Stanley Park
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
The Yukon and Northern British Columbia
From the road it was difficult to sense the vastness of this northern corner of Canada. A pre-determined line cut through the wilderness and, lost only in the usual dull and monotonous thought that such long stretches of solitude bring about, I never really had to face or struggle with it.
Despite the ease of navigating the landscape, and though the road never asked of me the physical exertion many previous routes had demanded, I rarely felt completely at ease in this beautiful, unspoilt land. Always a dull arithmetic span in small circles around my head. 'Two cans of Coke. Two Mars Bars. One Snickers. Half a loaf of bread. About 200g of cheese. Three 120g tins of tuna. Two packets of pasta meals. Three of rice. 500g of peanuts. Three days to the next village.' Given the four chocolate bar a day habit I had acquired since leaving Anchorage the sum was terrifying! But the thought of a supermarket - of fresh fruit, and bread, of all those edible things, lying a little over 200 miles away, spurred me on. And I would reach the small, isolated villages of this area with an eager anticipation, and with the repetitious single thought. 'Food!'
Depending on who you listen to the threat from bears in this part of the world varies. In Tok I was told my death was a certainty - I had only to leave the confines of a pick-up truck without a shotgun, ammunition and the stomach for bear-killing and I would be eaten alive by gangs of bloodthirsty grizzlies. Two English travellers told me everything I had heard about bears' aggression was a lie - I could, it seemed, wrap myself in bacon, run into the forest and steal one of those cute, little cubs, and the bears in their ever patient benevolence wouldn't dream of lifting one of those kind, pacific paws to harm me. The truth lying, I supposed, somewhere in the middle, I felt only a slight trepidation during my first few nights of camping in the wild, and took all the advised precautions. I cooked downwind from my tent, stored food about 30 yards from where I slept, talked almost constantly to myself in as obviously human a voice as I could muster, and tried to believe in the latter portrayal of a bear, to bring myself closer to sleep.
After three days in a row of not being eaten I began to enjoy the freedom of such a sparsely populated place. Boundless horizons stretched, and time lay, almost without punctuation, in the never ending day. In the space of just a few hours I saw bears, moose, eagles and mountain sheep, buffalo and elk. And the sightings came at such regular intervals, and were so rarely disturbed by objects of man's design, that I felt this must surely be the most pristine and untouched landscape I have encountered on my journey.
At rivers and streams I would stop to filter the fast flowing, icy water, and always I noted, given the liquid's clarity, the activity felt unnecessary. Lakes lay flat and still. Though in their unbroken depths the capricious skies turned, from blue to an angry grey. And thunderstorms swelled with a cold and biting rain. Even light flakes of June's only snow turned to water on the mountain roads.
The first large town I encountered appeared as a beautiful, ugly oasis. Pick-up trucks and grids of roads; McDonalds, Starbucks, Ice-cream shops, and supermarkets all around - a dull and wonderful ease and a warming, kindhearted promise - I would never have to go outside again. I was bored and excited by everything I saw, and I ate, and ate, and ate!
Camping in a forest, unknowingly 200 metres from my next bear sighting!
Despite the ease of navigating the landscape, and though the road never asked of me the physical exertion many previous routes had demanded, I rarely felt completely at ease in this beautiful, unspoilt land. Always a dull arithmetic span in small circles around my head. 'Two cans of Coke. Two Mars Bars. One Snickers. Half a loaf of bread. About 200g of cheese. Three 120g tins of tuna. Two packets of pasta meals. Three of rice. 500g of peanuts. Three days to the next village.' Given the four chocolate bar a day habit I had acquired since leaving Anchorage the sum was terrifying! But the thought of a supermarket - of fresh fruit, and bread, of all those edible things, lying a little over 200 miles away, spurred me on. And I would reach the small, isolated villages of this area with an eager anticipation, and with the repetitious single thought. 'Food!'
Depending on who you listen to the threat from bears in this part of the world varies. In Tok I was told my death was a certainty - I had only to leave the confines of a pick-up truck without a shotgun, ammunition and the stomach for bear-killing and I would be eaten alive by gangs of bloodthirsty grizzlies. Two English travellers told me everything I had heard about bears' aggression was a lie - I could, it seemed, wrap myself in bacon, run into the forest and steal one of those cute, little cubs, and the bears in their ever patient benevolence wouldn't dream of lifting one of those kind, pacific paws to harm me. The truth lying, I supposed, somewhere in the middle, I felt only a slight trepidation during my first few nights of camping in the wild, and took all the advised precautions. I cooked downwind from my tent, stored food about 30 yards from where I slept, talked almost constantly to myself in as obviously human a voice as I could muster, and tried to believe in the latter portrayal of a bear, to bring myself closer to sleep.
