Libby at 10.30am, I’d already ridden 45 miles through a remote, hilly and forested landscape into which ranches had been carved. I’ve noticed a tendency I’ve developed: when I don’t make much progress because of an uphill gradient, it’s definitely the hill’s fault. Yet when it’s downhill, the reason for my good progress definitely isn’t the hills. It’s because I’m a superhero, remember?! And having ridden so far already, I definitely deserved a breakfast bagel and a double espresso frappe.

It was already very hot, and was soon hot enough to bake a cake outdoors. The ride scenically followed the Kootenai River through a narrow gorge, also on its way to Canada. I tried to work out what was travelling faster, me or the river, which I soon realised was a rather fruitless kind of an exercise. Water under the bridge. But no matter whether I was faster or slower than water, I was making excellent progress, and certainly had time to lock up Spike and wander down to the impressive Kootenai falls before arriving in Troy, where I once more stocked up for my night at a campsite down the road. So far, I’d felt wary about camping wild in Montana. In Glacier National Park the hiker biker sites were so fairly priced that I would have been an idiot to risk being fined for camping wild. And not only was this my first time travelling through a state with grizzly as well as black bears (a whole different proposition), but the Montanans have a reputation for being keen on their guns – a reputation which was soon confirmed in the local liquor store.

‘Excuse me please. Can you tell me where to find a beer, please?’ I asked, having never sounded more British in my life. ‘Thank you, if it isn’t too much to ask,’ etc.

There were two men staffing the shop. Both were the shape of a square. Thickly bearded and tattooed. One was in the liquor section. The other stood before an array of guns for sale, the like of which I’d never seen, many of which wouldn’t have looked out of place in a combat zone.

‘No beer here. You’ll have to go to the gas station for that,’ answered Beard #1.

I nodded, noticing that indeed the only liquor for sale here was hard liquor, while trying not to stare in the direction of Beard #2 and all the guns. I imagined sitting at my logburner with a dram back home, polishing my cut-off machine gun. Making myself at home.

The following morning I crossed briefly into Idaho, and even gained an hour on my early start as I entered the Pacific Coast timezone. As I turned north from Bonners Ferry towards Canada, the Kootenai (Kootenay in Canadian spelling) valley started opening up either side of me. The border crossing at Porthill was the most informal experience I’d had yet. The immigration officer didn’t even check my bags to find the Handmaid and child I’d transported all the way from New Hampshire, who I ejected into the wilds with my remaining peanut butter and dry pasta.

‘Go well! Take care! Be safe!’

I arrived late morning at the house in Creston of my old friend Todd, who I hadn’t seen for 27 years. Back then, he was ending a period of travelling by working in the local Crianlarich pub (in the southern Scottish Highlands); I’d found a summer job working in the local youth hostel aged 18, before heading to Edinburgh University. Our relationship was necessarily short, but we had both communicated how much it had meant to us, albeit we’d since lost touch. Todd’s understandable reluctance towards social media hadn’t made him the easiest person to track down before my trip. But I’d remembered him mentioning wanting to move to the Rockies and train to be a carpenter last time we’d met. I entered his name. Canada. Carpenter. And up popped an image of a far whiter-haired version of the bearded redhead I remembered.

When I arrived, he and his partner were emptying the recycling for a visit to the Redemption Centre (apparently you don’t just get redeemed, but you get money for being sinful too!) It was so normal, and set the tone for what was not one, but two, relaxing stays. Of course, it was more than possible that things might prove awkward, or that we might have changed too much and not get along. But I immediately felt relaxed in his company; we were both the same people, albeit inevitably a bit more lifeworn! That afternoon he took me on a driving tour of Creston and the surroundings – a big open valley ringed by mountains, for growing fruit, veg, crops, wine, which grows on trees after all. Mule deer steaks and trout barbecued on cedar wood boards don’t grow on trees though; that evening Todd cooked an incredible meal for me and his partner Angie courtesy of his love of backcountry hunting, and fishing on Kootenay lake.

‘Not cheap meat,’ he explained, ‘once you’ve factored in the fuel, kit, wear on my truck…but it’s what I enjoy doing.’ Hunting and fishing is such a different thing across in Canada than the upper class scene in the UK. It requires the same kind of ‘being comfortable with being uncomfortable’ as my cycle trip requires, as we discussed.

