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Love vs Fear

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2010-08-27T00:34:44-07:00

Sometimes, I can’t believe I do this. Sometimes, I can’t believe I do anything else.

Unnamed, But Not Unloved

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2010-08-24T23:07:47-07:00

If we really do choose our weather, then I’ve been choosing well these days. My internal territory is sunshine and ease, and this has been expressed externally in my ride. I’ve either been extremely lucky or wonderfully blessed, or I’m really that accomplished at moving clouds. Entire coastlines from California to Washington are sun-drenched and gorgeous, with just the right amount of occasional fog to offset the heat, usually appearing at the perfect picturesque moment as if cued by a set director. It’s been a beautiful and comfortable ride.

If you were to dissect my heart, you’d find inside a great portion of its left ventricle occupied by a bike and a road heading north. I don’t know what that is -- magnetism, feng shui, or past life stories of nordic treks. Yes, I’m a happy girl when my front tire is pointed north and the sun is shining.

The F800 has proven to be a reliable and versatile, and, dare I say, worthy, machine. Somewhere around Big Sur, I began to fall in love. It took five thousand kilometres of mountain passes, busy freeways and coastal highways, but love doesn’t always hit you over the head with cinnaheart candy lightning flashes. This bike, I’m realizing, has “ease” bundled up in its little Bavarian-engineered heart; and ease, I’m also realizing, is a rare quality in machines, and humans, and something to strive for, not scorn.

Its quiet demeanour and its simple elegance had me thinking it was demure, shy, even, (boring?) with not much personality; but now that I’m on the far side of six thousand kilometres, having taken it through just about every kind of territory I’d want to travel with a metal and rubber being, I realize that it had nothing to prove. It was simply confidently waiting for me to drop the Henk filters through which I’d been experiencing it and see it for what it is -- a brilliant machine that does the job flawlessly -- without ego...but not without soul.

Thank the Trees

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2010-08-23T23:06:57-07:00

Shadows came out last night under the full moon in the redwood forest. Big beautiful mysterious shadows cast by thousand year old trees in ancient round-table communion with the stars. Not all is light under that omniscient moon. Ask the trees, if you dare, and they may reveal in dreamtime your own shadows...

Northbound in California

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2010-08-19T21:25:16-07:00

Bed of eucalyptus bark under old trees with beards by a rushing river. I’ll be asleep in minutes, and will probably fly in my dreams after the long gorgeous day gliding up the southern California coast toward Big Sur Heaven, arriving just as the sun was throwing diamonds across the surface of the Pacific. Happy to escape LA traffic and breathe oxygen and campfire smoke and eucalyptus. Feeling instantly myself again. That’s all it takes - a ride. Pursuit of passion. Saying yes to adventure. Seeking solitude. Jump off a cliff in Big Sur and soar... Gratitude for the Grandfathers, the Grandmothers, and the Great Spirits of the Road.

Horizons

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2010-08-19T09:01:01-07:00

I will pour my whole heart onto the empty road, paint a golden ribbon to the horizon, and ride, as if gravity were my accommodation and starlight, my destination.

Coffee in Big Sur

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2010-07-14T19:11:27-07:00

It’s 8:40 in the morning and surprisingly sunny in Big Sur. I thought I’d have to wait out the usual Big Sur fog, but already it’s warm and dry. Still, I’m taking my sweet time with this gorgeous west coast coffee and hearty Big Sur Bakery bran and currant muffin. This is my last day on the road for a few weeks and I’m going to savour it. I will get there when I get there. Right now, I’m happy being here.

I’m sitting under the scented canopy of a giant Santa Lucia Pine. A west coast Blue Jay is perched on one of its dangling branches directly above me, eyeing my bran muffin, trying to look inconspicuous.

If this had been my usual northern adventure with Henk the Buell, by now, I’d probably be arriving in Dawson City, exhausted, road worn, and feeling grateful to be alive after some harrowing breakdown or biblical thunderstorm, and a heroic rescue by the Alaska Highway Angels. I’d be sipping a soy latte at the River West Cafe, exchanging stories with other adventurers far from home.

Early this evening, I’ll arrive home in Venice feeling grateful to be alive for very different reasons. With this new bike, chosen for its reliability, and the much softer, more forgiving, warmer, sunnier and much less isolated southern route I’m on, the adventure has not been nearly as action-packed. But it’s been no less epic.

I’m beginning to appreciate this bike for the things that Henk is not. It’s provided me with a worry-free ride, smooth, elegant, articulate, intelligent and willing, which has given me the opportunity to consider that perhaps I’m finished suffering...What if all that cold, those thunderstorms, the potholes and chipseal, the intense isolation, the discomfort and the breakdowns were inside me? And what if all this sunshine, ease, fluidity, warmth, flexibility and dependability were also? What if I could simply make a choice moment by moment whether to be in turmoil or in grace?

Pit Stop for Bliss

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2010-07-11T00:08:04-07:00

Every good motorcycle trip includes a stop at hot springs. By the time you’ve been on the road five or six days, camping on pine needles and sharing cheap mouldy motel rooms with hairy spiders, you’re ready to detox, de-dust, soak your bones, and heal what ails you. Today, what had been ailing me was my left knee from having it bent up on the pegs for so long, and my throttle pinky, from gripping hours on end in all weather. Now, after a 4-hour session of hot and cold, I have no ailments. The waters at Harbin Hot Springs are truly healing, the hot, almost scalding, the cold, near ice and the warm, blissfully body temperature. The pools are surrounded by low-hanging fig and eucalyptus trees and blossoming flowers. Once you’ve opened your lungs wide with a cycle of hot and cold, the aromatherapy is mainlined into every cell. It doesn’t take long to release yourself from the constraints of human form. Sanctuary in nature.

Near midnight under a billion stars, I ended my session in the warm pool, where a woman was receiving the most beautiful “Watsu” treatment I’ve ever witnessed. Lots of people give and receive this Harbin original form of water shiatsu, but this particular practitioner was expert and a joy to watch. At its best, Watsu looks like a cosmic dance where practitioner and recipient become one in a weightless flow of healing movement. The practitioner supports the recipient’s body in such a way that she can let go entirely, then he manipulates her body gracefully through the water to create stretch and alignment and openness. People claim it feels like re-entering the womb. By the look of bliss on this woman’s face, I believe she did.

Being witness became a meditation, and for almost an hour, everyone else in the warm pool faded into a wall of shadows and whispers. I felt as though I was both giving to and receiving energy from the treatment, and by the end, I, too, was in that uniquely Harbin state of bliss. Like a spiritual tune-up, it’s worth coming back for every couple of years if I happen to be within a 100-mile radius. In the dressing room afterward, Rutherford introduced himself, thanked me for being part of his session, and offered to give me a treatment tomorrow. I wasn’t planning on staying another day, but it’s Sunday tomorrow, day of rest, right? And traffic heading down the 101 through the Bay area will be lighter on Monday...

Today’s lesson from the road: Never say no to an offer of Watsu.

Bigfoot

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2010-07-08T21:18:46-07:00

There’s always a barking dog at a cheap motel, and a woman who’s seen better times telling it to behave. I’d rather be on the ground under the redwoods tonight, but when I arrived in Willow Creek after seven hours riding in the heat, I was so ready to be off the bike, and this place was handy. I’m sharing my room with a couple of rather large spiders, but they seem to be content in their corner above the plastic-lined canvas drapes. I’ll call the bigger, hairier one Bigfoot, after the motel.

Last night I camped in the woods beside a rushing river and had a delicious sleep breathing in oxygen and absorbing all the negative ions (they’re good for you). I rode most of the afternoon yesterday along the Oregon coast until I got too cold from all the fog breathing down my neck, and turned inland at Florence. Almost instantly, it was warm, so I rode east on the 58 and pulled into a forestry campground at dusk. I usually make a point of camping in populated campgrounds. I realize I’m taking enough risks as it is, so I’m not foolish enough to set up my tent in a ditch or under a bridge. Last night, though, there were very few other campers, and by the time I got my bags off the bike and my tent set up, it was dark, and in the woods with no moon, dark is pitch black. I should not read the news or watch “Dexter” or “Breaking Bad.” That stuff can pollute the mind with images of serial killers and convicts escaping the law in the woods of south central Oregon.

My closest neighbour appeared to be alone with a van. I often wish I could meet other solo adventurers on the road, but I rarely do. People travel in packs of buddies, families or couples. He made a pass by my site a couple of times, presumably to collect firewood, but by now it was too dark to acknowledge each other in any kind of way that would not have been a little creepy. I had no reason to think that he was anything other than a solo camper, like myself, out enjoying nature and solitude, but in my media-poisoned mind, he was assessing the situation, making sure I was alone, plotting something evil. In the dark, firewood can look like an axe. I crawled into my tent and lay awake, listening to the roaring river below, and when a train passed by on the other side of the river, shaking the ground and drowning out all other sounds, I found myself thinking like a killer. Now would be the perfect time... And then I fell asleep until the sun broke through the old growth and warmed my tent. I didn’t stick around for campfire coffee.

I stopped at the TrailHead CoffeeHouse in Oakridge just 20 minutes down the road, and was greeted by a guy in a red bandana, and three red and blue stripes like ribbons tattooed down his right cheek. I asked for a soy latte, just for my own amusement, and to my astonishment, he made me one, with a smile. I took a look at the menu, and along with the many ways to have “breakfast meat,” I could also fill up my veggie belly with tofu scramble. Woo hoo!

It was another 95-degree day today inland in Oregon. The roads were clear and dry, making it smooth sailing down the 58 to the 97 south to Klamath Falls. By the time I got to Weed, I was feeling dehydrated and craving that cool fog again. I decided to get back out on the coast, but in order to do that, some time on the interstate would be required. Motorcycles have no business being on the interstate. Especially those under 1100 ccs. Though it was nowhere near fun, the nimble little 800 handled fine, and if not for all the trucks and other traffic, the 5 heading south would be quite a gorgeous ride. Contrary to popular opinion about motorcyclists and speed, I’m not a speeder. Even though I’d love to meet a California Highway Patrol motorcycle officer so I can tell him I grew up watching CHIPs, I’ve never been served a speeding ticket on a motorbike. Some would say I ride like a girl but that’s ok. When I met the pack of 9 Wild Hogs at a gas station in Florence, they all wanted to dump their buddies and ride with me. Good thing for all we were headed in opposite directions. So I got off the interstate at Redding and headed west again over the south Cascades and here I am in Willow Creek, sharing my room with Bigfoot the spider.

Tomorrow is another adventure. Only one thing is guaranteed: there will be forks in the road.

Old Territory New Bike

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2010-07-08T00:31:19-07:00

Today’s ride couldn’t have been more perfect. The skies were clear all day and the temperature rose to 95 degrees and stayed sizzling til sunset. The inside of my old leathers was like a sauna, but after the chill of the Cascade Pass the day before, where there was snow on the sides of the road at the summit, I was loving it. I dressed down to a t-shirt underneath and opened the jacket zippers to catch some wind to dry the sweat.

It was my 3rd day’s ride with the BMW, not counting the ride from Calgary to Banff the day I picked it up, when I got tossed by a sudden crosswind into the left lane north of Morley. I’m happy now to have it loaded down with luggage. It’s 13 pounds lighter than Henk, with a slightly higher centre of gravity and more stuff on the sides for a wind to catch. Good to know so I can adjust my riding. Along with the heated grips, which are an obvious luxury, the extra faring makes me feel spoiled because it protects my knees, on Henk the first body parts after my knuckles to catch the wind. But it definitely makes the bike less “naked” and more vulnerable to a nasty crosswind. Wind barely bothered Henk. He’s such a thug with so much weight close to the pavement and no faring, he sticks to the road in anything.

I glided easily and relatively noiselessly (this bike is not much louder than a sewing machine) out to the coast, on the 20 to Whidbey Island and took the ferry across Puget Sound to Port Townsend. It was great to be on the water under such warm summer skies. A retired local couple, Joan and Clive, chatted me up about riding and bikes. Though they were in a car, they’re long time riders, presently on a Ducati sport tour model that sounds like a dream. Last year they did route 66 all the way from LA to Chicago. We talked about the freedom of doing your own trip without the “Wild Hogs” who sometimes want to tag along, and Clive, a man after my heart, confessed to never planning ahead. That can be maddening for others who can’t go to bed at night without plugging in the entire next day on their GPS. Joan paid me the nicest compliment by saying I’m a great role model for female riders. It’s ironic that I’ve inspired more men to ride than women. But I know women catch the spirit of adventure when they see me. Whether it translates into a motorbike lesson or to taking a solo journey by car or plane or canoe, or taking a bold step into a mythology of her own, it’s all the same spark.

A mentally challenged ferry volunteer suggested to me twice that I’ll probably need an oil change on that bike, so it’s on my mind to do just that before too many more miles. The Great Spirits of The Road take care of you.

Down the 101 all the way to the southwestern tip of Washington, across the “Bridge to Nowhere” into Astoria, Oregon. I gulped a welcomed cerveza at sunset under the bridge at a Mexican cantina where I was the only patron.

I did this ride in 07 when I went all the way from Venice Beach to Inuvik, NWT, past the Arctic Circle, and back. The 1 was gruelling with Henk because much of it is slow going, following RV trains, in and out of fog, up and down through 1st, 2nd and 3rd gears, rarely opening it up for any speed. The BMW is more suited to this ride. At least I can sit upright comfortably. It’s the kind of bike that almost rides itself, so sit back and enjoy the scenery... I’m taking some video from the bike, which I’ll post when I get a chance.

Today’s lesson from the road: Expect an occasional perfect day, and when it arrives, celebrate fully.

Henk's Support Staff

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2010-07-07T00:12:05-07:00

It wasn’t love at first sight. Sure, when one is sleek and elegant, perfectly proportioned and impeccably put together, one is bound to turn heads; but character and grit and substance excite me more. I’ll forever be comparing new bikes to Henk. I took him for a ride yesterday when I got him back from Al the bike doctor. We didn’t go far, but we went fast. Henk seemed to be showing off, as if he knew I was leaving him for another - as if to say, go ahead, try out that prissy little F800, but remember what a gem I am. Don’t forget I’m heavier and more solid and I stick to the highway in any kind of crosswind. I’m a brute. I’m bigger and more powerful and can pass anything on an uphill climb in mere tenths of seconds. I’m much more unique...and I’ve been with you longer than any other bike will ever be.

Yes, it’s all true. Henk is damn cool. I miss him already on this trip after only two days on the road, but his imperfections, those little quirks I’ve fallen in love so deeply with, have become detrimental to our ride. Isn’t that always the way?

In his place is a beautiful barely-used 2007 BMW F800ST. I took the Ulysses for a spin when I arrived in Calgary. I had made a deal over the phone and thought I was going to go that way, but after sleeping on it, I just wasn’t comfortable with the height. It handled beautifully on the highway, and is unquestionably a Buell, but I was on tippy toes at stops and you need a good grip when you pull into gravelly campgrounds and you need your footing when maneuvering in a tight spot. This BMW, an 07, had only 2300 kms on it. The guy bought it with good intentions, but two kids and a dog rightly took priority. I got a good deal. My plan is to put a few miles on it and sell it at the end of the season before I wreck it too badly;) It’s not Henk. Not nearly as sexy. But it’s smooth and comfortable and does the job with finesse. It feels a little gentlemanly in that all the components are there for a long and winding sport tour, but one could do it in a business suit and barely scuff a cufflink.

New Chapter

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2010-06-24T22:58:24-07:00

There's a pit in my stomach as I look out over the wing from seat 18F at the infinite expanse of cloud white and sky blue. The curled-up tip of the wing suspends the westjet logo in mid-air and the little white graphic plane on the screen on the seat in front of me tells me we're almost over Winnipeg. I'm on my way to Calgary from Toronto. Banff, actually, for my niece's grad and other unknown, unplanned adventures. My saddle bags and leathers are (hopefully) tucked away in the belly and my helmet is between a couple of soft items in the overhead bin. The gear got hauled home with me to Toronto last September after having to abandon Henk in Northern BC and not making it back to Christina Lake where Henk and gear have spent the last several winters. It's not nearly as interesting packing motorcycle gear for an airplane. And it's not very portable without the bike frame and the bungy cords that make it all work so well on two wheels. I needed a trolley at the airport - two bucks, with a twenty-five cent "reward" if you return it. While checking my luggage, the female agent said jealously "Ooh! You ride a motorbike! I don't like you!" It's not much fun, I reassured her, in the same way southern Californians tell people from elsewhere that the weather sucks and not to bother.

The emptiness I'm feeling is both physical and emotional. Two weeks ago I got my teeth all rigged up with "invisalign" in an attempt to reign in and bring home some wandering teeth my parents paid dearly for when I was a teen. The plastic moulds (only invisible from a distance of 20 feet or more in a dimly lit room) are difficult to remove and put back in place, which is what needs to happen to eat or drink anything other than water. I don't want to horrify my seat mate by reaching into my mouth with both fists to pry the orthodontics loose. There's too much drool involved, and in this case, for a 22-gram package of "bits & bites," the payoff is simpy not worth it. As a consequence, I haven't eaten since breakfast. It doesn't help that my 80-pound girlfriend is meeting me at the airport. She's not the type to have a party-sized bag of organic corn chips and a tub of fresh guac in her car. But a little 8-hour water fast never hurt anyone.

The emptiness that's preoccupying more of my mind, here at 37,000 feet above the prairies, is a conspicuous absence of joy on what should be a very momentous day. Since 2005, I've known that there would come a time when Henk was no longer up to the adventures I wanted to put us through. I even test rode his bigger, stronger, more nimble, more adventurous cousin, Ulysses, back in New Mexico and fell not-so-secretly in love.

Perhaps I'm too attached. I think of Henk now, trapped in Grand Forks with a new doctor awaiting parts, and I actually feel sad like he's real and he somehow knows I have an accepted offer on a tall black handsome Ulysses ten years his junior and itching to find adventure. Yes, I'm sick. It brings me no joy to know that Henk will never again ride the Alaska Highway or cross the country or travel far beyond his adopted home of southern BC.

There was a part of me hoping I could keep on getting repairs and rebuilds and ride until we were both good and done, and the last couple of years have been attempts to keep that dream alive. But after breaking down last northern ride not once, not twice, but three times, all of which could've been deadly, but the last of which caused me to seriously question my sanity, it would be sheer stupidity to attempt pushing us both through anything that long and that remote again. Part of me also wondered if I would just one day wake up with no desire to ride and that would be that. At some point, it would come as no surprise to anyone if I were to hang up my leathers, roll Henk into the living room and call it done. Priorities, after all, change. But riding still feels to me like my truest expression. The solitude, the paradox of independence in spirit and dependence on the benevolence of the universe, the utter surrender that has to happen to be fearless, the interaction with the road and the relationship with the bike, always a metaphor for what's deeper and a catalyst for reflection, the immersion in nature, my nature and the visions of eagles and bears. The grounding I feel and the immense sense of contentment that settles in the moment I strap on the last bag and throw my leg over the seat keep me coming back for more season after season, ride after ride.

Yes, over 12 years and 120,000 kilometres, Henk has become a part of who I am. So it's with a pit in my stomach and great emptiness in my heart that I turn the page to another chapter.