After three days in a row of not being eaten I began to enjoy the freedom of such a sparsely populated place. Boundless horizons stretched, and time lay, almost without punctuation, in the never ending day. In the space of just a few hours I saw bears, moose, eagles and mountain sheep, buffalo and elk. And the sightings came at such regular intervals, and were so rarely disturbed by objects of man's design, that I felt this must surely be the most pristine and untouched landscape I have encountered on my journey.
At rivers and streams I would stop to filter the fast flowing, icy water, and always I noted, given the liquid's clarity, the activity felt unnecessary. Lakes lay flat and still. Though in their unbroken depths the capricious skies turned, from blue to an angry grey. And thunderstorms swelled with a cold and biting rain. Even light flakes of June's only snow turned to water on the mountain roads.
The first large town I encountered appeared as a beautiful, ugly oasis. Pick-up trucks and grids of roads; McDonalds, Starbucks, Ice-cream shops, and supermarkets all around - a dull and wonderful ease and a warming, kindhearted promise - I would never have to go outside again. I was bored and excited by everything I saw, and I ate, and ate, and ate!
Camping in a forest, unknowingly 200 metres from my next bear sighting!
Alaska
As I began my ride towards the Arctic Circle, I left Anchorage to the south; nickles and dimes and quaters clinking in my pocket, and my heart beating with the excitement of it all. 'I am in America. It never gets dark. I can stay awake for ever!'
And I was still believing this at 1am, as the sky fell only to a long and lingering dusk, and everything was light. 'It's true, I know, I have always needed sleep before. But before there was always dark. And now the dark has gone so too perhaps has the need for sleep. And why should we rest when the sun itself never really sets? And how will we know when it's tomorrow? And when before have I had the chance to cycle through the bright, white night, and perhaps the next three nights, or four? And maybe Hume was right. Just because something's never happened before doesn't mean it never will. Maybe it is me. Maybe I will be the first person who doesn't really ever need to sleep. And now the sky is growing lighter again and with it too I am even more awake. And in this newfound state, which must come miraculously from the lack of sleep and from the mountains and the sun and must be connected, too, to the never ending rotation of my legs, I should and must, surely, carry on.'
And I was still thinking like this an hour later when something new entered my head. I thought, 'How will I feel tomorrow if I carry on cycling? What will happen to my brain if I continue thinking in this deranged and delusional way? And what will happen to my body if I don't stop now and sleep?' And that - 2.17am on the 2nd of June, 2010 - was the moment I became old. Thinking about tomorrow, I found somewhere to camp and slept for eleven hours.
For the next two weeks though the sun still played undead in the northern, summer sky, and though each day my breath caught - facing new ragged peaks of torn and snowy mountains, or the cold exhaling breath of slowly melting ice, or leaving once again one of those wonderful meetings with people, which lend such joy to this trip, and continue with such terrifying and unending kindness - though each day there were those moments I believed I would never sleep again, I found myself at midnight, setting up my tent, cooking on my stove, and thinking responsibly about tomorrow, and about my progress towards Canada.
Near Healy.
And I was still believing this at 1am, as the sky fell only to a long and lingering dusk, and everything was light. 'It's true, I know, I have always needed sleep before. But before there was always dark. And now the dark has gone so too perhaps has the need for sleep. And why should we rest when the sun itself never really sets? And how will we know when it's tomorrow? And when before have I had the chance to cycle through the bright, white night, and perhaps the next three nights, or four? And maybe Hume was right. Just because something's never happened before doesn't mean it never will. Maybe it is me. Maybe I will be the first person who doesn't really ever need to sleep. And now the sky is growing lighter again and with it too I am even more awake. And in this newfound state, which must come miraculously from the lack of sleep and from the mountains and the sun and must be connected, too, to the never ending rotation of my legs, I should and must, surely, carry on.'
And I was still thinking like this an hour later when something new entered my head. I thought, 'How will I feel tomorrow if I carry on cycling? What will happen to my brain if I continue thinking in this deranged and delusional way? And what will happen to my body if I don't stop now and sleep?' And that - 2.17am on the 2nd of June, 2010 - was the moment I became old. Thinking about tomorrow, I found somewhere to camp and slept for eleven hours.
For the next two weeks though the sun still played undead in the northern, summer sky, and though each day my breath caught - facing new ragged peaks of torn and snowy mountains, or the cold exhaling breath of slowly melting ice, or leaving once again one of those wonderful meetings with people, which lend such joy to this trip, and continue with such terrifying and unending kindness - though each day there were those moments I believed I would never sleep again, I found myself at midnight, setting up my tent, cooking on my stove, and thinking responsibly about tomorrow, and about my progress towards Canada.
Near Healy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)