He had no bites on his line the following day though, as he trailed a line across the lake while me, him and Angie kayaked to a beach for a picnic, a swim, a sleep. The heat was persisting, and there wasn’t a breath of wind; the reflections in Kootenay lake’s surface were clearer than the sky, while the water was definitely warming up nicely. The next day we swapped lake for mountain; starting at over 2,000m mitigated somewhat for us enjoying breakfast too much, and my insistence on two coffees, and setting off a little late. On the way home a dip in Goat River was certainly the order of the day. Angie modelled how to float downstream in the current quite gracefully. Yeah, I can do that too, I thought, moments before failing to flounder out of the way of an underwater rock and banging my leg fairly badly. Turns out, I’m a better cyclist than a fish, hey. I can live with that.

‘I can see why you like it hereabouts,’ I said. The lifestyle seemed good.

The following morning I set off on what one of my sisters described as a busman’s holiday. And she had a point. Here was my chance to rest up and take time out, so what did I do? I set off cycling on a reduced-load tour of the western area of the Kootenays!

I couldn’t believe how long it took me to cycle up to Kootenay pass, considering how quickly we had swung uphill in the car just yesterday. The bends became like the false summits of mountains. Just one more…! And the downhill might have been steeper, but certainly didn’t descend as far as I’d climbed. I’d planned to camp up somewhere between Salmo and Nelson, but it was one of those days where I got the bit between my teeth, and just kept going. 82 miles later, there I was in Nelson, sipping on a beer on a main street patio and convincing myself that this would help me find inspiration for camping that night.

Wrong.

It just made me fuzzy and lazy. Instead of heading uphill out of town in the right direction, instead I cycled the wrong way along a cycle path on the flat to a small cove, just around the corner from a nudist beach. It was my first time camping ‘wild’ in grizzly bear country, but although something was certainly prowling about my tent as I tried to fall asleep, the bears and naked people were clearly happy with dancing around me without needing to eat me too.

I’ve concluded that everywhere in the world called Nelson is cool and arty and hipster, apart from the UK original – a somewhat run-down area of Burnley where I’d got my travel vaccinations and which has a large B&Q and where I once bought a retro coffee table off a dead person. Both New Zealand and Canadian namesakes meanwhile couldn’t differ more. My close friends Sarah and Jago have spent a few winter seasons there skiing, and apart from the fact that I was experiencing the area at 37 degrees not minus something, and in sun not snow, I could see why they’d choose this as a base. Sarah texted me to recommend a good coffee shop called Oso Negro; who was I to turn down a personal recommendation even though I knew I’d come to regret my breakfast out when the day turned the heat up later on.

It was a great café. They brewed their own beans; the smoked salmon bagel was delicious; the queue out the door told its own story. But strangely it was also one of the first moments all trip where I felt homesick – as if I’m always frequenting coffee shops back home! I could have imagined hanging out here all day, drinking coffees, writing poetry, going home to – well, there’s a problem now. I pulled myself together, pulled through the temptation for a second coffee, swallowed down some sadness and got on the road.

It’s incredible to think that the road I cycled that day is currently closed, homes evacuated, and the village of Silverton on evacuation alert due to wildfires. Between Slocan and Silverton the road climbs high above a lake (whose shores I’d imagined gently cycling along), but with startling views of the mountains and glaciers beyond. By the time I descended to Silverton I didn’t need a second invitation to jump into the lake. A couple of motorcyclists had already stripped off to their bikinis and trunks; my own approach was quicker. Less thorough. I swept off my helmet and waded in, feeling the cool water sooth even my bones, not to speak of the really bad chafing which had suddenly struck thanks to the combined effects of a saddle which was too big for me (Brooks C17) and the sweating caused by riding in this heat.