There are no boundaries...

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2009-09-18T22:04:05-07:00

"Travel is never about the destination. It's about the journey into self, the adventure of the spirit, and the accidental discovery that there are no boundaries." Firehorserider

I'm sifting through a pile of names and numbers on gas receipts, business cards and napkins of people from Northern California to Dawson City and everywhere in between, and I'm struck by the realization that without one of these people, my journey could not have been made.

I sometimes forget, in all my efforts to assert my independence, in the all-consuming energy it takes to fly solo, that the focus and goodwill of others is an essential ingredient in any successful journey. (And the belief in the ultimate goodness in others is an essential ingredient in the adventurer.) I'll tell you all about those people/angels in the next post, but in the interest of chronology, back to the story...

My last day on the Alaska Highway with Henk was the most difficult I've ever endured. I knew shortly after leaving Whitehorse that the mechanic who replaced the back tire and clutch cable had neglected to tighten the primary chain as I'd requested. Yet I couldn't afford to waste another day. I rode with a loose primary chain once before, over the Million Dollar Highway in Colorado into New Mexico and made it, limping, into Santa Fe. But that was a day. Out on the Alaska Highway, I was four days' ride from a proper fix.

The rain didn't help. Weather is the number one concern for a motorcyclist after the safety of her bike. When it's cold, your hands freeze, making shifting and braking difficult. Your knees and neck freeze, stiffening, causing your whole body to contract around the steel frame like a vice. In my old leathers and cheap rain gear, rain gets in, dripping down my spine, soaking my feet, spraying my face. And visibility disappears.

After the logging truck lost its tires and miraculously didn't lose its load, I continued riding south. I don't know the physiology of shock. I don't know what happens to people who've witnessed something traumatic or had a close call. In the movies, they sort of stumble around with blank stares for awhile or maybe scream or beat up on someone. Unable to stumble and unmoved to scream, I went somewhere else...

Henk the Buell is named after my beloved grandfather, who died just a few years before I purchased the bike in '98. I have a handkerchief of Granddad's that's been around my neck for a hundred thousand of the 114,000 kilometres Henk and I have ridden. It's too shredded by wind to wear anymore, so it's stuffed in the front pocket of my leathers. I never ride without it. I like to think there's still a part of Granddad in the torn fabric of the hanky, even after countless washes. "Old Smoky" we used to call him, because we never saw him without his pipe. It was his favorite thing in the same way that Henk the Buell is mine.

It was still a four-hour ride in nothingness to the hotsprings. I babied Henk for fear of a breakdown and for once in my life I hoped for more traffic. The gaps of time and distance between other vehicles seemed to lengthen, and when I did see one, it was not a potential rescue vehicle. I'd blasted way past any established "comfort zone" and pushed into a place beyond safety and sanity, way outside boundaries I'd ever crossed. I'd travelled this road before, but never this territory.

I was weirdly altered, physically and mentally, and I was scared. I began to question whether I had actually survived the tire incident, that perhaps I was gliding quietly through some in-between place of infinite tundra and unending highways. I squeezed Henk's steel frame to feel the solid matter attached to me.

All of a sudden, out of nowhere, as though dispensed from inside my helmet and the wilderness at once, a strong aroma wafted over me, filling my lungs, causing me to squeeze Henk even harder while I scanned the surrounding tundra for the source and questioned my reality. The fragrance was so unique and so deeply familiar, lingering with me for several miles. Even now, two months later, it's impossible to explain, yet it was unmistakable: my grandfather's pipe.

There were no tobacco fields, no burning bush, there was no one driving in front of me (or anywhere within a hundred miles) smoking, no northern flowers I know of give off the sweet scent of burning pipe tobacco. But there it was, undeniable, filling my helmet, as real as if I were sitting on my granddad's lap while he puffed away on his freshly lit pipe stuffed with heirloom Dutch tobacco.

I didn't know whether to be reassured or even more afraid. I thought I had crossed over, that I'd slipped behind the veil hanging between worlds way out there on the edge, unexpectedly uncovered the truth that all the limits I had lined up like warriors in defence of living were a lie, that I'd accidentally discovered that there are no boundaries...

Rain, Cold and Projectile Tires

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2009-09-04T22:49:23-07:00

"No one realizes how beautiful it is to travel until he comes home and rests his head on his old, familiar pillow." Lin Yutang

Four nights ago, I was sipping red wine from the Niagara Peninsula out of a plastic apple juice bottle listening to loons under an almost-full moon on McLeese Lake in central BC. Tonight, I'm sipping Echinacea and vitamin C tea from my favourite local health food store out of my favourite giant mug listening to blip.fm under a fully full moon in view of the CN Tower in Toronto, and I'm just now, now that I have my favourite pillow under my head, realizing how exhausted I am from the efforts of the adventure.

I caught some arctic rain and wind in my throat between Dawson City and Whitehorse a week ago and it's stayed with me. Sleeping on near-freezing ground for three nights and hanging around in the rain for two days at the Robert Service Campground waiting for my clutch cable to be shipped from Toronto didn't help, and the stress of riding those last few days on a battle-weary bike taxed my immune system.

The lovelies at Alpine Bakery fed me incredible healing food and gave me enough vitamin C to flush a wood buffalo, and that held it all at bay until I got off the Alaska Highway and was able to relax. Now I'm nursing a throat infection while trying to make the most of my husky voice.

Yes, Whitehorse is remote enough that when a clutch cable goes, it can be an ordeal that involves airplanes and three-day delays. There are much worse places to be stranded, though. The locals are incredibly hospitable and the landscape is beautiful. It's the kind of place you could thrive if you love winter and the great outdoors and can handle long months of mostly darkness and long months of endless light...and bears.

I had coffee with Janet, who'd moved three weeks ago with her husband, the new high school principal, from Winnipeg. They were both looking forward to their first winter in the far north with curiosity and excitement. The women's hairy leg contest should help alleviate any cabin fever that may have set in by February. I've been threatening to one day spend a winter up there, tucked in somewhere warm, maybe write Easy Riding with Henk: how to navigate life when it all goes to potholes ~ lessons from the road with Henk the Buell and His Lady Rider... So I'll be keeping tabs on Janet and Brendan to see how they fare...

Well, I got my Blueberry Earl Grey Truffle and my hotspring. The former the first day I was stranded, a delicious present from Suat at Alpine Bakery, and the latter three days later, after Red at Yukon Harley had replaced my clutch cable, set Henk up with a new rear tire, reinforced the broken carbon fibre fender...and failed to tighten the primary chain...

I was happy to be back on the road, even as the low-lying clouds started collecting and the rain started dropping as I filled my tank and headed south. Within an hour my primary chain started to squeak and rattle. I sighed aloud into my helmet. I'd specifically asked the guys to check the primary chain. I've ridden with a loose one before. It's not dangerous, until it is. And heading into nothingness until Prince George, or Grand Prairie, four days down the road, it is.

But I couldn't afford to turn around and delay for another day. My window for weather and mechanical problems had closed. This adventure had a time limit and a scheduled flight back to work.

It rained all the way to Watson Lake, where the sky to the south seemed to open and brighten, so I carried on through, patting Henk on the gas tank, "You can do it, Henk."

South of Watson Lake, in a drizzle, I was following tight behind an 8-wheeled logging truck piled high with freshly cut spruce. The spray from its four rear tires misted my visor, making it difficult to see, and the road was curved, so I was waiting for a straight stretch so I could pass safely. What happened next shook me to the core and confirmed yet again the presence of my AHA.

I was just about to edge left, pull out and pass him on a straight incline, when both of his rear left tires came flying off. One of them blew, throwing rubber scrap to my immediate right, and the other one flew over my left shoulder and bounced down the road and into the ditch behind us. I was way too close to have any time to react, so I simply instinctively applied my brakes. The truck fell over and squealed, swerving onto the right shoulder with sparks flying off its rear left axle. It pulled up the chip seal for about 5 seconds then stopped, half on, half off the road.

I pulled over to make sure the driver was ok (and to verify that I was still alive), then continued on my way, breathing deep and thanking my angels. Here's the thing: had I been anywhere else on the road other than tucked right in behind him sucking spray, I'd have been either hit by a flying tire or forced from the road trying to avoid it. Had I decided to pass one tenth of a second earlier, I'd have been in the direct path of the projectile tire.

The driver must've been in shock, because he got out and asked me where the tire was, rather than "are you ok, I could've killed you." We weren't far from the south edge of Watson Lake, so I knew he'd be fine. I will too, but the long ride ahead was the loneliest of my life. (See "Extreme Solitude" below.)

There was sun for awhile, not long enough to dry out completely and warm up to the bone, then more rain.

The remoteness of the land coupled with the uncertainty of the safety of my steed made it difficult to access my light heart and enjoy the ride. I found myself tracking the odometer for kilometres between vehicles that came along from the opposite direction. Twenty, forty, fifty, and not one of the few I did see capable of a rescue if it were required. My mood mirrored the dark sky. Or was it the dark sky that mirrored my mood?

I started questioning my sanity. What the hell was I doing? What was I thinking bringing a 12-year-old Buell S1, not a touring bike to begin with, out here on the gravel-patched, chip-sealed, pot-holed, eternally gnarly Alaska Highway - for the fourth time?!

...to be continued. Next post, "Where the Hell is Henk?"

Extreme Solitude

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2009-08-30T22:45:58-07:00

Moose outnumber humans in the Yukon 2 to 1.

You have no idea how vast the north is until you're in it. Yes, you can fly over it and see with your eyes that it does actually go forever, but until you've rounded a rock-walled curve in sunshine and come out the other side in a wall of rain, and done that twenty times in a day over miles of gravel through countless construction sites under an endless moody sky, until you've been at the top of a steep hill and poured yourself head first into an infinite sea of evergreen, until you've listened to the immeasurable silence and met the eyes of a solitary black bear, you can only imagine.

If you've ever been swallowed whole by the universe, if you've ever slipped through the veil, unnoticed, to a place between worlds, where time means nothing and no thing matters, lifetimes are condensed and expanded simultaneously, and everything is forgotten in an instant, even breath, you might have a sense of the allure of the north.

When you've stood alone at the edge of the cosmos and seen your reflection in the velvet gap, you've understood how vast you are. Not as an abstract concept, but as a concrete reality.

Eat Chocolate Truffles: Parts Will Break

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2009-08-26T22:42:38-07:00

"Travelling is brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things - air, sleep, dreams, the sea, the sky - all things tending toward the eternal or what we imagine of it." Cesare Pavese

I'm trying to remember a moment in my riding story when everything was new, but I can't. When riding was new, I had a couple of second-hand bikes. When Henk was new, I had hand-me-down riding gear (still do). When the Alaska Highway was new, Henk was already aging.

I have a silver duct tape patch on my ass because a bungy cord from my luggage poked through the leather. People can't help but comment on it. "Thank god for duct tape!" Or "Nice patch, you know, they make it in camouflage now..." My jacket zipper keeps splitting open, then getting stuck half-way down, making me fear I'll have to cut myself out one of these days with my jack knife. My tent poles are split and flimsy, the elastic cord that snaps them together having long lost its elasticity, and the tent leaks in the rain. My thermarest is never as full in the morning as it was when I blew it up the night before. My helmet cam is acting up, so I lost some great stuff I thought I took of mountain sheep and caribou around Muncho Lake. And my favorite riding shirt is really just a faded blue waffle cotton rag held together at the shoulder seams, holier than Swiss cheese after a mouse has had a solid meal.

Inside my human machine, my knees and knuckles, the joints that take all the cold wind have started complaining - just a little, but enough to let me know a hot spring along the way is a good thing. My dorsal vertebrae are becoming more sensitive to the weight of my helmet and fighting the force of the wind with no fairing. And my face is advertising the miles it's seen from 4 feet above the dusty road.

No one should be surprised, then, when something breaks. Yes, Henk and I have become seasoned travellers and the weather and the road are starting to show. As sweet as it is to fantasize about a sparkly brand new bike and crisp new teflon riding gear, I'm proud of our adventures together, and would much rather be covered in dirt, slightly broken and lined by a story than clean and pristine without a scratch.

So today, Henk's clutch cable snapped. That thing's held on for 113,000kms and as always, it could have been worse.

I rode south today from Dawson City after six days of Dawson living off the grid, bathing prospector-style, visiting Dawson friends and playing Dawson poker. The forecast for both Dawson and Whitehorse was cool with sun, but of course, once I got out into the nothingness of the Klondike Highway, it rained.

I had an opportunity to be a KHA (Klondike Highway Angel) when I passed a camper with its door wide open. I pulled over in front of them and flagged them down to let them know. They were a mid-aged couple from Wisconsin, way up here on an adventure, and were very grateful I'd saved them from losing stuff out the back. They'd planned a drive up the Dempster for the fall colors, but seeing the weather, had changed their minds. The Dempster turns into slippery chocolate pudding when it rains, and bikes, RVs and trucks get stuck in the mud.

"You're very brave," the woman said as I pulled out my rain gear. Yes, I suppose I am, but bravery is measured on a sliding scale. I think I was much more brave the first time I did this ride. Now that I know what's up here (or more acurately, what's not), I could justifiably be considered crazy.

I saw a total of 2 dozen vehicles, if that, in both directions the entire 6 hours. One was a couple from Alaska I met at Pelly Crossing filling their tank all cushed out in their brand new Honda Goldwing. I say "in" rather than "on", because they both get lazyboy chairs behind a huge fairing that blocks the wind and rain, a headset system hooked up to their helmets so they can chat, and an ipod full of tunage.

"Honey, when you get to be our age, you need all the comforts you can get."

I hear ya, sista. I hear ya. I had the extreme luxury of newly installed heated grips through the rainy Pine Pass north of Prince George, but since my battery died north of Fort Nelson, I've been afraid to use them.

I pulled in to Whitehorse in time to catch Red at Yukon Harley leaving for the day. We scheduled a first thing in the am checkup, rear tire change, front brake pad replace and primary chain tighten and off I went to set up my tent.

After getting settled at the Robert Service Campground, I hopped back on Henk to ride into town for a burrito from Compadres Burritos truck, which I thought was open til 7:30. The clutch felt loose all of a sudden, making it rough switching gears, but I made it to the riverside park where the burrito truck was just closing for the night.

As soon as I grabbed the clutch to start Henk up again, (no burrito), the cable snapped. No clutch, no start. Yes, it could've been way worse. I could've been between Whitehorse and Dawson City, with nothing but spindly pines and gravel for a billion hectares.

The AHA (see previous post) sent me the new high school principal and his wife, newly arrived from Winnipeg and originally from St. John's, out for a power walk and wanting some weights to add to the workout. They saw me struggling with my saddlebags and helped me lug them and helmet all the way back to the campground.

So Henk's spending the night alone at Riverside Park. I'm sleeping on a sinking thermarest on frozen ground, dreaming of hotsprings and Alpine Bakery Blueberry Earl Grey truffles. Hope to have both tomorrow. But to think I control my adventure would be utter folly...

Alaska Highway Angels and Wilderness Spa

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2009-08-16T11:32:50-07:00

I'm in one of my favorite places on the planet: in my sleeping bag, in my tent at Liard River Provincial Park, at 10:20pm after a 5-hour drive up the gravel-patched chip-sealed Alaska Highway and a 3 hour soak in the hotsprings. A good dose of self-massage, from foot to forehead, and a good yoga stretch in the water from throttle fingers to thoracic vertebrae and I'm cured of all riding kinks and cramps. A northern wilderness-style mani-pedi with a pummice stone fixed my very un-girlie fire-starting, battery-changing, broken-nailed hands and boot-laden feet. My road-dusted skin is soft again and I feel like I could stay up all night, though I know I'll sleep like a bear cub.

This would be the ultimate spa. Way up the Alaska Highway in the wilds of Northern BC, natural healing hotsprings, fresh air, beauty as far as the eye can see. You could offer massage and watsu, have yoga workshops, a healing kitchen and meditation huts...But it's also just perfect the way it is, run by Armond and his team of bear dogs (latest addition, Connie, in pic) - rustic, no amenities, not even a lodge across the highway anymore due to poor management. Glad I had a veggie burger at Toad River.

I'd have been here two days ago, but I've been living another classic Henk the Buell on the Alaska Highway adventure - one of those adventures that makes for good drama, but for those people who care about me, one of those adventures they'd probably rather not know about. As for myself, I'm feeling like an angel magnet. There's a whole entire army of Alaska Highway Angels (AHA) out here when you need them. And I needed them two days ago.

If you watch the videos, you'll see that the time between Henk laying down in the gravel ditch and rescue is about 20 seconds. I asked for someone strong, and as if to demonstrate their celestial sense of humor, AHA sent me an angel named "Arnie" - and his two buddies, Trevor and Jared, and a whole convoy of trucks, and a trailer and tie-downs, and even a little boy angel named Kale.

I also now feel like the appointed AHA ambassador. Somewhere on another plane, there exists a benevolent committee doling out experiences as part of a galactic master plan, and somewhere along the way, a motion was passed that I would be given the privilege and task of letting people know it's ok to leave their livingrooms. That shit will happen out here, yes - it wouldn't be an adventure without some foul weather or a foiled plan; but the AHA are everywhere, and if your drive belt comes off or your battery goes dead, they won't let the grizzlies have you for lunch.

Expect Sudden Weather Changes

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2009-08-13T08:31:58-07:00

The sign was right: "High mountain pass. Expect sudden weather changes."

Yesterday was one of those days that separates the adventurers from the girlie boys. There's no photo or video cause I was too busy concentrating on staying alive.

If you look at a map of northern BC, you'll see that between Prince George and Chetwynd, there ain't much. It's 300kms of badass remoteness. I say badass because I've now been caught out here twice in heavy downpour with no shelter. The Weather Network has no clue. "30% chance of light rain." Ha! Maybe in Chetwynd, maybe in Prince George, but what about the 300km black hole in between? There's simply too much land and sky up here to give an accurate read. You never know until you are under it what the sky will throw at you. Expect sudden weather changes, then throw away your expectations.

At least yesterday's was drive-able, and for the first hour I got lucky, the road always seeming to curve just west by a hair of the storm cloud. The problem is, once you're an hour north of Prince George, there's no turning back, and here in the high passes, land of tall evergreens, giant moose, big bears and infinite sky, you can dodge a weather system only so long.

So it rained. Those big, heavy raindrops that when they hit you feel like pebbles. It rained for a few hours, so I sang. I always sing in my helmet when it's raining. It helps me concentrate and moves my mind away from fear. I know I'm on a good adventure when I'm doing a lot of singing. And when you hear me sing, you know I'm happy.

Some people live one day at a time. Others eat an elephant one bite at a time. When I'm riding through rain, I ride one kilometre at a time. I don't try to get anywhere fast, I don't put off pulling out the rain gear, I don't call for the back-up vehicle, much as I sometimes wish there were one. I simply reduce my speed, pull in my focus and ride. There's nothing like a good downpour to make you appreciate a break in the clouds. And a hot shower. And fleece pants.

So today, when I had the Alaska Highway all to myself and not a drop of rain, I was in bliss. I've been here before (bliss and this campground). I'm in Fort Nelson at the West End Campground, where they now have Wi-Fi and a saloon.