My plan had been to end my day with a 1,000 feet climb up to the pass between here and Kaslo. Who was I kidding? In this heat? Instead I headed to the lake for another swim in New Denver, admired the ridiculously dreamy views, and messaged some local warmshowers hosts to see if I could stay, otherwise I would find a subtle spot by the lake. I don’t like messaging hosts at such late notice, and I know that hosts aren’t too crazy on it either. But on this occasion it suited Daniel and Helen fine for me to camp up in their beautiful garden above town. I could have spoken to them both for hours, but my conversation with Helen about all things politics that evening was cut short by my need for bed, and my coffee with Daniel the following morning (about all things bike culture) by my need to get going before it got too hot. But not before I accepted the invitation to admire his quiver of bicycles, including some beautiful steel bikes several decades old. Perhaps I do have space in my life for one or two more bikes, I thought…! I was interested to hear that Daniel had renounced his US citizenship when Trump came to power, and entertained by how incredulous the US authorities had been that he might want to.

I’d imagined that I might have my best chance yet to spot a bear or a moose that morning, as I passed over the remote hill pass to Kaslo. Neither are fans of hot weather (could you imagine wearing a bear coat at 39 degrees?) and so the likelihood of seeing them by the roadside are small at this time of year unless first thing in the morning or late in the evening. But still not on this occasion. The descent to Kaslo was long and steady, before it turned south to parallel a leg of Kootenay Lake before I caught the ‘longest free ferry in the world’ from Balfour to Crawford Bay. The two ferryhands in charge were both women, and had the most amazing swaggers I’d ever seen. Nothing like telling North American men how to park all day to get a bit of a swing in those hips! On board I ate my pizza slice lunch, a couple of pieces of fruit, some nuts…so why on earth did I now feel more hungry than when I’d begun? My hunger sadness was only to be relieved by ordering a second lunch from the café on the far side. Then some snacks in the Crawford Bay supermarket. And it would be dinnertime soon!

I was scouting out the camping possibilities at Sanca Bay, which looked good despite the NO CAMPING sign, but I was wary since two women were by the lakeside with their dogs.

‘It’s ok, we aren’t staying long. We will soon leave you alone in peace!’ one of the women called over. I asked them about camping here. ‘Oh, you will be fine. The NO CAMPING signs are for those arriving in truck loads, not for the likes of you!’ My thoughts entirely. Turned out she was actually the partner of a friend of Todd! Like minds etc. Shortly after they left though, less similar peoples arrived in the form of three women and a teenage lad from a fundamentalist polygamous local Mormon sect. There was something eerie about watching them wade into the water wearing their full length mono-colour dresses as storms brewed in the mountains opposite.

I’d timed my little mini adventure so that I’d get back to Todd’s in good time. What with having to sell and move out of my house alongside many other things, I’d left for the trip in a hurry, and there has been lots of admin to catch up on or finish off. Yet I made heavy work of the 25 miles – ‘easy’ days are always the hardest – the psychology is all wrong, and easy and hard days are as much about the mind as the body. That day and the following were filled with admin, route planning, blog writing, and taking the chance to cook a meal for Todd and Angie as a small mark of thanks for their hospitality. I dropped Spike off at the local bike hospital, and he returned looking shiny, clean, and with a new chain and chainset, a new rear tyre, plus a new saddle which would hopefully allay the ahem chafing!   

What I didn’t know until the following morning was that the storms I’d watched on the far side of the lake the previous night had set some forests on fire. Dry lightning – thunder and lightning storms with no rain. Already the area around Silverton where I’d just cycled was badly affected, and a warmshowers host who I’d messaged about the next part of my adventure said it was smoky locally. I’d asked Todd anyway to help give me a headstart on the next leg of my trip, since I’d made quite the detour to come visit. I was now especially glad of this since it would hopefully get me out beyond the smoke, into Kootenay National Park (where no fires were burning).

En route we stopped in Fort Steele to visit a pioneering museum, featuring the original houses, barracks, shops, hotels, churches and schools from the 19^th century. Todd was perplexed. The prices had gone up massively, but the experience reduced. Gone were the actors peopling the bakery, the gold panning station, the school room. Closed were many of the buildings, with several being allowed to advance into a ‘natural state of ruin’. It was as clear an example of the impact of Covid on museums such as this, with cutbacks only further limiting the attractiveness of visiting. Yet it was still fascinating; not an easy life, for sure. Being comfortable with being super off-the-scale uncomfortable. But at least they had had cookies, one of which I purchased in the museum café, which hadn’t even gone off after all this time.