I pulled in here around 7pm, pleasantly exhausted from the ride today from Chetwynd. The light up north at 7pm is incredible. It has the quality of a late afternoon elsewhere, but the shadows here are long and deep and rich, the sky is a definite masculine blue and the grass and trees, true forest green.

I've been riding for 3 days from Vancouver, fuelled by my excitement for the far north, the solitude, the vastness, both inner and outer, and the timeless two days and nights spent in the company of the man to whom I was married. Seems we've each moved beyond hurting each other in this lifetime. Now for act II perhaps we'll be great friends. It's an awesome trick of nature that people do all their coupling and child-bearing before they know any better. Once we've got the perspective of time and the wisdom of years, we know too well.

As I rode north of Dawson Creek, mile 0 of the Alaska Highway, into the beautiful nothingness of the north, I was struck with a profound sense of power coupled simultaneously with utter powerlessness. mmm. The lessons of the road run deep.

The girl at the desk, "Auntie", said they're calling for frost tonight. It's been a wet and quiet summer she said, and the season's already winding down. Part of the campground is already closed for the winter season. Summer's just a blip up north. Enjoy it while you have it. And expect sudden weather changes.

Saturday Market on Salt Spring Island

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2009-08-10T14:42:14-07:00

Heartbreak vs HarleyDog

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2009-08-09T16:45:57-07:00

The ferry's just pushing back from the land of faeries and good witches and Salt Spring Coffee. I had two delicious sleeps on the cool ground of a cedar grove, this morning's brought to a quiet end by a fine 5am drizzle on my tent's fly.

I remember my old friend Huck rhapsodizing about Salt Spring Island as a magical place of healing. He spent a summer here after helping me with the monstrous task of extracting myself from my marriage and my cafe in Banff - help I didn't recall asking for, so of course it ended badly. Seemed he needed nature and solitude and some soft earth to unload some tears on.

I'm thinking about heartbreak. Not because mine is broken, but because all this water and all these lonely little islands evoke a sense of isolation and abandon. I'm thinking of the story Peter told me of the Friday and Sunday "divorce ferries" dropping off kids to one parent or the other and how the child being shunted to and fro had her first experience of heartbreak way too early the moment she realized her parents no longer loved each other. I'm thinking of Huck, wondering where he is now, hoping his heart has long ago healed. Thinking of another heart I blindly tore to shreds somewhere out here on this liquid land and was recently reminded of the deep scars it left, both in the man and on the island, and thinking of the man to whom I was married, because in about 3 hours, we'll be having dinner.

Yes, I'm thinking about heartbreak, but my heart no longer dwells in that place. I no longer understand it. Oh, there was a day, yes, when I could cry a torrent of tears, wail away in the world of woe is me, and oooh, it was fertile ground! Fresh, unstomped-in muck, all wet and soggy and shitty, fodder for poetry and pissing matches and drama and love letters never sent. But Lord! What a waste of good energy! Now, when I think about heartbreak, I find very close to the surface a surprising tenderness and - not so surprising - a hearty laugh.

My dear friend and wise yogini Helen told a story the other day of a man jogging up the hill in her neighbourhood, his face contorted way beyond determination. "Suffering!" she said in mock pain. And we laughed.

When I think of the breakdown I had in India almost ten years ago after my marriage dissolved and how I was curled up in the fetal position, wailing, unconsolable for an entire day, I'm still able to access that place in my heart that was shattered. I could still choose today to hurl an ocean of tears over the edge of the ferry. But the sun is out, I'm on my way to a new opportunity to heal old hurts, there's a dog who rides a Harley on this ship, and I'd much rather giggle.

Bad News, Good News & Island Microcosms

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2009-08-07T21:23:54-07:00

I'm hunkered in amongst the tall cedars of Rainbow Nurseries on Salt Spring Island. There are three Japanese women camped next to me, giggling, sitting around what would have been a campfire had they not been banned all over BC due to fires burning wild throughout the province. They flew ten hours to be here.

It's 9:30pm, dark and quiet. There's a slight chill in the air - just enough to cool my fingertips as I type. My sleepingbag is inviting. I got the last spot in this sweet little wooded campground by chance. It's funny, you never know whether news is good or bad until much later.

I arrived at the ferry just as it was loaded and ready to depart. Normally they'd have room for one little motorbike, but they claimed this time to be full full. The next ferry would be a 90 minute wait. Bummer!

I paid my fare and rolled out onto the spit to watch seagulls and gaze out at the gulf islands. The guy in the car behind me got out and offered me a sip of beer in a McDonald's cup.

"It's Salt Spring Happy Hour!" he said. What luck!

I offered him some black olive hummus that Helen and Daniel had kindly packed up for me, along with a little bag of corn chips, some West Coast bread and a garden zucchini. Together we had a little happy hour picnic on the pier.

Peter, as it turned out, is the owner of the local gym and knows everyone on the island. "I came for lunch 18 years ago and I'm still here," he said. "It happens to a lot of people, so watch out..."

When I inquired about camping, he got on his cell and called his friend Shirley, who runs this campground closest to the Saturday market. She had one spot left and reserved it for me. Apparently I can walk a lovely path through the woods to the famous Ganges market in the morning. What luck!

"This is also the divorce ferry," he said, as a truck drove up and a kid hopped out the passenger side. "People move here and relationships explode. You have to be able to live with yourself - and your partner - here. It's a small island. Friday and Sunday evenings the kids get shunted back and forth between parents."

We talked about island life and the Yukon and gym ownership and motorbike riding and before I knew it, happy hour was over and the next ferry had arrived.

Peter gave me a day pass to his gym so I can take a shower tomorrow (it's very rustic here, only cold showers, cold water and outhouses), and when we said goodbye, he gave me his number and invited me to a paella feast he's throwing tomorrow for some friends.

Good news the first ferry was full full. Goodnight.

Spontaneous & Pronto

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2009-08-05T18:27:01-07:00

When I woke up this morning in Osoyoos, I did not know that twelve hours later I'd be on the ferry to Nanaimo watching a pod of Orcas glide by. Nor did I know I'd be up past midnight drinking wine, discussing identity, sovereignty and scheming ways of transcending the rat race with my dear friends in Nanaimo.

One of the beauties of solo travel is that you can wake up in Osoyoos, do some yoga before the desert sun comes up over the sage hills, tear down the tent and pack up the bike without a plan. You can glide into town for coffee, stick your finger in the air to see which way the wind is blowing and go. No one's gonna say "I wanna do this or that, or I need a hungry man breakfast before we do anything, or hurry up we have to make so and so before sunset."

It's always a bonus when friends along the way are spontaneous enough to welcome a ragged biker at a moment's notice. That's another beauty of solo travel - there's only one of you imposing for dinner.

I rode all day from 11 til 5:30, through the hot desert blow dryer of the Okanagan Valley, over the curvy Princeton to Hope pass through Manning Park, down through the Fraser Valley full of farms, then hit the ferry just as it was boarding, and arrived at Helen and Dan's just in time for a fabulous meal of fresh garden zucchini and beans with herbed basmati rice and a bottle of BC sauvignon blanc.

Yes. Henk the Buell and I are blissful. Goodnight til tomorrow.

Warm Wind Blowin'

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2009-08-04T20:21:39-07:00

There's a warm wind blowing over Lake Osoyoos bending the willows and tossing motorboats around in the little marina at the bistro where I just had a beer. When I came in early this evening, the lake was invisible under a shroud of smoke a mile thick from the 5-700 fires burning in BC every day. These winds are helping to clear the air here, but they're no doubt spreading flames over the ridge. A young deer crossed the road in front of me just before the descent into Osoyoos and I thought of all the wildlife being displaced. Of course I thought of all the humans too, but I thought of the wildlife first.

It feels great to be back on the road. Henk's running beautifully and seems happy too. I left today without knowing where I was going. What a feeling, leaving the decision to Henk and the weather!

I had intended to ride to Banff to spend a few days visiting friends and family, but weather.ca told me that it was raining there for the next five days. I've ridden enough in the rain when I haven't had a choice, so when I do, I choose not to. Then my friend in Kelowna called and told me not to bother coming that way because people are on evacuation alert due to fires.

So I hopped on Henk, all loaded for the northern trail, and let the wind blow through me.

Christina Lake

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2009-08-04T00:13:22-07:00

My fave place: on Henk, comin' in to Christina Lake.

Henk 2.0

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2009-07-29T15:41:18-07:00

It's a hot sunny day today. The same kind of dry-heat-wave-hot as the day, one year ago, Henk blew up. But today, Henk did not blow up. No, today, Henk purred like a contented kitty, happy as hell to be back on the pavement. Me too. I'm happy as hell to be back in BC, home away from home, beginning another adventure with Henk (2.0).

Yes, Henk has been rebuilt from gasket to sprocket to spline and he's good as new. I stopped in to say thank you to Scott at Kaotic. He didn't charge me enough for the job he did, so I brought him a case of Bud - not that that makes up for his generosity, but it'll keep him cool when the workday's done.

We just went as far as Greenwood, about 80kms down the road, to test the rebuild, get the fluids flowing, get Henk used to flying again after an idle winter of open heart surgery. No one dared ride him after he was fixed. Apparently he was giving off the air of a dog loyal to one master.

I had to turn around at Greenwood or I'd have simply continued on down the road, ignoring all responsibilities and appointments until September. It was sweet and it felt like home, but I've still got friends to see, an episode of "One Meatless Meal" to shoot, and a lot of work to do before the adventure begins in a week. Stay tuned. Come by often. Say hi in the comments section. It's gonna be another great adventure!

May the great spirits bring you guidance and a safe journey ~ Johnny McPhee, Watson Lake, Yukon

Pics from the Healing Grounds

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2009-07-07T18:35:42-07:00

Thank you kevin and Leah for monitoring Henk's operation and recovery! Scott at Kaotic Custom Choppers is the man. THANK YOU, Scott!!! Can't. Wait.

Richard Branson, the Ultimate Adventurer

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2008-10-29T10:07:04-07:00

Sir Richard recently attempted to set a new World Record sailing across the Atlantic on the uber-fast Virgin Money with his two adult children, Sam and Holly. Their attempts were thwarted when they were hit with 40-ft waves and the main sail ripped. They were forced to abandon hopes for the record and return to Bermuda to have the boat repaired and perhaps try again in the spring or summer next year.

Being huge fan, I was eagerly following Richard's blog when this happened. I could relate to what must've been a huge disappointment, given my own disappointing attempt with Henk in August. But I also understand that it was not at all a failure. The record would have been, as Branson said, just the icing on the cake. "The adventure is in the planning and in the doing." The substance and soul of adventure is just getting out there and doing it. Whether or not we "succeed" in the eyes of the world or record takers is truly secondary.

Readers were invited to chat with Richard and ask him questions about his Atlantic Adventure. Of course I leaped at the opportunity.

People like to be prophets of doom when I talk about riding to the Arctic Circle or when I dream aloud of riding solo around the world. If they don't actually say "you're crazy", they imply it. It's difficult explaining adventure to the adventureless. I wanted to know how Richard Branson wards off his killjoys.

I sent him this note:

Dear Richard,

Everyone has his or her own definition of adventure. Yours is obviously not a trip to the spa for a pedicure. I suspect that for you, an adventure wouldn’t be an adventure without the odd 40-ft rogue wave.

For me, adventure is a journey into the unknown, way outside my comfort zone, where personal beliefs are brought up for questioning, fears are faced, perceptions shattered, and i’m left forever changed by the experience.

I’m sure many people question your sanity and like to warn you of all the possible things that could go wrong on any given adventure.

How do you reconcile to the naysayers your love of adventure with your love of life?

Thank you for your constant inspiration.

Moira
solo motorbike adventurer

Here's his response. It's worth a listen:

Off the road for a rebuild

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2008-09-03T12:52:20-07:00

Henk made it to Vancouver and back to Christina Lake - four easy-going, delightful days on southern BC roads. I took my time, gliding slowly at 80km/hr over the Hope-Princeton pass and through the sunny Okanagan, both to baby the leaking engine in the heat and to savour the last few days on the road.

Getting in to Vancouver is worse than getting out of L.A. and I ended up riding the shoulder (a common practise in California, but not legal - for good reason - in Canada) around miles of parked traffic in the lower mainland from Mission to the Port Mann Bridge over the Fraser River. People in cars waiting it out like good Canadian citizens resented me, but in the 40-degree heat which feels ramped up to 50 or higher on the asphalt in leathers, it was a matter of escaping heat stroke or dehydration, and I was prepared to tell that to an RCMP officer had I been pulled over.

On the way back, just west of Bromley Rock on Highway 3, a big beautiful black bear scrambled out of the ditch and across the road thirty feet in front of me. I geared down, gently braking, and watched in awe as it disappeared up the hill on the south side, an unexpected highlight.

When I rolled back in to Kevin's garage, where Henk will undergo bypass surgery, reconstruction and rehabilitation this winter, I was not ready to let go. I wasn't ready to let go of Henk or the Great Northern Odyssey or my solitude.

The solo ride with Henk has become more than an annual motorcycle adventure; it's taken on a life of its own, as passions will. From external exercise to internal inquiry to personal mythology, the road, the machine, the solitude have shaped me. The journey is always a revelation, whether or not I follow the same route. It's a profound check in with my own personal truths; a strong confirmation of my reality; therapy which serves to lessen the grip of, in Einstein's words, "mass suggestion" that takes hold like a vice living in the city.

In native and shamanic beliefs, the wisdom of the bear is about introspection, healing, solitude, transformation and dreams.

Each time Henk and I have taken to the road, we've had a surprise bear encounter. I can't assume it's random; instead I take it as a blessing - a sacred vision awakening me over and over again, reminding me of my true nature.

My true nature is not anti-social; it's pro-solitude.

I do this for myself, yes, but every time I ride, I also feel a part of something bigger, as though I've been given the privilege and the responsibility to keep dreams alive.

Henk's gonna try again...

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2008-08-15T21:02:35-07:00

Henk's transmission is fixed and good to go! Ten days after the engine explosion, he's equipped with new bearings, sprockets and splines, and has had his engine flushed clean of metal shards.

I have a collection of shattered internal parts and a couple of rear view mirrors with which to build an art piece called "100,000 kms with Henk".

I gave up on my northern adventure with time running short after ten days of idling and Henk in desperate need of a rebuild, so now it's just over to Vancouver, a six or seven hour ride from here, then a winding trip back. If I make it past the Bermuda Triangle of Rock Creek, I should be sailing, but I'll have to baby Henk a little. He now has quite a messy oil leak in his head gasket and the temperature in southern BC has been an oil-burning 37 degrees C.

Yes. You can control what you can - the steering, your posture, your breath - but ultimately, you just empty and ride.

Zen and the art of being stranded

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2008-08-11T23:33:15-07:00

I mourned for a few days; then, knowing there was nothing else to do, I finally abandoned to play.

Scott was trying his hardest under the circumstances. Grand Forks is not exactly Grand Central, so when parts are ordered, they're put on the Greyhound and chugged over mountain passes slower than molasses.

It's been a test of my patience, but over the weekend, Kevin built a sauna - as much to take my mind off Henk's demise as to increase his property value and personal wellness. Three nights in a row we all piled in for sweaty test runs past midnight. It worked. It's not exactly the solitude and magnitude of the north, but when everyone has gone to sleep and the world gets really still, I can almost imagine I'm in the bath house at the river hostel in Dawson City.

There's an unhurried pace around this home that encourages contemplation; and if you're able to surrender to the stillness, you can find yourself soothed by the rhythm of the mundane.

Ravens wake you at dawn with their high-pitched calls in the high pines, but there's no need to rise before nine. When you do, Kevin's ready with the best cappuccino in Christina Lake. You take it outside and sip it slow.

There's a single pale pink lotus flower in the centre of the pond that opens before your eyes in the morning sun while you're tossing fish food to the bright orange koi and petting a purring cat.

Somewhere around 10, Lauren emerges wearing pink panties and a smile. She offers you a sip of mocha milkshake and sucks you in to her six-year-old world of salamanders, inchworms and frogs.

Leah makes pancakes with maple syrup and blueberries and whipped cream and breakfast is sweet and satisfying and leisurely.

The rest of the day, it seems, disappears in the southern BC desert heat with a swim in the lake, yoga in the shade, or some writing.

After the sun has peaked and the pine needles have been swept from the trampoline, you jump for an hour, bouncing Lauren higher than she dared last year. You teach her to do a seat drop with a half twist and a full standing spin. You giggle like you're six, and when she has to pee, she goes on the lawn so you giggle even more.

Sometime around 4 or 5, spices of India start to waft from the kitchen and you know a fabulous dinner of chana masala or palak paneer is being created. Kevin usually cracks a bottle of local chardonnay and evening has officially begun.

After dinner, you jump some more with Lauren, keeping her occupied so her parents can test out the new sauna together. You lay on the trampoline, spent, staring up at the emerging night sky with its ancient evening star and recite together "star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, wish I may, wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight..." You wish for nothing, but try to make out her wish whispered behind her grinning lips.

The sauna is gentle and cedar-scented. You can stay for hours with a full jug of water and frequent breaks into the cool air under the rising moon. It's not exactly the adventure of the wild north, but when everyone has gone to sleep and the world gets really still, you can feel your heart pounding like a prospector who's struck gold.

Henk the Buell

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2008-08-09T13:49:59-07:00

I am not my motorbike. But once a year, for a few weeks in July, August or September, Henk and I become one.

So when I saw him ripped apart in the shop in Grand Forks the other day I could have cried. Had my friends' 6-year-old daughter not been there, I would have.

I don't expect many people to understand this. If you saw WALL-E and felt a tear well up when EVE was taken away, perhaps you'd be close. My friend Harmen (who understands everything) will tell you I anthropomorphize Henk. I'm not sure who's made whom more human.

For 10 years, Henk has been my loyal companion, my trusted steed, my freedom warrior. We've covered 105,000 kms alone together - three times across Canada from Banff or Vancouver to Toronto, three times up the Alaska Highway to the Land of the Midnight Sun from southern BC or Los Angeles and back, three times up and down the Klondike to the gold rush town of Dawson City, once through America's vast south west - the Million Dollar Highway of Colorado, the jaw-dropping red rocks of Utah, and New Mexico, the Land of Enchantment - and countless winding turns around spectacular Rocky Mountain passes and parkways, spring, summer and fall, over smooth dry pavement, pockmarked freeways, potholed, chip sealed highways and dusty gravel roads, under perfect cloudless skies, through raging rain and hailstorms - even in snow.

Yes, Henk and I have been through a lot together. He carried me naked out of Banff when I needed to flee, empty-handed and chronically fatigued after a restaurant sale and a divorce. He's provided me with solace and solitude and silence when life has become stormy and raucous and loud. He's given me balance when life has become too comfortable. He's delivered me safely on special occasions to the home of a lover or a dear friend and brought me happily home time and time again. And he's taken me on adventures of a lifetime I couldn't have dreamed up without his spontaneous spirit and ready heart.

Henk's hung onto hair-raising corners any other bike would've lost. He's accelerated and decelerated effortlessly and instantly out of certain death countless times and pulled off fancy maneuvers a lesser bike would envy. He's stuck stubbornly to the road when ladders and canoes were being blown off cars. He's posed for hundreds of photos and starred in dozens of videos. He's charmed customs officers at the BC/Alberta/Washington/Montana and Alaska border crossings, campers at KOAs across western America, hedonists and runaways way up north. And he's been the object of much admiration in Toronto, Los Angeles, Dawson City, Santa Fe, Vancouver, Whitehorse, Banff, Aspen, Moab, Prince George, Christina Lake, Jasper, Bellingham, Edmonton, San Francisco, Nanaimo, Bella Coola and everywhere in between.

Even though he wasn't made for touring, Henk's hauled more miles than any of his contemporaries - and he's done it all without a complaint.

Sure, he's dropped his drive belt a couple of times. You would too after all those miles. His primary chain has needed tightening on occasion, the oil changed often and the air filter replaced every 10,000 miles or so. He's gone through so many rear tires I've lost count, burned up two or three batteries, continually shakes loose his carbon fiber fender, almost lost his right rear signal, once had his ignition switch and stator replaced and just dropped his right rear view mirror the other day.

But Tuesday marked Henk's very first serious internal problem. It requires some serious surgery. There were metal shards shattered throughout his engine from a blown bearing, and deeper inside, a broken transmission drive sprocket from a worn out spline. He's chronically fatigued, and in need of some extended TLC.

I've left him in the caring hands of Scott at Kaotic Custom Choppers in Grand Forks, who's doctored Henk before and is doing his best. But the prognosis is not good. He says he can get us back on the road, but that this should be our last trip.

So yes, every day is great. Love your loves while you have them and when part of you dies, may you be blessed with friends like Kevin and Leah at Christina Lake who pull you out of mourning by making good food, pouring good wine and building a sauna.

Blew a gasket

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2008-08-05T13:11:19-07:00

I'm at the Petro Can in Rock Creek sitting on my saddlebags, laptop propped on my tank bag, watching people come and go, other bikers filling up, cowboys picking up 12-packs of beer, three beautiful brown horses in a trailer, hopefully not en route to a rodeo, families heading home late after a long weekend of play in sunny B.C. It's a hot dry cloudless day and I was loving the ride until all of a sudden, when gearing down for a corner, my engine seized up as though it had just swallowed a mountain of gravel.

I pulled over right away, thinking I was dragging my back fender or my exhaust pipe, but when I checked, everything was perfectly intact. There was some splattered oil in the engine and I wondered if I'd let my oil get too low. I'd checked it before leaving Christina Lake, and it was indeed low, but I'm on my way to Kamloops for a new back tire and I thought it would be enough to get me there.

I pulled back onto the highway to try again, this time more slowly, afraid the engine would seize up completely. Again the engine ground through the gears. I pulled over and flagged down a biker heading my way. Jim Moon Jr, on his way back home to central BC from Sturgis, smiling as though he was having the best day of his life, stopped and got off his bike.

"What can I do for you little lady?"

I told him the problem.

He was mystified, but suspected a "tranny problem." He suggested I ride in front of him and he'd follow me to Rock Creek, just another 4 kms down the road where I could get out of the burning sun and at least top up my oil if I thought that was the problem.

"Thanks so much for stopping," I said.

"Of course! Harley riders always stop for each other. People stop for me."

I'm not exactly a Harley rider, but I'm grateful today for Henk's V-twin.

We rode slowly to Rock Creek, Jim in my left rearview mirror (my right mirror, rusted through, broke off this morning when I went to Jimmy Bean's for coffee).

When we pulled in to the Petro Can, he said he could hear the horrible grinding of the engine and see the bike lurching. He crawled underneath and looked around, attracting another bike enthusiast who got in on the diagnostics. One of them pulled a rotted strip of rubber from somewhere and said I'd busted a seal and that would explain the splattered oil, but neither of them was a mechanic, and neither of them could really help.

Kelowna is an hour from here, Kamloops, three, and I'm just an hour down the road from Christina Lake, where I've been staying the last four nights with my friends Kevin and Leah, who have extended their hospitality over the years so much that it feels like home.

I told Jim I'd be ok and thanked him for his help. He gave me his contact info and told me to give him a call if I wanted company on the Alaska Highway. He's ridden it once already this season and said he got rained on every day. I waved him off and said have a great day. He smiled like he was having the best day of his life and said "every day's great!" and he was off.

I picked up the payphone and called "home." Leah answered, and without hesitation, said Kevin would be here to get me with the truck. Then Kevin got on, sounding almost happy I'd broken down.

"I was just looking for something to do anyway. I'll be there in a little over an hour!"

So here I sit at the Petro Can in Rock Creek.

Yes, every day is great.

L.A. to the lake

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2008-08-02T00:04:27-07:00

I rode through a landscape painter's dream. There's a color I don't think of until I'm in it: haystack gold. It's not buttercup yellow and it's not yellow gold, nor is it taupe or sand or copper or even mustard; but when the sunlight hits it at the perfect angle and there's not a cloud in the sky or a shadow to mute it, it's haystack gold and it's all over Central Oregon.

Then there's sage green. Not the sage green you'd see in a Starbucks washroom, but the real sage green, the color that is actually a hundred shades of grey and three hundred shades of green, from avocado to zucchini and even a few shades of black and white and everything in between; and when the warm wind blows in just the right direction, the earthy scent can penetrate every cell in your body like a good gin martini, dry, with a green olive.

Speaking of dreams, I have a big, grey, male cat slipping into slumber on my left thigh as I type. Tim. He was just a newborn last year when I was here. Now he stands taller than the matriarch, Boots and her offspring, Kali, both substantial felines. Tim is a formidable force. He found his way into the Spirit House and made his presence impossible to ignore by rubbing his chin on the edges of my screen, purring like Henk, stepping over the keyboard, rubbing against my cheeks - and drooling. Tim likes to play; he's still a kitten at heart. I'm happy to have a bedmate for the night.

Four days from Venice to Christina Lake is a bit of a marathon. Five or six would be more sane. I rode pretty much 10 hour days, only stopping to fill my gas tank, pee, have a quick drink of water and a quick bite of manna bread. By the end of the day the last two days, I was ready to dismount. The weather's been perfect, but all that bright sunlight and hot dry air can be exhausting inside the helmet and leathers. If I'd had more time I'd have stopped for a hotspring or a leisurely dinner in California's wine country - but the call of Canada was strong so I raced on.

Redwoods, heat and vegan fairies

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2008-07-30T22:13:55-07:00

If I were actually - going - camping, I'd never go to a KOA. But being solo on the road and needing a place to set up my tent at night, the KOA is perfect. They tucked me in tonight at the one in Eureka, California, between three bikers from Michigan and a couple from The Netherlands, all on Harleys. The families across the "street" probably think this is Rebel Row. Fact is, it's 10:20 and I'm the only one still awake.

The guys from Michigan are all in their 50's or better. Sounds like they've had some good long days coming across the top of America, and they're smoking weed and cigars and drinking beer, which put them all out half an hour ago. Before they passed out, though, they had a chance to discuss and solve my mysterious electrical problem.

Henk's been running like a dream since leaving Venice five minutes after the earthquake on Tuesday that's in all the papers today. But this very odd thing has been happening where occasionally when I turn the key to start the engine after filling up, I get nothing. No power, no battery, it's as though Henk just decided to die. I try again and still nothing. I wait, take a deep breath, pray, and voila! The lights go on and I quickly pull the throttle before he decides to die again.

This actually went on the last couple of days on the road at the end of my last trip, but it didn't seem dire enough to do anything about it because I was always able, after three or four tries, to get Henk started. I described my problem to one of the dudes next tent over, a tall redhead with a thick mustache, a fat cigar and a blue bandana. Of course, when I tried to show him the problem, Henk started right up and I was made to look like a crazy person. He got down on the ground on his back and peered into Henk's rusted belly looking for a clue. He fiddled with some greasy wires with his filthy fingers, puffed on his cigar with a puzzled expression and offered up all sorts of possible explanations, none of which rang true to me.

When I came back from a walk, the three bikers called me over to their fire claiming they had the solution. A guy with white hair and glasses and a long white beard, who looked like Doc from Snow White if Doc were a biker, said the wires in my starter switch were overheated and just needed to cool off for a few minutes before they'd make the connection. It made sense because each time it failed it was after a long stretch of riding, when the bike was good and hot, and if I prayed - ie "waited for the wires to cool" it would go again. Well, halleluja! This was not a problem after all, but a blessing. It would force me to slow down and stretch, drink some water, breathe before getting back on the road after fillups.

I camped last night just south of Half Moon Bay on Highway 1. The KOA was high-season packed and smelled like sewage. But I was barely there 12 hours. Tonight's much more comfortable.

I stopped in on my way through San Fran to see my friends at VegNews and before I knew it, lunch was served. Every day at 12:30, one of the staff makes a beautiful vegan meal and they all sit down to share. I was the honored guest today and fully enjoyed Lisa's black bean and corn burrito with a lovely fresh salad and a killer dressing made with coconut milk yogurt, balsamic vinaigre and tamari. When I hopped back on my bike 3 hours later, I felt like I'd been in the company of vegan fairies. They're all so lovely and made me feel so welcome.

It's getting chilly here in Eureka outside my sleepingbag. So I will be the last to turn in on Rebel Row, but not the last to turn in at KOA. There are still some screeching kids playing in the Kamp. Tomorrow I'll take in some more giant redwoods on the 1 to Crescent City, then inland through Oregon's beautiful southwestern forests.

Great Spirits, love and well wishes

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2008-07-28T14:08:00-07:00

I'm 20 hours from departure with many things left to do. My warm clothes are getting fluffed in the dryer, my electronics are charging, I'm taping up maps that have been shredded by overuse and I'm cleaning the house.

But mostly, I'm getting mentally and spiritually prepared. I slept til 10:30 this morning, knowing it was my last deep sleep in a cozy bed with duvet and pillows for a month. It was blissful. I dreamed of cats, not my own, coming into the house and getting chased out by my fat, territorial Willow Green Eyes. Around noon, a skinny male cat I'd never seen before came into the house! Luckily Willow didn't notice and he ran back out into the garden at the first sight of a human. Strangely, no neighbour cats have ever entered our house before. It's good to know my spider sense is activated. Intuition is my best defence on the road.

People love to warn me of all the things that can go wrong. I wonder what that is. Fear, I suppose. But I find it odd, because to fear for someone else, I think, is merely transferral of one's own fears. I'd rather one not think of me at all if they're going to be creating fearful thoughts.

I'm glad my parents weren't that way. My mom tells a story of doing the dishes one lazy summer afternoon when I was two years old and looking out the kitchen window to see me hanging upside down from a tree. She knew there and then that she could decide to worry sick about me, or trust that everything would be ok. Thankfully for me, she chose the latter. We're all born with wings. The greatest gift a parent (or friend, or spouse) can give is to allow us to keep them in a world that constantly wants to clip them.

Along with all the warnings, I'm also receiving some beautiful love and well wishes for the trip - even from people I've never met. I just read over my blog from last year in anticipation of what lies ahead. My favourite blessing is still Johnny McPhee's from Williams Lake, "May the Great Spirits bring you guidance and a safe journey."

If you're following along, please send me this blessing. And to you also -

May the great spirits bring you guidance and a safe journey!

Here we go again!

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2008-07-15T17:30:03-07:00

It's that time of year again when I feel the spell of the Yukon working its magic from afar, luring me from southern comforts with promises of long days of solitude and midnight blue sunsets.

Jim from Harley House Calls came by a couple of weeks ago to give Henk some good tlc. He spent three hours draining water and sediment from pipes, cleaning carbs, changing fluids and tuning the engine, then took him for a spin and assured me Henk's good to go - again!

After spending 800 bucks twice at the local Harley shop and not getting anything beyond mediocre service at best, I knew there had to be something better out there in L.A. I called around and googled around and finally found Jim. He runs Harley House Calls on his own, has been working on bikes since the age of 15 and knows his way around a V-twin. He's legit and he's a sweetheart. At $90/hr you won't find anyone better.

So Henk and I are preparing for another northern sojourn. We leave in a couple of weeks, north to Dawson City, legendary gold rush town, home to 20-30 thousand stampeders at the turn of last century, subject of many a Robert Service poem, and adventure town every summer four years running to Henk and me. I'm already looking forward to the bath house at the River Hostel. I may not shower between now and then.

I haven't planned my route yet. North through San Fran so I can visit my pals at VegNews and perhaps take a day right off the top to soak off the past in the naked pools of Harbin - or soak in the past depending on my mood. I'm not sure if I'll head east from there, then north, or up the coast and in at Portland or Vancouver.

No doubt, I'll be taking the road less travelled, making movies along the way, humming to myself, singing inside my helmet, loving being in my element.

I never expect a perfect ride - something unanticipated always happens. Though a rescue is always dramatic, I hope not to need one this time.

As always, I'm looking forward to actual weather - with an asterisk. I don't exactly look forward to cats and dogs downpours while riding, or as I had last September on the Alaska Highway, snow, but I delight in the thought of a warm summer sprinkle and seeing my breath in the cool of the morning in my tent in Whitehorse.

Don't think I'm complaining, but the sunshine is relentless down here in Venice. It's a bit like groundhog day - sunny day after day, barely a cloud to break the bright blue sky's perfect California shine.

I also look forward to the real people of the north. People whose teeth are not veneered and aligned in perfect Hollywood white picket fence smiles; people whose breasts don't defy gravity like helium balloons; people who haven't had their knees tucked and their chins pinched and their skin lasered and their guts sucked.

Yes, the road beckons again.

Firehorserider - the movie!

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2008-05-08T11:32:18-07:00

It's finally here! Fourteen mini episodes of the epic adventure. Here's episode 1: (If you want more of the 2-4-minute episodes, go to "more from firehorserider" inside YouTube.)

I'm in a Hurry to Slow Things Down

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-11-26T11:29:21-08:00

Take me down. Take me down. Take me down.

Down to the sand where the seven-tailed kite spins precision circles and swan dives in the westward wind and a silly little kid sprays pink goo and giggles from a can.

Thanksgiving weekend on the beach and I am grateful.

Grateful for uncles holding hands with their nieces hopping on one foot and pampered fun dogs riding shotgun on bikes or skateboards, blow-dried fur flowing in the November breeze, tongues flapping happily, long white canines glistening with drool.

I'm grateful for the lean-bodied monkey humans dangling one arm twirling on the ring swings scissor-kicking an ounce of their potential into the blue gym sky.

Two dollars puts me up up up by the power of the sun over waves and fishermen eagle eyeing silver goldmines and sandlines a hazy hue of lazy ferris wheel pink and teal.

I am grateful for Flagman Ron who wears or carries his tattered American flag, white beard freshly trimmed and combed deceptively groomed well-behaved under his wide brimmed hat until his next victim gets a spoonful of his SPIRIT. "Be Happy!" he bellows, canned heat close to the boardwalk world, then breaks into song.

A lone bongo player on the sunset hill bangs it out beside his big red hound calling forth wishes and dreams, sending forth wishes and dreams, and the old man I'm grateful for, "my sunset friend" I call him because we've never spoken and I see him every day at sunset, somebody's grandfather, sits behind glass in his home with a view of the waves - and waves, then flips me two thumbs up, then the peace sign. One day he stood up to proudly reveal the words, the most we've ever exchanged, on his T-shirt: "Venice Beach Skinny Dipper."

A little girl in a wheelchair blazes down the paved path huffing and pumping - pumping with the words "Live Your Life" across her Tee and a smile across her face beaming.

I'm grateful for random smiles exchanged between strangers just because the sun is out and we're out Living Our Life.

Slow down. Be grateful. Be happy. Live your life...and go skinny dipping.

Big Sur

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-11-02T09:42:08-07:00

Meet me in Big Sur on the ledge of the earth on the edge of the razor on the verge of crazy in the pillow clouds where time means nothing and Sea Foam Green is a swirling reality not a Ralph Lauren paint color.

Meet me in Big Sur where ragged rocks threaten like menacing bladed soldiers and protect like a sharp barnacled cliff wall billions of tides strong; where California condors soar over ancient redwood spears on the spicy eucalyptus wind that comes cold and furious like a sea-chilled gale, then suddenly bows soft on your face with a scented kiss of sunwarmth peeled from a thermal layer ridden by a solitary golden eagle with 10-foot wingspan; where transparent fog fingers creep in like shadows from obscurity reaching to tickle or taunt, then out of the blue wrap the world in a surprise silent embrace before evaporating into heaven.

Meet me in Big Sur where idle is idol. Lay your combustible head down in the fire glow of a fall afternoon and feel volatility transformed in rest even on quaking ground – possibility infinite possibility…

Convergence of land and sea – in quiet contemplation - your rugged mass and my feminine water – one.

Suzanne's Angels in the Free Venice Beachhead

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-10-04T21:12:58-07:00

We're featured in this month's Beachhead! Read the story on page 10.

This is a photo of Suzanne's hand-hewn art home on day 2 of my odyssey.

Had I known I'd be riding through snow or that I'd break down on the Alaska Highway, would I have ventured out on the long ride north?

Absolutely!

Would I do it all again?

In a heartbeat.

Back in Venice Safe and Sound

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-10-02T19:11:28-07:00

It's a bizarre place, California. The main item on the news here last night, despite the people of Myanmar crying out for international support, was Brittney's loss of custody of her children. God Bless America. And everywhere I look, people are unconsciously consuming stuff, acquiring brand new bling to adorn their cars, homes, bodies. Silicone, botox, restylane, and collagen fill lips, breasts, foreheads and cheeks of women walking by.

This madness would not be tolerated in the Yukon. You'd be laughed out of town if you showed up in Dawson with ass fat in your face.

Yes! I'm finally back in Venice, 13,654 kilometres, 8,484 miles and six weeks from departure day, August 19 - 700kms less than it would be had I not been carried off the Alaska Highway by Angels. I'll get used to not being out on the open road soon...or not.

Henk barely made it back. He's due for a major overhaul and got me here grudgingly. Not sure he wanted to be back in California. Or perhaps he sensed the journey coming to an end and didn't want to be put out to pasture. He started acting up almost as soon as we crossed the state line from Oregon, grinding rough in the low gears and hesitating to start after a fill. But I held my breath and he got me here without incident.

I'll get him the attention he needs over the winter.

It's nice to be at the end of this odyssey. It'll take me a few days to assimilate back into "normal" life, several days for my body to move freely again after stiffening bones on steel in wind, rain and snow, and a few weeks to gather up the hundreds of minutes of video I took from the road, edit them into some short movies, have them expertly music supervised, and post them here.

For the moment, I'm luxuriating in safety and shelter, plotting my next adventure from the comfort of an overstuffed chair with the help of my overweight, affection-starved kitty.

Last Night on the Road (Hopefully)

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-09-28T17:06:39-07:00

Under the stars over the ocean, children screech and laugh, fighting their parents for a few more minutes of play before bedtime. Single flashlights bob through the dark like massive fireflies, and camper doors slide closed on their metal rollers as people hunker in for the evening. Right beside me, a couple sitting at a picnic table psychoanalyze their mutual friends. Behind me, traffic has slowed to just the occasional vehicle braving night driving on the winding 1. Directly in front of my little tent, a hundred feet below, the mighty Pacific!