Todd dropped me off in Radium Hot Springs, and we said our goodbyes. It had been great to take the opportunity to reconnect, and I vowed not to lose touch again. Yet when they left, I felt suddenly unsettled. I always find transitioning from civilisation (and company) back into the reality of a cycle tour fairly tough. It’s like I lose my rhythm. I did a supermarket shop. I packed up my bags. I ended up buying dinner in a local pub. I checked the BC wildfire and air quality maps one more time. I looked at the national park campground booking system again, which indicated that the campground 15 miles up the road (uphill) still had spaces, but it also said this might be out of date. I was unsettled. Rattled. Not quite sure where I was at. And just when I’d decided that I’d camp up on the outskirts of town instead, a guy walking up the road asked me about my trip.

‘There are a few women doing round the world trips at the moment, aren’t there?’ he asked. He was in the area for a cycle race the following day.

‘Well, yes, there is a record attempt going on,’ I replied.

‘But that isn’t you?’

I was flattered he might have thought this. I must be looking fit, although good luck to any cyclist who aims to break a record with front and rear pannniers plus tent! It did spur me on to keep cycling that evening though. It was 7pm, so cooling off nicely, and the climb was steady without being brutal. The young woman at the NP kiosk asked me if I had a booking for the campsite. I said not – I’d tried to book, but the system stops accepting reservations 48hrs in advance!

‘You won’t be able to stay if there isn’t a site,’ she explained.

The poor woman ended up being on the wrong side of my tirade about how un-cycle-tourist-friendly the Canadian National Park (and indeed private site) campgrounds were, and how much better they had been in Glacier ie in the USA. How to make friends and influence people…the camping situation nagged at me all the way, although I did spot a few places I could camp up wild where the rangers probably wouldn’t spot me if needs be. Wild camping in Canadian NPs is a big no-no, and the fines sizeable. The sun began to set while I was still on the road, painting the silhouette of the mountains onto the skyline. It was extraordinarily stunning, but not much further on, lo and behold, the campsite really was full, with not even a cycle tourist in sight whose pitch I could ask to share (a common strategy apparently). Yet turns out there is ‘full’ and ‘full’, for there were quite a lot of no-shows .It being nearly dark, I reckoned I was fairly safe stealing Reinhardt’s pitch. I tried to look Germanic and nobody need ever know, but still the worry that they might appear late at night kept me awake – far more than the fear of bears ever had.

Kootenay National Park is a remote old place; there is no habitation let alone phone signal between Radium Hot Springs and where the road joins Highway 1 near Lake Louise, and the landscape as scenic as ever could be hoped. Bluey turquoise rivers. Jagged mountains. Skyline glaciers. Back up over the continental divide and down the other side for the last stretch down Highway 1A to Banff, with the scenery increasingly incredible. Along this last stretch I saw more cyclists perhaps than I have all trip, but them being roadies and me a mere smelly cycle tourist, the majority didn’t even say hello. Cycling hierarchy is funny. If I’d been on my carbon Orbea bike I’d have received cheerful waves, I’m sure!

I’d had no luck with hearing back from any of the warmshowers hosts in Banff, so I’d booked myself into a local backpackers; I needed reliable wifi the morning after next for two work calls. But geez, how can anyone afford to be a traditional backpacker these days? My bed in a six bed female dorm set me back £81 per night, which I could only justify because I’m still on a part-time university salary until the end of August. Banff, meanwhile, I couldn’t quite put my finger on. The way the mountains rose above town was spectacular. And I had expected it to be a bit like Keswick in the UK Lake District, which it was, but on speed! Keswick might be super touristic, but it retains an outdoorsy identity at heart. In Banff, outdoors activity was obviously important, but secondary to its commercial heart, and I felt distinctly out of place. Alone.