It feels great to be back on the left coast and so close to the end of this expedition. I couldn't pry myself away from Suzanne and her kitties until three pm today, so I'm four hours down the road from Boulder Creek, four hours up the road from Venice Beach. I turned in here just in time for sunset, and set up camp in the overflow area, which is actually primo real estate on the jagged sea-battered cliffs of Los Padres National Forest just south of Big Sur.

Of course, there's no internet connection (or phones) here on the edge of America, so by the time I post this, I will hopefully be home. I say hopefully, because old Henkeroo is having engine problems. I was going to move him after pulling in, and he refused to start, backfiring angrily twice. A connection somewhere has no doubt been shaken loose on these nasty earthquake-pocked California highways. But he ran smoother today than yesterday, and until I stopped, I was optimistic he'd get me just a little further before I either retire him or send him for a major overhaul. It wouldn't shock me to have mechanical problems on the very last day of the journey. It wouldn't shock you, either, would it? There's nothing I can do about it now but get a good night's sleep and prepare for a possible long day tomorrow.

The road today getting here was beautiful. I did the 1 last year, but it was enshrouded in fog all the way from Washington to California, so I didn't see much. Today, I took advantage of some of those vista turnouts to, well, view the vista.

I rode through fields and fields of ripened strawberries sweetening the air with their perfume, and thought of the plastic quart boxes of California strawberries I saw at the North Mart in Inuvik for $6.87. It's miraculous, isn't it, that a quart of strawberries from way down here can find its way way up there and cost under ten bucks? Well, miraculous to me after covering that distance one lonely kilometre at a time.

It was great to see Suzanne. She's such a character! She's passionate and sensitive, an artist in every sense - and by her own admission, a true misfit. The combination of a broken back and homelessness has caused her to retreat into her little arthouse cocoon, and caused her to become very internal and insecure. She's got great talent, but perhaps lacks the belief in herself that some of us get through reassurance from our partners and loved ones. Her poetry is heart-wrenching. The excerpts of her memoires that she's read me are powerful and poignant.

She lights up when she talks about her book, which she's been struggling to complete. The nagging issues of homelessness, though, prevent her from really diving in deeply to get that first draft finished.

She showed me some old black and white photographs today that were taken in 1966 in Montreal. Oh my god. What a stunningly beautiful young woman! In one, she's posed melodramatically in a cemetary, naked, elongated on a hill, headstones scattered in the background. The lines are absolutely perfect. You can see why Leonard wrote the song. Who wouldn't have been inspired by that body?

I gave her a quick computer lesson so she can take advantage of technology to help expand her present world beyond the beautiful but dark and somewhat gloomy woods where she's camped. She published her first blog today over at Suzanne's Angels. I hope you'll take a few minutes to read her story in her own words. I've also encouraged her to publish some of her poems there, so hopefully they'll be coming soon!

I've never ridden for a "cause" before or done anything like this, but I'm inspired to do more. I haven't finished taking pledges yet. I'll continue until Suzanne has found a reasonable home and has ample resources to become self sufficient again.

Suzanne calls me an activist. I've never considered myself one. I have so many people in my life who have raised the standards of human decency, I'm just trying to maintain those standards and do the right thing. I once meditated on the word "decency" and found it to embody kindness and compassion and generosity and selflessness and empathy and patience and honesty, and ultimately, love. I think we all have that in us. When we see a person suffering, we have a difficult time turning our backs. It's really that simple, isn't it?

Today in Santa Cruz rush hour, I glanced over at a family van in the next lane full of little girls waving excitedly at me. I waved back and beamed a huge smile they wouldn't have seen through my helmet. At moments like that I wish I had a blazing crest on the back of my leather jacket with angel wings on wheels. Who knows what some misfit little girl might conjure up in her imagination...

Suzanne's camp in the redwoods

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-09-27T23:25:46-07:00

I'm in my little tent at 2 am in the redwoods, still a little wired from today's ride through heaven and hell.

A reminder never to take the 101 through San Francisco at 3pm to the 9. Hell on wheels.

But heavenly, coming across the Golden Gate Bridge in a cloud.

Henk's getting tired. There's a disturbing clank and grind going on in lower gears, and once today when I stopped for gas, he refused to start on first try. I'm praying he'll just get me this last little leg home.

Suzanne was happy to see me. Happy to have some conversation and hear the adventure. She's been very isolated up here in these dark, quiet woods, unable to come and go as she pleases because her truck is not exactly a vehicle for running errands and she's a few miles out of town.

She's been wanting to contribute to the Suzanne's Angels blog since the beginning, but didn't quite have the technology at her fingertips. I'm helping her with that tomorrow, so if you go over for a look, you'll be able to read her story in her own words.

Back in California

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-09-26T20:53:28-07:00

My chair is a mossy rock, brushed clean of twigs, and my penetrable walls of old oak and eucalyptus welcome the graceful crossing of deer. My light is the September full moon, though the glow of my laptop oozes a manmade hue into the godly night. These woods embrace like an old friend, and the healing springs break down boundaries inside. Longed-for relief to my aching firehorserider body; welcomed shedding of literal and ethereal skins.

I rode a long day today from Chemult in central Oregon, where the one old mountain man I met couldn't fathom the ride I'd just done.

"I grew up just over the hill and I live 300 feet from where I was born. I 'aven't been nowhere. I don't like to travel. Couldn't stand all that sittin' in a car. I like to watch things on tv though."

I rode into a blessed hot afternoon along the 97, then the 5 south. I'm finally back in California. Where else would they let you relax and reflect in a hot spring naked?

I counted twenty six items of clothing, including my helmet and boots, that I had on for most of the journey. I've even slept nights in layers. To peel them all off and wear nothing but my locker key around my pinky is almost as liberating as the ride itself. An evening with the hippies and hedonists of Harbin is ecstasy.

I'm at the end of my journey and quite ready to be out of the saddle.

While I blasted my physical body to smithereens with rounds of hot and cold in the candlelit soaking sanctuary, a full moon ritual was taking place in the warm pool with twenty shadows joining hands and singing oms in harmony. Layers of memory peeled away like paper pages leafing by, fleeting images of a well-lived story.

My neck began to release the tension of the wind I've carried for five and a half weeks. My fingers, semi-permanently ossified in a throttle-holding grip began to lengthen and relax with the help of a little self-massage. My trapezius (trapezii?) softened in the hot water and let go, at least for tonight. I hold my fear in those two long flat triangular muscles, and hunching against the cold ratchets up the rigidity.

It's been a good adventure.

Was I outside my comfort zone? Way outside. Several times after passing the Arctic Circle, riding into infinity, I asked myself where on earth I thought I was going. I never thought that Dempster would end. It's difficult to describe that kind of remote, except perhaps to say that there's remote, and there's Arctic Circle remote. It's out there. Even the Alaska Highway feels like civilization in comparison, and until this trip, the Alaska Highway was my great example of existential riding.

Were my beliefs brought up for questioning? Ha! Believe me, the irony was not lost on this long time vegetarian that my rescue squad had just come from killing three buffalo to feed their families. The gods have a great sense of humour. When they took me to their friends house in Fort St. John for ribs, I stopped questioning and enjoyed a wonderful home cooked meal prepared with love and generosity for four hungry travellers.

Were my perceptions shattered? Over and over again. I've always been so in love with the solo journey that I was uncertain how the week on the Dempster with a companion would go. Travelling alone is not so much about shunning companionship as it is about embracing solitude. But I enjoyed every minute with Kevin - so much so that I'd do it again anytime. Having someone to share the grief of burning pelvic tissue and endless gravel, someone to wake me when the northern lights had been turned on by the Indian we met at Eagle Plains, having a friend to share a laugh with and a swig of Courvoisier with - a guy who also happens to go to great lengths to ensure that his friends are happy and safe - and celebrating the victory of finally reaching Inuvik over a couple of Molson Canadians at the Mad Trapper made that portion of the adventure ten times richer than any solo trip.

Did I face my fears? It's easy to become fearful in this world. Reading a newspaper is enough to keep most of us locked up inside. It's easy to allow others' fears to become my own. That's part of the reason I do these trips. I can feel myself becoming fearful, untrusting, cynical, and I sense how paralytic that could make a person. For a couple of weeks before setting out on the long journey, I have to get myself mentally prepared. A lot can go wrong, and something always does. Of course, I'm afraid of breaking down on the Alaska Highway on a cold day. I'm afraid of riding in snow. But both happened and I'm still here. The long rides in solitude don't so much give me courage as they allow me to be alive, in the moment, and when I'm right here right now, I've discovered there is nothing to fear. And that's a life-altering realization.

Suzanne's Angels

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-09-25T18:18:20-07:00

Just wanted to post this as easy access to Suzanne's Angels.

Now that I'm getting close to the end, I need angels more than ever.

Remember, I'm still just taking pledges. Once I've arrived in Venice, I'll let you know how to give your money directly to Suzanne.

Headin' South

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-09-21T18:12:23-07:00

I should be watching the half moon rising up over the lake where I'm camped, one of the warmest in Canada, in Osoyoos, and the stars dancing on the dark water rippling in the dry wind; but my laptop needed feeding. Nature waits for no thing. Not for technology, not for people, robots, feeding their needy machines, not for me, plugged in under a slanted cobwebbed roof. Plugged in, but oblivious. Oblivious, but not unaware. The moon keeps rising, Canada geese honk into the warm night, first official moments of fall, gathering energy for the pending long flight south, and coyotes in the surrounding grape laden desert hills howl their indifference.

My days since leaving on August 19 have been full. If I haven't been riding, I've been setting up camp or tearing down camp. Both series of rituals take an hour on each end of the day. Somewhere in there, I try and grab a bite, although my nutrition always suffers on the road. My priority is to get somewhere safely, then have a good night's sleep.

Market fresh cuisine is not easy to come by out here, and trying to maintain a vegan diet is next to impossible. I'd have to live on beer and dry toast. So I live on bad coffee, toasted blt's without the b, usually made with Wonderbread, limp l and unripe t. And french fries. There are a lot of french fries out here on the road. Fries go with everything. And fries are sometimes the only vegetable on a menu.

When my rescue squad stopped in Quesnel to eat at KFC late at night en route to Prince George, there were "salad" and french fries on the menu as the vegetarian options. It's been a while since I've entered a KFC, and I should have expected that the menu would contain a lot of "C" but I thought that by now, 2007, where at least one family member of most families is vegetarian, that they'd have some sort of "KFV" on the menu.

So I ordered a large fries, thinking I'd get one of those little paper bags with a large handful. The saucer-eyed boy behind the counter, who claimed to be 16 but didn't look a day over 12, handed me a heavy shoe box in a plastic bag with several plastic-wrapped napkins, plastic forks and knives and paper pouches of salt and pepper.

"What's this?" I asked, thinking he'd handed me Mark or John's or Richard's nugget dinner combo or double breast delight.

"It's your fries," he offered, without blinking.

"You've gotta be kidding."

It was enough to feed the entire rescue squad after they'd worked for 2 hours loading 5,000 pounds of buffalo into the trailer.

Tomorrow when I start out, my odometer will surpass 99,999 back to 00000. Imagine a 1997 Buell S1 Lightning going 100,000 kilometers! That's Henk, my trusted firehorse, loyal companion, fearless road warrior.

Videos of Breakdown and Rescue on the Alaska Highway

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-09-20T07:30:18-07:00

Awaiting Rescue on the Alcan

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-09-17T08:03:58-07:00

Everyone has his or her own definition of adventure. For some, it’s an African safari, for others, an expedition up Mount Everest. I know some people for whom a trip to the spa is adventure enough.

For me, an adventure is a journey into the unknown, well outside my comfort zone, where personal beliefs are brought up for questioning, fears are faced, perceptions are shattered, and I'm left forever changed by the experience.

If I were to always follow good advice and do the "sane" thing, what a wretched mess of flesh and bones I'd become!

People like to warn me of all the possible things that could go wrong out here. I can't tell you how often I'm scolded for being ill prepared, for not carrying a weapon, or in today's case, by the woman working at the trucker camp who looks as though she could use a good adventure, for stupidly being on the Alaska Highway on a motorbike at this time of year.

Yes! Just to confirm the fears of the naysayers, I broke down!

I didn't set out from Venice Beach on August 19th hoping to break down in the middle of nowhere on the Alaska Highway on September 16th, but I've done enough of these solo odysseys now to know that at some point along the way, due to weather or mechanics or myriad other unforeseen circumstances, I'll have to rely on the kindness of strangers to get me to safety.

And it's happened to me often enough now to know that when these situations arise, the kind strangers are always, ALWAYS there.

I suppose that's exactly the reason I started Suzanne's Angels.

It all began with an oil change in Whitehorse on Saturday. While chatting with Red, the mechanic, I spotted a crack in my drive belt. I told him I didn't want to ride like that, but he said it would be four days to get the part in from Vancouver. Patrick, the other Harley doctor, took a look at it and assured me the Kevlar threads had not been torn, that it was just the rubber, and I'd probably get another 20,000kms out of it.

I decided to ride to Prince George, where I could get the drive belt replaced, along with a new rear tire to replace the one balding by the minute on the chip sealed pavement of the Klondike and Alaska Highways.

My ride to Liard Hotsprings from Whitehorse was beautiful and uneventful, and when I arrived, Kevin was already there soaking his Dempster-rattled bones. We shared camp, then set out the next day in the cold rain for the next leg.

Kevin was anxious to get home to his girls in Christina Lake, but knowing the dangerous conditions I was riding with (mountain passes, heavy downpour, fog, gravel, balding tire), and Kevin being Kevin, he followed behind in his truck with the trailer.

I've never travelled with a support vehicle, but now I know. What a comfort knowing that if anything at all were to go wrong, I had a capable friend on the road right behind me.

I rode around Muncho Lake and over Summit Pass in the rain. There were parts of the highway shrouded in fog, and at one point, I pulled over just to let Kevin know I couldn't see a thing. My visor was fogged up, my glasses were fogged up, my eyeballs were fogged up, and I was cold. There was fresh snow on the mountains not far from the road.

I envied Kevin in his truck, reggae music playing, heat blasting and food to munch on. I hopped in for five minutes, long enough to feel the heat but not long enough to get too comfortable.

We took it really slow through the mountains, then rode into Fort Nelson in the pouring rain.

Kevin made sure I was comfortably ensconced in a room before heading back out for his marathon ride through the night toward home. I was sad to see him go. We'd shared an incredible adventure, and from this point on, I knew I was truly alone in the north.

Yesterday, I woke up to snow in Fort Nelson. The forecast was for more of the same, so I ventured out, not feeling I had much choice.

Two blocks down the street, I thought I'd give up. The snow wasn't sticking to the road, but it stuck to my visor and I could barely see. Lifting my visor was no better, because then my glasses would get covered. Taking my glasses off didn't work either because the snow stung as it hit my face and eyes.

It took me a few minutes to get over my fear. I took comfort in the fact that an hour (or 100 kms, which might take me 2 hours) down the road, it was reported to be sunny. The one thing in my favour was that there was almost no traffic, so it didn't matter how slowly I crept down the Alcan.

It was miserable.

Not far out of Fort Nelson, I came upon a lone cyclist, pumping his legs up a hill, covered in wet snow and soaked to the bone. I pulled over to wish him well. He'd started in Whitehorse, and had also been up to Inuvik - all by his own power.

Whenever I get to thinking I'm doing something truly adventurous, there's always someone more adventurous to give me humility and a welcomed reality check. When we crossed the Peel River ferry en route to Inuvik, the workers told us about a Japanese woman in her late 30's or early 40's who's been travelling solo on some kind of 650 motorbike for 5 years. She was on her second bike and had crossed over 100 countries. That girl, I have to meet!

Talking with the cyclist gave me the confidence I needed, and I carried on slowly through the snow.

After about three hours and 150 kms, the sun came out! It wasn't enough to dry my gloves or warm my frozen fingers, but it was heaven compared to what I'd been through. I'd make it to Fort St. John, and perhaps even to Dawson Creek!

Then it happened. Right here in the middle of nowhere, three hours from Fort Nelson, two hours from Fort St. John.

The throttle lost its power. I gave it a pull and recognized the empty revving in the engine. I'd lost my drive belt on the Trans Canada crossing Saskatchewan several years ago, and knew that empty feeling all too well.

I pulled over, stopped the bike and got off. I had difficulty taking out my cellphone with frozen fingers, and I didn't know who the hell I'd call from this remote spot, but I've been programmed to get cellphone to ear in the event of an emergency. Of course, the phone was dead.

I had a fleeting thought of being eaten by bears or freezing to death.

The first vehicle that approached slowed and I flagged it down.

Three guys jumped out, and you'll have to go over to Suzanne's Angels posting from Monday, Sept 17, "Stuck on the Alaska Highway" to find out what happened next...

Snuh-oh

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-09-17T06:02:43-07:00

I received the strangest phonecall this morning here at the "legendary" Fort Nelson Hotel where I hunkered in after a miserable day on the Alaska Highway.

It was eight fifteen and I was fast asleep. I picked it up thinking it was someone else's wake-up call.

"Hello?"

"Hey, you still sleeping?"

"Uh. Yeah."

"Oh, well, how's your trip?"

"Huh?"

"You're up here again this year."

"Um, who is this?"

"It's Gary. We met at the hotsprings last year. I seen your bike parked out front of the hotel last night and thought, no, can't be, then I saw the plates and I came in and asked the front desk guy if it was a girl riding that bike and he said yeah, it was a tourist. There's only one bike like that up here so I know the manager of the hotel and he put me through to your room."

"Oh. Hmm. Well, thanks for the wake-up call. I'm sorry I have no clue who you are. I'm still asleep."

"I was managing the lodge. We sat and chatted."

In my grog, it didn't even ring a bell. Now that I'm awake, I'm sorry to say it still doesn't. "You're not there anymore?"

"No. Working for Northern Telecom here in Fort Nelson now. You won't be going anywhere this morning. It's snowing like a bugger out there."

"Snow?"

"Yup. If you're still around tonight, I'll take you to dinner. Left my number with the guy at the desk. Call me."

I got up, not because I intended to leave at eight fifteen in the morning in the snow; I suppose I was afraid that if I went back to sleep, I'd go into hibernation.

Devil River Queen

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-09-14T18:26:39-07:00

I feel as though I've been bathed in gold light. The Yukon from Dawson to Whitehorse is in infinite yellow splendour. I made record time getting to Whitehorse in five-and-a-half hours. I had to. The ferry in Dawson lost an engine and I was stranded on the wrong side of the Yukon River for over an hour, delaying my departure until 2:30pm.

In the Land of the Midnight Sun these days, darkness falls around 9. The days are getting markedly shorter and the colours are changing hourly. Now it's a race against winter.

I spent the last few days decompressing in Dawson after the week on the bumpy mucky "highway" they call Dempster. It's an easy town to love and difficult to leave.

It doesn't take long to feel like a local in Dawson. People are more welcoming than anywhere I've ever been. Having soy lattes at the Riverwest Bistro in the morning is a social event that can easily drag on until noon.

But not everyone is happy in Dawson.

I've heard tales of an evil creature lurking on the waters of the inky Yukon River spewing venom so icy cold it could freeze the Bering Straight. Oooooh, it's enough to give you chills.

My friend Kevin is one of the softest spoken and kindest people I've ever known. He wanted to cross the river at midnight the other night to ride up Dome Road for some northern lights.

The five-minute ferry in Dawson joins the end of Front Street and the Klondike Highway with the Top of the World toward Alaska by crossing the silty, swift-flowing Yukon River. The River Hostel, where we were staying, is on the opposite side from town.

At that time of night, there's hardly any traffic crossing the river. The ferry was on the other side, so Kevin left his motorbike running to warm up and so they'd know he was there.

When the ferry approached, the pilot kept flashing a searchlight on him.

"Yeah, yeah, I see you," thought Kevin, innocently.

When he boarded, she appeared beside him, a hulking shadow, her eyes piercing the darkness like glowing swords.

"Turn your light off you idiot!" she hissed. "Your light was in my eyes the entire way! I had to land this thing blind!"

"Oh, gee, I'm really sorry. I had no idea," Kevin said.

(There are no signs instructing motorists to wait in the dark.)

"You think you can pilot this thing?" she spat. "If you think you can do a better job, be my guest!"

The river turned thick and green and Kevin shook in his dirt bike boots.

"No, no, listen, I'm sorry. I'll know better next time."

Now any reasonable person could excuse such an outburst once, allowing for an off-night or a migraine. But the next night, Kevin and I were on two motorbikes trying to get across the river at midnight.

We turned our lights off.

And waited.

And waited.

We waited an unprecedented half hour before the ferry budged from the sand on the other side in our direction - a truck had just showed up behind us and they couldn't very well inconvenience all the staff getting off work at Gertie's.

When we boarded, one of the night ferry guys warned us both "Hold onto your brakes, it could be a rough landing."

I was actually scared. In three visits to Dawson, dozens of trips across the river, I've never been told "it could be a rough landing."

I didn't dare turn around, but I snapped a photo in my rearview mirror to make sure Kevin was not being hurled into the depths by the scary river monster.

We held on tight to our bikes and made it to the other side without incident, though neither one of us dared steal a glance behind as we drove off.

When we were safely wrapped in our sleeping bags in the bunk beds at the River Hostel, Kevin decided with a laugh that she would affectionately be referred to from here on as the Devil River Queen.

The locals call her Crazy Mary.

Quick Hello

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-09-10T19:34:12-07:00

I'm back from Inuvik and in an hour en route from Dawson to Whitehorse. There's rain in the forecast for Whitehorse so it could be cold and miserable, but if I don't leave today, that rain could easily be snow. I'll be back in touch from there!!

Kevin took this shot of me riding the Dempster. Fun little zippy mosquito of a Honda 450X.

I'll tell you all about it tonight...

The Far Far North

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-09-07T19:52:34-07:00

Well, I'm finally here. Inuvik, on the Mackenzie River Delta, Canada's largest fresh water delta near the Arctic Ocean, 2 degrees north of the Arctic Circle, 736 kilometres up the Dempster Highway, over 7,000 kilometres from my starting point in Venice Beach, California. And yes, it's a looooooong way from Venice Beach to Inuvik! Hard to believe this is the same planet. I'm in awe.

Yesterday, about halfway through the day of riding, I thought the Dempster would never end. It's a rough rough road and I was grateful both for the loaner zippy, light little Honda 450 dirt bike and for my friend Kevin as my companion on this leg. It couldn't have been done on Henk. And I wouldn't have done it alone. No way. I can't believe people undertake the Dempster on anything but a dirt bike or a Unimog. There is always a vehicle on the side of the road with a flat. And everyone who lives in Inuvik has a story to tell about a trip up or down the Dempster, most involving a flat tire or two or three and hours or days stranded in the remote wilderness without phone service or immediate help.

The Dempster is the only public highway in North America to cross the Arctic Circle. They call it a highway, but that's really stretching it. The road is shared by both the Yukon and the Northwest Territories, and talking to people in each territory, each claims that they take better care of their side.

Having done the whole expanse now, I can tell you the Yukon is the side I'm looking forward to on the return. On the border of the Northwest Territories, there's construction, fresh deep gravel, and the entire way from Eagle Plains to Inuvik, gravel mounds piled into four lanes running parallel with the traffic. The southbound lane is clearly the more well-travelled route at this time of year, so yesterday, heading north, I was forced to ride partly in the southbound lane, then hop over a gravel mound to the northbound lane (more gravel, just not quite as deep) when a vehicle passed. We had to stay hyper alert, and by 9:30 at night when we arrived in Inuvik, caked in dust, we were exhausted.

All the effort, though, is worth it. I'm still trying to understand what it means to be this far north; still trying to absorb the enormity of it all.

When we got to the sign for the Arctic Circle, Kevin and I got off the bikes to take photos and ask ourselves what the hell we had done.

We bumped along for two solid days of riding from Tombstone, hardly seeing another vehicle until we reached Eagle Plains, the halfway point where we camped on night two. The lodge at Eagle Plains has a bar, so we celebrated our achievement so far with a Yukon Gold and a Sled Dog Ale, and mingled with the locals until midnight.

Of course we met Mark, the foreman in charge of highway maintenance for that 100km section. He went immediately on the defensive about the state of the road to Eagle Plains.

"Hey, we're supposed to have six guys working that stretch. This summer it was me and two other guys. We do the best we can with the resources we've got."

I told him that no, we're not here to complain, we'd loved the road so far and had been pleasantly surprised with how easy it had been. He was shocked to receive a compliment. He's used to listening to truckers vent their frustrations on him.

"They bitch and complain constantly. They'd complain if we paved the road that it's not like it used to be."

I asked Mark why he likes the Yukon. He took his time answering, and when he came back from the washroom halfway through our conversation, inspiration had hit.

"This is what I love about the Yukon: I can be 50 miles outside of Whitehorse out in the bush and I can have a campfire and nobody's gonna say shit to me. There are no rules. Fuck you."

Robert Service perhaps articulated it a little more eloquently in his poem The Men That Don't Fit In.

I love the Yukon too. And now that I've seen just the tiniest slice of The Northwest Territories, it feels like the Yukon on steroids.

Outhouse Races

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-09-04T07:09:38-07:00

Today's the beginning of the northernmost leg of the journey. I'll be hooking up with my friend Kevin, who's driven up to Dawson City from Christina Lake in his truck towing two little Honda off-road cycles. I'll leave Henk at our "base camp" in Dawson City with the truck and trailer. We'll probably only make it to the campground at Tombstone today, just 75km up the road. There's no hurry. This is the most remote riding I will have ever done, and I want to savour it.

It's been cold at night and in the mornings here, but the afternoons have been gorgeous. The fall colours have begun in the hills, and I'm anticipating some awe-inspiring views from the dusty, dirty road that is the Dempster.

Dawson City is one of the most fun-loving, down-to-earth places I've ever been. I think I've made a couple of believers out of Kevin and Ron, who flew in on Friday for the weekend for his birthday. Ron wants to come back next year, and is already trying to formulate a plan that incorporates making a movie or justifying the expense with a business of some sort...

We were here for the weekend of the greatly anticipated local extravaganza of the outhouse races, and in a moment of inspiration, Kevin suggested that rather than be spectators, we enter. Ron and I, in a moment of loss of judgement, agreed wholeheartedly.

It was not until I was sitting on the outhouse seat being dragged around town, declaring to the world "I am the Queen Crapper!" that I began to question our decision. But by then, it was entirely too late.

We threw together our version of the outhouse in half an hour with stuff we'd procured from the "free store" at the dump. The rules were that the outhouse had to look like an outhouse, with two windows, a hole in the seat and a sloped roof. It had to have a "theme" and we needed five team members and a team cheer to compete. After decorating our "walls" with large playing cards, we decided we'd be called "The Royal Flush" and that I would be the Queen Crapper on the seat. There were no archives of photos to go from, so we just did the best we could with our limited planning and resources.

When we got to the starting line at Diamond Tooth Gertie's, we were still in need of two team members. We recruited a couple of sixteen-year-old local girls, thinking they'd be great for the scavenger hunt portion of the race where we'd have to run into businesses and collect postcards, bits of information, fortune cookies, and numbers.

Out of eight teams, we proudly and purposely came in last and won a book called "How to Shit in the Woods."

Before and After the Alaska Highway

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-08-27T18:26:41-07:00

The Alaska Highway can change you. Especially if you do it alone. It's like good, intensive vipassana meditation. I swear, today, I discovered the key to ultimate happiness. Today, I found joy. The paradoxically twisted thing is, it was always there. I just needed to be quiet, get out of my own way, and let my true nature come through.

I had a picnic dinner tonight beside the Yukon River, mesmerized by its quick current north, soaking in the big moody sky, unlike any other sky I've seen. Yukon midnight blue happens around nine pm in Whitehorse at this time of year.

Alpine Bakery closes at six, so by the time I got checked in to the Robert Service Campground and set up my tent, I'd missed a gourmet meal of mushroom burger and gypsy stew. There's a fellow who just opened a burrito truck a few weeks ago in a parking lot by the river, but he was just closed at 7:30 when I arrived. So it was Subway again. The "veggie delight" at $4.67 has been a reliable staple. Sometimes, one of those around 2 or 3 pm will get me through the entire day. Today, though, I was so looking forward to a hot meal. It was a cold - almost wintery ride north of Liard Hotsprings and only warmed once I crossed into the Yukon.

Perhaps I should've taken Johnny McPhee up on his invitation in Watson Lake to go to his place for moose steaks and bannock. I was re-packing henk in the parking lot of a hotel because my saddle bags had come loose. He appeared out of nowhere to cheer me on. "Where ya comin from?" he asked.

"Los Angeles."

"L.A.?! You kiddin? You stoppin here for the night?"

"No. I'm heading to Whitehorse, then up to Inuvik."

"What? Well you be careful up here. You might think you're in the Yukon, but there's criminals out there."

"Believe me, I'm safer anywhere up here than I am anywhere in L.A."

He told me he's a poet.

"I met a girl travellin up here all alone," he said.

"Oh yeah?" I said. "On a motorbike?"

"She was packin' up her bags like a seat on a throne."

Well, Johnny McPhee may have just stepped out of the local bar, but he sure was sweet. I'm proud to say I'm a muse for a real live Yukon poet. Suzanne will get a howl over that. I declined his invitation to dinner and he told me to look him up on my return through Watson Lake. As I was saddling up and pushing out, he said, "May the great spirits bring you guidance and a safe journey," and he kissed two fingers and laid them on my glove.

I've seen four beautiful black bears so far. One huge full grown adult ambled across the road in front of me about 100 kms south of Dawson Creek, Mile 0 of the Alaska Highway. I'd just filled up my tank and pulled out of a remote privately owned station, barely into third gear. He came out from the ditch right there. I slowed down and watched in awe as he disappeared nonchalantly into the ditch on the other side. I channelled Steve Irwin as I exclaimed to myself "What a beauty!!"

Then yesterday approaching Muncho Lake, I'd been going through a series of gravel patches. Most of them were marked, but this one took me by surprise because it was deeper than the patches I'd been passing. I had to slow down fast. At the same time, I saw a mama bear and her two cubs just to my right on the grass beside the road. As I geared down, I tried both to look at the bears and watch the gravel. I realized as my front tire hit the first few stones that if I were to go down here, I'd likely be attacked (if I wasn't first hit from behind by another vehicle). I held on tight and made it through upright while somehow keeping an eye on the bears out the back of my head. Mama held her ground and stared at me when Henk's motor revved down. The two cubs jumped around as though they wanted to join in the fun. I wanted to stop and play, but there were vehicles behind me.

The best deal on the Alaska Highway is Liard Hotsprings. For $17 you can camp in a lovely wooded private site and bathe in the gorgeous natural hotsprings all day and all night. It's an absolute must-stop-overnight destination if you're on a motorbike. The Alaska Highway can rattle your brains. There are funny stickers and t-shirts that depict a cat, Garfield, I think, all fluffy and calm in one image, then the next, his fur is all gone, one or two hairs standing up straight on his head, his tail fried, and the caption reads "before and after the Alaska Highway." Anyone who's done it can relate. Cars break down, motorbikes break down, people get stranded halfway between nowhere and nowhere, nerves get shattered, and if you're on a motorbike, spines, shoulders, knees, ankles and wrists get pummelled. The hotsprings at Liard are just the therapy you need. Go. But don't tell anyone because it's getting too damn busy!

After a day of battling gravel and potholes, I soaked for three hours solid, enjoying being with my own thoughts, stretching my legs and massaging my shoulders until I saw my first star in the Northern BC evening sky. People were chit chatting all around, telling each other of the wildlife they'd seen. I tried tuning them out, but my ears perked up when I heard a man telling a group of travellers that he and his RV caravan had "played tag all day today with some woman on a motorbike."

"That's rare to see a woman on motorbike alone," someone said.

"The only reason I know it was a woman is she stopped at Subway in Fort Nelson and when we went by she had her helmet off. Every time she passed us she flipped us the peace sign."

"I think she's here," someone else said.

Although it was tempting to identify myself and have a great old conversation about sharing remote and isolated routes with fellow roadsters and flipping the peace sign because you never know when you might need a bit of goodwill to come back around, I just smiled to myself and enjoyed listening to the mythology as it spread across the Alaska Highway.

Vegetarian Comfort Food in the Rain

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-08-27T06:53:35-07:00

I'm just packing up, getting ready to leave Prince George. I'm hopeful the weather will improve from yesterday's cold wet system, and I'll get a good day's ride in.

You can't have a province as lush and green and beautiful as BC without a lot of rain. So you take it, because when it's over, it's magnificent. I managed to avoid the worst of it yesterday completely by chance. I'd taken little highway 8 through some Indian lands in the Nicola Valley towards Spences Bridge and lucked into lunch.

It's a stunning ride through rich rolling grazing country along rivers and lakes, and I cruised at around 80, slow enough to soak it all in. I admired the dozens of strong and healthy horses roaming wild along streams and lazing in the fragrant sage, and contemplated coming back as a horse right here in my next life.

When I got to Spenses Bridge, which is not so much a town as a bridge, I glided by a hand-painted sign on the right hand side that read "vegetarian comfort foods." It took me a full 10 seconds past for it to register. This is the last place on earth I'd have expected to find "vegetarian comfort foods." I thought I was having hallucinations from the Econo Lodge coffee I'd sucked back an hour earlier.

I turned around and pulled in to the Inn at Spenses Bridge. Inside, I was greeted by a pleasant scene of casual dining and wonderful aromas.

"What are you doing here in the middle of nowhere?!" I asked the smiling fellow behind the bar.

"We're not the middle of nowhere!" he retorted. "We're the centre of the universe! We're at the convergence of two major highways, two national railways, the river...EVERYONE has to come through here!"

"Well, I'm soooooo glad I saw your sign! I feel like I've landed in heaven! I'll have one of everything on your menu!" It was a simple menu, and I thought I could pack it all back, but I started with an oatmeal sunflower cookie and ordered the chili.

I pulled up a chair outside overlooking the Thompson River and it started to pour. Now this is rain, I thought to myself, unlike what people call rain in southern California. The drum of the onslaught on the plastic roof of the patio was deafening.

My chili came, accompanied by a thick slice of homemade multigrain bread, and I realized I was in a parallel world to the one I'd created at Fossil Face Cafe. It was exactly as I would have made it, and served exactly the way I would have served it. I savoured it while marvelling at the rain and observing an osprey perched in its nest shaking its feathers in vain against the deluge.

"There are four this year," said Ray, the owner, and he gave me a set of binoculars. "But last week, that telephone pole was hit by lightning, and it was on fire for four hours. They're not the same since. You know, if you and I were standing this close and lightning struck me, guess what? You'd be hit too!" He said they're all a little "backwards" since the incident.

We got chatting about business as I would with any owner of a vegetarian cafe. He and his wife have been running the inn for five years. It has 12 rooms and the restaurant is open for lunch and dinner.

"You must be getting pretty tired," I empathized.

He let out a confirming chuckle, seemingly grateful someone would acknowledge his hard work. They close every year for three months in the winter, but he said they can never afford to go far. And the hardest part, he said, is keeping employees.

"No kidding. Easier to do it all yourself," I said.

He told me they were left in a lurch over the July long weekend when someone quit just before.

"Nobody cares like you do," I said. "You're the only one who's going to mop in the corners."

He laughed. "Funny you should say that..."

I was "stuck" there for over an hour while it poured, so Ray and I became friends.

When the rain let up, I let out a comment people so often said to me in Banff when they were off on a journey. "I wish I could take you with me!"

I'll be up the Alaska Highway now for the next few days and out of internet contact. I'll post again on Friday from Dawson City. In the meantime, don't worry about me. Know that I'm soaking my bones in the most magnificent hotsprings I've ever encountered, riding with wild buffalo, camping in god's country and loving every minute of it.

Ants in my pants (literally)

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-08-25T18:30:35-07:00

They don't call it the Econo Lodge for nothing.

I pulled in to Merritt, B.C. after a short late afternoon's ride. It was crazy windy, and the sky was dark long before sunset, limiting my visibility. It's not the kind of night you want to be camping if you can help it, so I pulled in to the local Econo Lodge.

A woman built like a bulldog was standing outside the front office smoking. One glance at her downturned mouth and hunched shoulders told me she was miserable, though I gave her the benefit of the doubt. While waiting for the paperwork for a single $60 non-smoking room, I tried striking up a friendly conversation. I left my helmet and sunglasses on, so all she could see was my nose. Something about my nose makes people want to open up to me. She had a deep voice like a man, monotone. I volleyed back with my unique lighthearted lilt.

Is it always this windy here?

Always. You should've seen it last night. We had the most awful wind storm. I've been here two and a half years and I've hated every minute of it. This time next week I'll be in Kelowna. Moving down there.

Oh, that'll be a nice change for you. Kelowna's pretty.

Oh, I doubt it. I'll be working 24/7. I'm going down there to run a motel. But I've got nothing better to do anyway, so I may as well be sitting around at a motel working.

What is it about Merritt that you hate so badly?

This is the most unfriendly town I've ever been to.

Perhaps its the wind. Must make people mad.

You should see it in the winter.

And on it went. Each time her mouth moved to speak, it was as though it only knew how to form sentences from a root of sadness or anger, and her voicebox only carried one tone, the tone of apathy. Poor woman. I'm sure she didn't start out that way.

The room reeks of smoke and there are ants on/in the bed. (It's ok. So far I've only seen three.) If I hadn't unloaded all my gear I'd change rooms - or more likely motels. Needless to say, I'm wearing my sweatpants to bed, two long sleeved shirts, socks, and I'll probably keep my hair in its braid so as not to provide said ants with somewhere to nest. At least they have wi-fi (the Econo Lodge, not the ants, although I suppose it could be said that the ants, too, by virtue of their living in my room, have wi-fi). In some places that would be worth $60 per night.

I've been shooting videos from my helmet cam, which I've turned into a sleeve cam. It's working really well, except I haven't stopped long enough at a place with a good solid wi-fi connection to upload them. This is my project this evening, so I'll try and get you some.