The next day I pulled on my running shoes, and set off up the Mount Norquay ski road with a view to climbing Cascade Mountain. If I belong and feel at ease anywhere, it’s in the hills, so it felt like the perfect tonic to town, albeit not the easiest one. From the main street of Banff it looks impregnable, but a path climbs up the western side from the Mount Norquay ski car park on a 13 mile route which is certainly physically and technically challenging, but with no ropes required. It was also the hiking route where I was more likely to encounter a bear than all previous routes combined. Yet the reality is that a bear wants a close encounter with me just as little as I do with them. Hiking solo isn’t recommended, but most of the hikers I met that day were doing just that. I called out ‘hey bear’ at  every blind corner. I sang ‘I’ll be coming round the mountain when I come’ at full volume while in more overgrown areas with less sightlines – quite the feat when running steeply uphill. I ran with my bearspray in my hand for quick deployment. Later that evening I became annoyed with people on social media constantly telling me to ‘stay safe’ or ‘take care’. I doubted that any of the solo men I met on my run up Cascade Mountain that day were experiencing similar, and taking fewer precautions than me. The thing is, that whether in relation to wildlife or fires or humans or trucks, I really am taking care, and being as safe as I can without refraining entirely from what makes me tick. I feel safer in myself than I have in years. And I want to continue doing this. So of course I am researching things to the nth, utilising all my experience in the mountains and cycling, chatting to local people and cycling communities, reading agency advice, and not least as of late keeping a very very keen eye on local wildfire maps…The climb was long and intense, and the final push up to the 2,998 metre summit steep, above altitude, and super hazy with wildfire smoke which had been blown this way. Yet it was undoubtedly one of the highlights of my trip so far. I’m very much a mountain rather than a sea of forest person, and this was by far my most adventurous and spectacular run yet. On the way down I eventually decided to walk instead of run, to guard against a bear taking chase, especially one which was particularly fond of children’s songs. You know, it was a risk.

The next morning everything changed. I overheard the news at breakfast. Fire had broken out in Jasper National Park, 13km of Jasper town – the direction I was planning to head later that day, although it would have taken me 2 to 3 days to get there along the famous Icefields Parkway. The town had been evacuated in haste, and the entire national park closed. After my two work meetings I worked out not only a plan B, but C, D, right through the alphabet until I concluded that the best plan of all at this point in time was probably to get out of here on the bus to Vancouver. There were also fires near Spences Bridge on Highway 1, and it was a rapidly changing situation…As disappointing as it might have been, it felt like the only wise decision. I booked another night in the hostel, booked my bus ticket, arranged to stay with a friend of my sister’s in Vancouver, and began researching where to visit on the Pacific Coast!

So here I now am, on the Rider Express bus, being driven through the hazy landscape I’d thought I’d cycle through. A short way back we passed a cycle tourist, taking on water by the side of the road, and I had a brief moment. Had I wimped out? Been too cautious, too soon? It’s instinctual – I couldn’t help it, although what has happened since (the fire in Jasper became worse than imaginable, and a fire has caused the evacuation of Golden on Highway 1 which would have required that cyclist to turn back) has vindicated my decision entirely. Even yesterday, the smoke yesterday had caused a mountain biker to have an awful cough.

What matters most on this trip is taking the opportunities that present themselves, and not regretting those things which prove impossible. I’m sure that other landscapes and experiences will open up ahead of me on the coast which I wouldn’t otherwise have had time for…so, returning to where we started. The Rockies. Apiece of cake? They are undoubtedly spectacular, and I’ve really enjoyed seeing the views of mountains above the trees rather than being trapped in conifer road tunnels. But yes, my cake is right. It’s been a rocky road at times. Hopefully I’ll now be able to stick to my bike and the occasional ferry all the way to LA from where I fly to Peru on 10^th September. After another couple of social evenings coming up, I feel the need for a bike reset. Lots of miles. Circles. Dips in the sea. Wild camps. The things which, once I get into the swing of it, civilisation just can’t touch. And cake. The most uncivilised quantities of cake possible, but from now on I’ll stick to cookie and I will take a sideswerve on the Rocky Road until the fires ease. Going with the flow of the way the cookie crumbles.

PS since I wrote the awful reality of the Jasper wildfires has become clear. For me it was a disappointment and an inconvenience – but so much more devastating for all the human and nonhuman residents of the town and surrounding areas, and the incredible landscape. As useless as it might be, my heart goes out to them.