When you view the videos, turn the volume right down on your computer, because this Samsung helmet pod catches all the wind. Hisssssssssss.

California cruisin'.

California Redwoods.

Crossing the Columbia River into southern Washington.

Southern Washington desert with a bug on the lens.

Last leg into Canada.

101, 199, 5, 126, 97, 90, 281, 28 25, 395

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-08-22T18:04:05-07:00

I love maps. I love to stare into the maze of lines and names and plot out a route. I love to contemplate the myriad of options - freeways, highways, secondary roads, and barely-there roads, straight and direct, meandering and scenic. I love to measure between my thumb and forefinger distances, and estimate how long it might take. Once your map is torn in a few places and folded against its original form, your finger-measure estimates are much more accurate. I love to memorize a route, knowing that I'll likely make a spontaneous decision at some highway intersection that'll veer completely off it. I love the anticipation that looking at a map induces. It's about a new future, somewhere down the road, but it's also a very pleasurable present moment meditation. I love tracing the roads I've been down and returning in my mind to where they took me.

At the moment, I love that Kevin's two gorgeous cats are lounging all over my last four days of ripped and torn map history through California, Oregon and Washington.

I arrived at Christina Lake right on schedule last night before sunset. It's my home away from home, and a sanctuary where I can rest, stretch, shower, brush the tangles out of my hair, unpack, repack, eat fresh garden tomatoes, park Henk in a garage for a night or two, oil up, visit with dear friends and plot the dirty Dempster adventure with Kevin.

He'll be meeting me in Dawson City with a brand new loaner Honda CRF 450X Baja series in tow. Together, on two streamlined, stripped down, bare bones dirtbikes, we'll tackle the Dempster. He's been planning for months and has made all sorts of custom gear for the bikes and camping. He's prepared like I've never been, and it's a privilege for me to be able to just show up. I look forward to that leg with great anticipation.

But that's still ten days away and I have some riding to do before then.

I wish everyone who lives in a city could do a major road trip at least once in their life. Filling yourself with all that vastness can work wonders on a tired soul. It' mind-boggling to see, really see, smell, touch, taste and feel the beautiful enormity that is North America.

The 101 north of Santa Rosa was surprisingly wide, open, dry, sunny, and curvy - the kind of curves I like, just there to keep you from thinking you're going in a straight line, no need to gear down, just curvy enough to keep you awake and entertained and your tires wearing evenly. From Arcata to Crescent City you're driving through the redwoods, where breathing feels like good medicine. The 199 east from Crescent City to Grants Pass continues through northern California's giant redwoods and into Oregon's. Keep breathing deep.

The 5 through western Oregon is good for making up lost time, but it's fast, full of trucks and not much fun so I hopped off at Springfield onto the lovely 126 heading east along the McKenzie River past a funky old western town called Sisters and on up the endless 97, which I followed through Madras, Biggs, across the Columbia River into Washington, past a creepy town called Yakima. I shouldn't really judge a town by its gas stations, but I filled up at Yakima and couldn't get back on the road fast enough.

Unfortunately, the road east from there, the old 10 on through the 28, was barren and boring. Nothing but sagebrush for miles on end, and hardly another vehicle to be seen. It's on this leg, which lasted over an hour, that my mind began playing nasty tricks. What if I ran out of gas on this lonely road to nowhere? Who would I rather see in my rearview mirror pulling up to help... a gang of Hell's Angels on rumbling Harleys, an alien in a gleaming spaceship, or a couple of rednecks in a filthy pickup truck? Given my unexplainable but not unreasonable fear of rednecks, a martian might seem more human, but Hell's Angels...Hell's Angels would feel heaven-sent.

The 28 eventually made a left turn and turned into the 25 north. I finally felt like I was within reach of the Canadian border. Henk came about as close to an adult deer as he'd ever wanna be, bounding across the highway in the early evening shadows. With my release of the throttle, Henk's classic purr turned to a growl, and firehorse and deer were equally spooked onto split second opposite tangents like professional dancers in a busy ballroom intuitively avoiding a messy clash.

The 395 in to Christina Lake by now is wonderfully familiar, winding around the Kettle River in the cool shade of evergreens, which somehow feel more Canadian than American, perhaps because now that I'm close, I'm feeling more Canadian than American. That last half hour I'm like a horse heading back to stable, anxious for carrots and hay.

A little bit of rain is in the forecast for the ride north. Having seen a total of one (yes 1) drop of rain from December to August in L.A., I'm actually looking forward to a little cool wet riding. Not days of freezing deluge, but a brief, refreshing jaunt through a light summer shower.

Day 2 and stuck in the Redwoods with a dead battery

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-08-20T16:24:59-07:00

It gets dark quickly in the redwoods east of Santa Cruz. The trees are high rises. The sun doesn't so much set as disappear. One moment, around six, a subdued beam carves a dusty sliver of light across the needle-laden ground; next thing you know, you're in the black shadow of a cathedral whose ceiling is the stars. It's 9:32 and all is silent except the crickets and something nearby causing a plastic tarp to crinkle. One of Suzanne's cats? There is no wind. A small night creature...

The day began loaded with good intentions and positive energy. I was served breakfast in bed by the lovely Suzanne in her magical little cabin on wheels. She insisted I take her bunk last night, while she herself slept on the floor of the tiny fairy-like closet filled with baubles and beads and tinkling talismans, scarves and hats and sleepy kitties.

I felt honoured; I don't think many people have bunked in with Suzanne. But to be honest, it's a crawl space. I think she wanted me to experience exactly how she's been living the past five years. I had Pookie, her oldest and most cherished cat from Montreal curled up, purring loudly at my feet, and Sweet Pea, her black and white lover in a tiny nook off my right side. It was cozy and warm, but really, it's no bed, and today I'm feeling an inch shorter. I can't quite grasp how Suzanne sleeps here every night. I can't fathom how she did it with a broken back.

I put in a fair ride yesterday, getting a late start from Venice at around 10am. I took a photo of the odometer before I set out so we can log the kms.

When I came to the first light on the PCH, Henk stalled. My heart sank and I thought it was all over before it had begun. But a quick try on the starter with a deeper pull on the throttle got us up and running again and I assumed that I just needed to ride a bit to clear out the pipes, charge up the battery, get Henk back into riding form. It stalled again a couple of hours up the highway when I pulled into a gas station.

It's a battery I'd put in at the end of the journey last year when the stator died. It would still be fine had I not had to charge that one several times when I ran it to empty getting from Whitehorse to Bellingham. Of course it's done. I should have known.

So when I went to leave today, after taking some short films of Suzanne reading her poetry in the woods, I got halfway down her hill and stalled again. Dead battery.

Luckily I had met a cool biker yesterday when I pulled up beside him at a red light and asked him where the local Brewery Pub is. "Do I know where it is?" he said. "Follow me! I'm on my way there right now for a beer and a burger!" We got off our bikes and shook hands. "Either it's my lucky day or it's your lucky day" he said, and introduced himself. For some reason, I thought I'd run into Willie Nelson and I expected him to have a long white pigtail under his helmet. Boulder Creek, tucked away in the wooded hills off the winding climbing highway 9, looked like the kind of little town where Willie just might be putt-putting down the road on a little Honda 450CB. "My name's Jim and I'm in a bike club that's been around since 1947." he said. "C'mon! I've got some stories that're gonna blow your mind!"

So Jim and I sat and had a half pint while waiting for Suzanne to meet me. He told me he's logged over a million miles on motorbikes in the past 60 years and has had 14 accidents. "You've either dropped your bike or you're going to drop your bike," he said, "but I love it!" He also told me a story of an old woman he knew, Nancy Wright, who rode up to Alaska on motorbike when she was 83. She started riding motorbikes at the young age of 69. She also flew airplanes, and finally had her license taken away after looping a bridge - she was in her eighties. That blew my mind.

Suzanne arrived, a vision, freshly made up, dressed in purple flowing gauze layers, a mauve scarf wrapped around her dark hair and a purple bindi in place on her third eye. The local brewpub may never be the same. She brought a new friend, Vicki, who's lived in Boulder Creek 33 years, and the four of us had a lively meal together, Suzanne and I catching up and Jim filling us all in on his life as an RVer, a motorbiker, a writer, an archivist, a father of four and grandfather of 9...

By the time the final crumbs were being passed around, Jim had been taken by my wild odyssey, Suzanne's lovely energy, his new local friend Vicky, and the serendipitous way it all happened. He said goodbye to "the adventurer, the mystic and the local gal" and said "This was absolutely my lucky day!"

When my battery died today, guess who got the call? "Jim! Moira here! We met yesterday! Do you happen to know anywhere I might get a motorbike battery? I know, what are the chances? It's a small town. No bike shop..."

Jim took a battery from one of his extra bikes, a Goldwing, and brought it right up to where I was stranded within half an hour. Although it didn't fit, he made it work as a temporary band-aid so that I could at least ride back up to Suzanne's camp. I called and ordered a new one from a shop in the next town over and Jim offered to pick it up for me in the morning and bring it right to me.

Today was absolutely my lucky day.

Suzanne's Angels

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-08-15T19:51:39-07:00

I'm leaving this Sunday for another epic solo two-wheeled adventure, this time from Los Angeles, California to Inuvik in the Northwest Territories. It's just over 6,000 kilometres if I go the direct route. But I never go the direct route. Over a month, I expect to log another 20,000 kilometres with Henk the Buell.

And this time, it's not just purely for the adventure of it. I have a goal. This time, I'll have many angels with me - mine and Suzanne's.

I've formed my own bike gang called "Suzanne's Angels" - Women on the road for Women on the street - in response to a friend asking "What charity are you riding for?"

A bit leery of charities, I've always been more likely to give food or a few bucks to a homeless person. I like to know exactly where my donations are going.

I believe in acting locally, whether it be buying from local farmers, supporting local businesses or helping your neighbour.

Suzanne is a homeless woman I've become friends with who lives in her truck with her four adopted cats. Although she's turned her truck into a funky cabin and lives her homelessness as art, with as much dignity as is humanly possible, it's a constant struggle. She sleeps with one eye open to the dangers of the street, and sometimes feeds her cats better than she feeds herself. Find out more about her at www.suzannesangels.blogspot.com.

I'm fortunate to be able to choose homelessness for a month to pursue my passion. I'll be riding in solitude toward the midnight sun in the wind and the rain, camping under the northern lights, sleeping on a gravel bed with a fleece sweater for a pillow. For me, the idea of homelessness for a month is bliss. But I have a home to come back to - a safe place with a warm bed and a cozy duvet and a supportive partner and a kitchen and a shower - things I need to leave occasionally in order not to take them too much for granted.

I've set up "Suzanne's Angels" as a group on Facebook, as well as a blog at www.suzannesangels.blogspot.com. Anyone (or group) who would like to help me help her get a roof over her head can leave their pledge of a penny per km (or more, or less) on the Facebook wall or in the comments section of the blog. Or email me directly at moira@firehorserider.com.

My goal is to return to L.A. with a total of $1 pledged per kilometre for Suzanne. I'm already one fifth of the way there!

I'll be posting regular blogs along the way, with photos and video from my helmet cam, so stay tuned, and join Suzanne's Angels!

Epic Northern Adventure the 3rd

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-08-09T14:57:28-07:00

I took Henk in to Bartell's Harley Davidson in Marina Del Rey last week for new tires and a good solid overall safety inspection. The tattooed mechanic who did the job, after noting the odometer about to click over to 100,000 kilometres, shook his head and shook my hand. "Who rides that many miles on this bike?!" he asked.

"They're kilometres," piped in the service manager.

"I know. I saw the Alberta plates, I'm not an idiot. Still, who rides that many miles on this bike?!"

When I told him I'm doing the Alaska Highway - for the third time - he just shook his head some more and waved.

"Have a nice trip...I guess."

Freeway From Hell

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-02-05T11:35:25-08:00

Henk and I braved insane Los Angeles traffic on patched concrete and grooved asphalt highways ten lanes across to get to Palm Springs to visit a childhood friend who was there on flight exercises with the Canadian Air Force. Once again, I wish I'd had a helmet cam because you wouldn't believe the hell that is L.A. freeways. The city is all about the car - the bigger the better - and little two wheelers like Henk are few and far between. I felt like an idiot waiting in traffic at a full stop breathing in SUV fumes an hour outside of San Bernardino; but I'd have felt like a bigger idiot splitting lanes like motorcyclists do here. It took me three and a half hours to get to Palm Springs on the 10 - a 2 hour drive at most if southern California had not been overrun by cars! A world gone completely mad - and yes, in that moment, there I was with Henk contributing to the madness trying not to get too mad.

I decided to do anything not to have to take a ten lane freeway home, so I rode south to Palm Desert and turned right onto the 74, which snaked gradually up into the high mountain desert. Although the air was cool as I climbed, the sky was blue, and I could tell by the land (and the number of retirees in Palm Springs) that it hardly rains in this part of the world. When I got to 4,000 feet and looked out at the desert valley below, little toy houses and cars catching the sun's rays and reflecting brilliantly in the sun, apart from feeling very alone and peaceful, and very high and isolated, I wondered why on earth the entire city below was not powered by the sun.

New Year on the Pacific Coast

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2007-01-05T12:41:52-08:00

Up sunset to Ocean just as the sun sets and the ocean retreats. The end of another day in Venice arrives as a new calendar year begins.

Santa Monica Market

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-12-20T10:48:17-08:00

If you're looking for a reason to love L.A., go to a farmers' market. There are three a week in Santa Monica, one on Friday in Venice, and countless others throughout the city. The Wednesday market on Arizona and 2nd is the largest within a 12-minute bike ride for me, and focusses mostly on local organics. You can find everything from fresh mission figs to fuyu persimmons, first press walnut oil, spaghetti squashes, giant buttery reed avocados, heirloom tomatoes, greens, flowers and Hare Krishna chanters. Local restaurant chefs, vegetarian and non, do their shopping here.

Saturday's is almost as large, and has a lot of the same vendors.

The Sunday market on Main St. is the best scene going. Not only do farmers turn out to sell their bounty, local craftspeople sell handmade clothing and one-offs, restaurants set up tents and serve brunch on biodegradable plates with biodegradable forks and knives to the hipsters who lounge on the grass in front of the jazz band belting out tunes while kids dance and pregnant, glowing 40-something women show off their healthy California bodies.

The Friday market in Venice, though, is my favourite. It's just around the corner, and has a wonderful unpretentious down-to-earth atmosphere. It reminds me of small farmers' markets in Paris and Provence. It's compact, and can be navigated quickly if you need to, though people seem to have all the time in the world to linger and chat about food, cooking techniques, politics, business and travel. The best falafels can be found here at Mama's, but you have to get there early because one particular (hungry) woman shows up every week and cleans them out. It took me three Fridays to finally score. The best plan is to skip coffee at home because you can get a fabulous soy latte right across from Mama's after you've made your first stop for falafels, hommus, spicy olives, organic olive oil and baba ghanoush.

If you're looking for a reason to love L.A., go to a farmer's market, pick up a huge meaty globe artichoke, take it home and steam it for 45 minutes with some organic olive oil and crushed garlic, then suck the sunshine from its heart and wash it down with a bottle of better than decent two dollar Californian cabernet from Trader Joe's. Mmmmm.

Christmas Parade in Venice

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-12-19T14:51:13-08:00

Christmas, Venice-style. Take along a snifter of scotch to raise your spirits, and say hello to the "Silver Surfer" as he paddles under your bridge to the delight of his mother-in-law, who somehow convinces him every year to take to the canals in his wet suit wrapped with tinsel, his face painted silver and his head adorned with a Santa hat.

Livin' in La La Land

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-10-15T08:43:14-07:00

Depending on how one looks at this place, one can see a sea of broken dreams or an ocean of opportunity.

L.A. is a land of extremes where wealth and poverty co-exist in delicate honeycomb compartments, separated only by the thinnest of walls, and fame and insignificance walk side by side on the heaving concrete sidewalks. Always, the threat of violence looms, and at the same time people stand on street corners with signs encouraging motorists to honk for peace.

You don't have to go looking for despair in this town. Despair will find you. Your job, if you are going to survive here, is to actively, persistently, chase it away.

From the Hollywood hills, sunshine, relentless sunshine and optimism stream down. Multi-million dollar homes challenge the laws of physics, dangling way out over steep precipices, held up only by what must be unwavering belief in personal and global security on the part of their owners. You have to admire that ability to defiantly look out at the clogged smoggy lowlands and each day claim the American Dream as your own.

This city is living proof that it's easier to fall down than to fall up. Down here in the clogged smoggy lowlands the daily battle's a little more challenging. Noise from constant traffic is maddening. Garbage trucks squeal and roar up and down the streets. Cars, stretch limos and monster SUV's transport everyone everywhere. Nobody walks. Nobody bikes. Police helicopters whirl above in Blade Runneresk monotone. There's barely a patch of grass to be found to stretch your limbs. Homeless people sleep in doorways on the far side of desperation. Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood is filthy, seedy, lined with useless t-shirt shops, promising nothing. And air quality... ugh... gasp.

I have this theory, though, that the output of works of beauty by artists is directly proportional to the ugliness of the urban landscape in which they live. Sometimes it feels like a fair trade. Toronto, for example, is shrouded in the dullest grey for months on end, but the arts and culture scenes make it feel like one of the most colourful and lively cities on the planet. In cities like Vancouver, where people are surrounded by such natural beauty, the need for the creation of beauty is less pressing. Los Angeles, due to the degradation of its nature, has perhaps the most urgent need for poetry, music, colour, beautiful stories...

My friends warn me: "be careful not to take the place too seriously," "make sure you have something to fall back on," and "don't get lost."

Never being one to shy away from bellies of beasts, here I am in the churning belching gut. It's only because I know its exact opposite exists that I'm able to maintain, for the most part, my light heart. And a light heart is the only way to fight despair. Luckily, somewhere along the way, I became an optimist blessed with a healthy balance of child-like wonder and irreverence. Some of the most enlightening adventures in my life have happened when I've lost my way.

Call me an idiot, but I actually believe that taking the place seriously, not having anything to fall back on, and getting lost, for a time, is the right way to do L.A. In fact, it's kind of the only way to do anything. It's the only way I'm able to look at this place and see the vast ocean of opportunity.

Henk Goes to Hollywood

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-09-09T11:10:17-07:00

Henk and I arrived safe and sound in West Hollywood last week after a final night on the road in Carmel, a pretty little coastal California city that reminds me of a Stepford wife - meticulously groomed, impeccably put together, overly made-up - and utterly uninteresting.

The ride, though, the last day through Big Sur and down Highway 1 into Malibu was stunning - sunny, warm and twisty, with eagle-eye views of the Pacific and its ragged coastline.

I managed to squeeze in a short visit with my friends at VegNews. Co-founders Joe and Colleen have channelled their collaborative activist energies for six years, beginning from their home in 2000 publishing an informative newsletter. VegNews is today the most substantial vegetarian lifestyle magazine on the planet, artfully created in a busy San Francisco office staffed with a small army of vegan goddesses.

The best Californians are a lot like the best Canadians: liberal-minded, fun-loving, health-conscious and self-expressed. Washington and Oregon felt a bit redneck to me - even on the left coast - but the instant I was in California I felt at home.

I turned left off the 1 at Sunset, following the winding boulevard into the hills, past the gated communities of suburban Pacific Pallisades and through the wide, tree-lined thoroughfare of impossibly wealthy Beverly Hills.
I knew I was in Hollywood when the sprawling estates gave way to coffeeshops, bookstores, movie theatres, night clubs, and restaurants, all overshadowed by enormous billboards advertising upcoming blockbusters or new hit TV series.

I am not in the Yukon anymore - in fact I couldn't be further away. But I am 'home' in West Hollywood, where Henk and I will briefly lay our rubber and leathers, rest and repair, plan our next adventure, and dream big Hollywood dreams (with a newly affirmed grasp on reality).

The Naked Truth

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-08-27T19:53:40-07:00

I can't tell if it's the creek or the crickets leading the chorus outside my tent. It must be the creek, because the water doesn't ever stop dancing. Like a child taking delight in playing the same silly game over and over and over again, the creek delights in the incessant beating of its own creek stone drum. The creek stone drum, stoned, delights in the beating, emitting a new tone for every molecule of H2O that shapes it. Delightful for me - I get to sleep with this surround sound nature song.

It's a magical place, Harbin Hotsprings. I'd forgotten just how powerful that hot and cold plunge can be. No wonder I fell in love last time I was here six years ago. It's the garden of Eden, no fig leaf required, and I'd been blasted so wide open, I saw god when our eyes met.

I think that happens often here. People get their defensive exteriors melted away to the point where all that's left is love. And when two love-beings recognize each other at Harbin, they melt together.

Tonight I soaked for three hours - and kept my eyes closed.

At night, the hot pool can feel like a sanctuary. Two candles flicker inside gothic iron holders on either side of a fish sculpted into the stone wall spewing steaming water through its mouth. It's the only place where total silence is requested, and the ritual of hot and cold can take you deep down through the layers.

At first it's physical, as the body adjusts to the extreme temperatures. The first time in the cold plunge after several minutes in the hot, your entire respiratory system comes alive. Your lungs feel clean and full and active. Eucalyptus growing in the forest nearby provides strong aromatherapy, cleansing your sinuses and awakening your blood. Your skin tingles and your heart pounds inside your chest.

After an hour or so, it's mental. Your body has lost its ability to discern hot from cold, but your mind struggles with the certainties it knows as cause and effect of matter under pressure.

Naked body shadows of all shapes and sizes come and go in the dark in slow motion, like ghosts, and the human form occupies a primitive corner of your mind where ancient codes of judgement are stored.

If you can last two or three hours, get your mind to quiet, it can be transcendental. With your body checked out, and your mind forgotten, only spirit remains. Really, all that spirit wants to do is watch the stars and be in love.

It astounds me that I can ride 8,000kms to the far reaches of the north and back covering territory known and unknown, ancient and original, only to re-arrive over and over again at that simple, naked truth.

That, in my mind, is what makes a humble solo journey epic in nature.

The Long and Winding Road

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-08-27T14:31:37-07:00

It's been a hellofa few days snaking down the Oregon and California coastlines.

I enjoy the mystery and sometimes eeriness of a dense fog, like on a ferry, or in a good detective novel; but when the entire US coast, from Astoria, Washington, to Mendocino, California is blanketed in a cold shroud, I have to reach deep to find my usual light heart while riding; and now that I'm almost at my temporary stopping point in West Hollywood, I just wanna be there.

Henk's tires and gears and brakes have had an intense workout - Highways 101 and 1 are in what looks like a state of constant repair, and Friday traffic through Oregon was a nightmare. Up and down the gears from 2nd to 3rd to 4th and back we'd go so many times, braking constantly before a hairpin turn or behind a van or a u-haul that made a sudden move. For long stretches, I felt as though my face was covered with a damp cheesecloth - uncomfortable, but rideable. Then, last night, coming toward Mendocino where I thought I'd camp for the night, it was as though a wet blanket had been thrown over my helmet. My visor would mist up to the point of zero visibility, so I'd wipe it with the back of my left glove, which would clear it for a second; or I'd lift it, only to expose my glasses, which then would mist up.

There are hundreds of 'vista turnouts' along the way, presumably perfect photo snapping spots with ragged rocks far below, and wild waves throwing themselves on white sand beaches laden with driftwood and picnic baskets - but I didn't really see much. And after having the Alaska and Klondike Highways almost exclusively to ourselves, Henk and I both found it frustrating getting caught in the middle of an eight-car train on Highway 1.

So there you have it. On a perfect day, in perfect riding conditions (new tires, sunshine, dry pavement, no traffic), the winding road from Washington through California is probably more pleasurable than a soak in a hotspring on a starry night. But after being on the ocean for three days with Alaska Ferries, then shivering and choking on the foggy western US coast for another three, Henk's decision to turn left was easy. East he went, onto the 128 to seek the sun - and a hotspring he's never been to. For me, it's a lovely bookend to the journey: Liard Hotsprings in the north, Harbin Hotsprings in the south.

Here's a sunnier version of riding in the fog in the California Redwoods State Park:

Go Fly a Kite

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-08-27T12:53:51-07:00

I stumbled into the Washington State International Kite Festival on Thursday at Long Beach. I couldn't pass up the chance to buy a kite and join in.

The kite I chose is a fast little beginners' stunt kite by Prism. The learning curve is steep like snowboarding, and for the first couple of hours, I fumbled in frustration just trying for liftoff. People who knew what they were doing couldn't help themselves, and stepped in to give me a lesson or two. A twelve year old expert flier named Toby gave me some great tips.

By the end of the day, when I pulled in for the night at Rockaway, I was flying my kite on the beach at sunset, doing figure eights in the wind, fanning the flames of a newfound passion.

stunt fliers:

Ray Bethell. This guy's pushing 80. He's a multiple world record holder for multiple kite flying. He lives in Vancouver, where you can see him practise at Vanier Park when he's not flying around the world performing at festivals. He's an absolute vision to behold:

Port Townsend

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-08-23T10:27:24-07:00

I can't bring myself to leave this cozy place called "Bread and Roses" in Port Townsend. They've got Wi-Fi, so I'm catching up on all my email and video uploading from three days at sea, and they've got the best coffee I've had on the road.

I just had the most amazing roasted veggie sandwich with eggplant, zucchini, red peppers, chunks of garlic, and an inch of pesto on hand made organic foccacia bread. Daniel and his wife, Marissa, moved here a few months ago from Seattle, not intending to own a restaurant; but the opportunity to buy this place presented itself, and here they are. I'm glad. The vibe is very pleasant, the kitchen and front staff are happy, and the smells wafting my way from the open kitchen door are tantalizing. Daniel rides a big red BMW R1200K, which is parked out front, so we talked motorbikes for a bit. I've made myself entirely at home, plugged into the wall with my laptop, my tank bag emptied of its contents, and gas receipts strewn over the table. They've made me feel welcome.

I arrived in Port Townsend yesterday after a short ride from Burlington, which was a short ride from the ferry terminal in Bellingham. My friend Nate from the ferry accompanied me to Skagit Harley-Davidson just in case my battery failed. I don't know what he could have done had it happened, but it was great moral support.

They replaced my stator at Skagit, but now I have a feeling that while they were in there, they tinkered with the primary chain, which had just been perfectly adjusted in Whitehorse. Henk's lurching a bit and his primary chain's doing a little clanking. It's nothing major, but just enough to distract me from an otherwise perfect ride.

Port Townsend is a sweet little victorian town on the Olympic Peninsula west of Seattle. It reminds me a bit of Nelson, BC, only with salty ocean smells down by the port.

As soon as I got off the short fifteen minute ferry from the mainland, I found the Food Co-op and had a meal. After three days on the ferry devoid of vegetables, my body was craving color and phyto-nutrients.

I really should hit the road. I've got five days to be in L.A., and there are miles of coastline to cover.

Here are a couple more shots and videos from Alaska Ferries' Malaspina:

I had a visit with Captain Douglas Sturm (seated) and his 2nd Mate, Kevin Dickman in the wheel house. They let me drive! Ha ha!

The view from my bed:

White rainbow in the fog:

Slow Travel

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-08-20T12:13:54-07:00

Fifteen minutes onboard the Malaspina feels like an hour; an hour feels like four. Three days feels like a week of luxurious, blissful, all-out, full-on relaxation.

I'm sleeping like a log, having long, unhurried conversations with fellow sailors, chewing my way through a deliciously dense back country loaf from Alpine Bakery, and taking in the magnificent views. I can't count the number of times I've heard someone say "It just doesn't get any better than this."

After three days sailing at a snail's pace through some of the most spectacular scenery in the world, I've replenished all I lost on the BC/Alaska border and refilled my spirits to overflow.

I went to bed early the first night, exhausted, and fell quickly into dreamland, lulled by the drone of the engine and a dozen snorers in the solarium. I woke up when they announced our first port of call, and watched from my sleepingbag the new moon croissant dangling above the lights of Petersburg tucked in to the dark hills, twinkling. I don't know if I've ever felt so peaceful.

In the morning, I awoke in a pea soup, and assumed we'd stopped at one of our scheduled ports of call south of the Wrangle Narrows. The onboard forest guide had told the passengers the night before that the Narrows were worth getting up for at three in the morning, but I was so depleted from my ordeal of the previous night, I just couldn't.

When I took a walk around the ship and saw only water and fog, I thought we were anchored in the middle of my black and white dream. It took a few deep breaths of fresh air and a conversation with the watchman to find out we'd been anchored most of the night at the north end of the Wrangle Narrows due to thick fog and an unusually low tide.

By the time everyone was up and about on the top deck, the fog, a gauze curtain, had begun to burn off layer by layer, slowly lifting to reveal the surprise. On both starboard and port sides you could almost touch the shores, whose narrow beaches rose immediate to steep evergreen-packed mountains. "This is gonna be beautiful," I gushed to whomever happened to be standing nearby. We would get to pass through Wrangle Narrows not just in the daylight, but in what looked like it was about to be gorgeous sunlight.

With two island masses so close by, it was easy to spot bald eagles hanging out high in their tall spruce waiting for fish to jump. All day long I stayed out on deck watching for eagles, dolphins and whales. A small fishing craft sped by and I waved to the guy looking our way. He turned around and mooned the ferry. People cheered. Children in houses perched on isolated island shores waved with white towels, like the ferry's passing was the most exciting moment in their day. I waved back like it was the most exciting moment in my day.

A spontaneous yoga practise erupted when a young woman jokingly suggested we stretch. I seriously made her commit, and within five minutes, three of us were on the back of the main deck doing downward dogs. Four Russian guys watched like it was the most exciting moment in their day.

I got to know Nate, the biker who helped me tie down Henk when we boarded. He's a sweet, soft-spoken young man who's packed more climbing, biking, kayaking, fishing, hiking, and diving into his 25 years on the planet than most outdoorsmen will do in a lifetime - and he bakes his own bread. He was working for a start-up that went belly-up in Colorado three weeks ago, so he hopped on his raggamuffin 1994 Kawasaki Vulcan and headed solo to Alaska. It's a pleasure swapping adventure stories with someone who knows you're not exaggerating when you say "I almost died."

Today I slept in until 9:30. It was foggy again, and I was just so damn cozy in my warm little bag in the sardine-packed solarium. I saw no reason to get up until the sun came out, which it did, and we were blessed with another spectacular day inching our way down the inside passage.

I had a beer with Nate and four bikers from Sacramento who'd done an Alaskan adventure together on their Goldwings, BMW, and Harley. The remarkable thing about these guys is not that they met at a square dancing club, or that they were all still having a blast after a month on the road together; it's that the youngest in their gang, Bill, is 52. Two of them, Ralph, a retired accountant, and Andy, a retired fighter pilot, are 74(!) and Ed is well into his sixties. An inspiring bunch of guys, indeed.

Ralph and I had a huge howl when he told me about all his friends begging him not to go. "Don't you know you're too old for that?" they'd say to him over and over. "Yeah, and it's dangerous waking up," he'd retort. "You could get out of bed, step into the shower and crack your head open!"

"My dad lived to be a hundred," he said, smiling, "so maybe I'll get lucky." I told him I wanted to be still riding at 74. "You'll find as you get older, people around you become more and more fearful." Thank god Ralph and his buddies are out there proving fear is an illusion.

Misadventures

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-08-19T14:36:00-07:00

Every motorbike trip has one. One of those misadventures you hope never happens, but once you've miraculously survived it, makes for the best story. (You can see the videos of this most recent one in "Henk's Sick" below.)

When I rode across Canada a few years ago, my drive belt came flying off at high speed on the Trans Canada an hour east of Regina. Luckily, when I dropped behind the transport truck I was trying to pass, no other vehicle was coming up behind me. I was towed to Regina, and within 48 hours was safely back on the road, thankful it hadn't been worse.

Last year, riding south between Chetwynd and Prince George, BC, quite literally the middle of nowhere, I came into the eye of The Mother of all Rocky Mountain Hail and Lightning Storms. The inside of the 18-wheeler cab where I took refuge turned out to be scarier than the idea of getting struck by lightning. By the end of the day, though, after passing through countless heavy showers and escaping trucker hell, I was laughing my head off.

This morning, lying on my lounge chair in the 'solarium' of Alaska Ferries' 'Malaspina' in my sleepingbag dried by the overhead heat lamps, with a view of low-lying clouds hovering silent over lush, dripping rain forested mountains and blue-white glaciers feeding gushing waterfalls into Lynn Straight, I cried.

It's not good to cry in a crisis, but it's essential to cry afterward. I cried because I've never been so thankful to be alive. Riding the rest of the pass to Skagway from Canada Customs at Fraser this morning, I saw what a blessing it had been that Henk's battery died just when it did, not quite at the top of the pass, just as the weather had really settled in and just as darkness had really taken over.

It was still raining this morning when I packed up my soaked tent, sleepingbag, thermarest, dripping coat and tank bag. I'd gotten maybe one hour of restless sleep in the wind and driving rain on the slab of concrete across the tracks from the customs office, when a drip of cold water on my eyelid woke me up precisely at 5:30. My winter coat I'd draped over my sleepingbag for extra warmth was soaked on the outside.

I was praying that Alan's charge of last night would hold and get me and Henk to the ferry on time; hoping that if not, at least in the light of day there'd be traffic, and I could flag someone down for a boost. When no car came by the entire hour I took to pack up, I went inside to check on expected traffic. "We literally don't see one vehicle between midnight and ten am," said the tired guy who'd replaced Alan on the midnight shift. "I don't even know why we stay open."

Those were not the encouraging words I wanted to hear, and I started to doubt that I would catch my ferry. "Mike across the street is going to summit soon though," he added, sounding as hospitable as customs officers are allowed to sound. Perfect! I ran across the street to tell Mike from Yukon Highways and Maintenance my predicament, and beg him to be my tail to US customs, 25kms away. "I'm not supposed to go all the way down the hill," he said. "But I'll go part way and make sure you're gonna make it."

He followed in his truck at a close distance while I slowly navigated the steep mountain pass through rainclouds two feet above the ground. At one point near the summit, my visibility went down to almost zero. The yellow line disappeared, and I felt as though I could easily just ride right off the face of the earth. Had I attempted the pass last night, I probably would have.

Henk's battery was holding, so I held on for dear life and rode one slow mile at a time, grateful for the headlights breaking through the fog in my rearview mirror.

When the headlights disappeared, I knew I was close - I could coast through customs if the battery failed me now. Once again, I've never been so happy to see a customs office. The officer told me it was another ten km to the ferry, and sent me on my way with no hassles. It was six thirty am, an hour earlier at the border, and I would make my 8:15 ferry!

Henk's battery died in the line-up five minutes before boarding. I got a little shove by the ferry worker, coasted in neutral to the front of the car deck, and strapped Henk down with some expert knot-tying help from a rider from Colorado.

It took my sleepingbag only minutes to dry out under the heat lamps of the solarium on the upper deck of the blue canoe; so when I crawled inside, dry and safe and warm, finally relaxing my shoulders completely to their cartilage, and looked out at the breathtaking scene changing glacially slow through my open, deck-wide bedroom window, my eyes filled to their brims with wonder for the exquisite beauty - made a million times more beautiful through the efforts required to get here.

I thanked the army of guardian angels, human and ethereal, who watch over me on these solo adventures, and fell into a deep sleep, rocked like a baby by gentle giant mother earth.

This morning:

Henk's Sick

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-08-18T14:26:47-07:00

As much as I like Whitehorse, I am in no hurry to be stuck here. Doctor Red called in sick today, leaving only Dr. Patrick at Yukon Harley to diagnose and treat Henk. Of course, he went down on the priority list, and I've been on the phone several times today trying to find out when he'll be ready. Henk's stator is shot. I'm not exactly sure what that is, except to say that the battery won't charge without it, and I basically have no ride without that part. Of course, there is no such part anywhere in the Yukon, and Patrick said it would take until at least Tuesday to have it shipped from Vancouver.

I decided to ride without it, charging the battery with cables three more times between here and Bellingham, where there's a Harley shop that has the part and can squeeze me in (after Patrick begged for me).

The passes between here and Skagway are high and long, and there's a good chance I'll break down somewhere up there. It's a bit disconcerting knowing that, but I'd rather ride than be stuck waiting for a part. It's only 156kms, and I can walk Henk on and off the ferry. When I arrive in Bellingham, I'll get boosted one last time and ride to the shop. The South Klondike Highway is well-travelled, and if I do get stuck, there will be someone to help. (Hopefully before the bears get me.)

In the meantime, Patrick's still working on getting the fork seals replaced after six pm. He's been a trooper considering his work load, but I'm getting a little anxious for daylight hours. Here's what Henk looks like at the moment. He's got his left front leg off and his insides exposed.

1:38am Canada Customs Fraser, BC.

Well, as I predicted, I did actually break down somewhere up on that road. Exactly at Canada Customs in Fraser on the Alaska border, just a half hour ride from my destination of Skagway. I've never been so happy to see customs officers. And now I'm in my tent on a concrete platform beside the customs office with my beeswax candle from Aroma Borealis in Whitehorse and Jack Johnson on iTunes. Amazingly, I've got an internet connection here. The tent fly is flapping wildly in the wind. I think the rain is sogged in for the night. It's been a crazy night so far - it may turn out to be the longest night of my life. I need to try and either stay awake until five, or sleep a few hours and wake up without an alarm to try and get out in time to catch my ferry at eight.

Here are the videos:

After Alan from Canada Customs boosted Henk the first time, I attempted to carry on toward Skagway, but five minutes down the road, I realized that was a crazy idea. My headlight was losing power, even on low, and with the rain and low-lying black clouds, I literally couldn't see three feet in front of me. The asphalt had blackened to an ominous oily river, and there was not a soul - not a soul - on the road at that hour (it was getting on to 11pm). In fact in my entire ride from Whitehorse, I'd seen three vehicles. That's lonelier than the North Klondike!

I was cursing Red at Yukon Harley for calling in sick and making me an entire day late. When I realized how unevolved that was, I focused on cursing myself for scheduling a ferry into an itinerary that was supposed to be without schedule. I cursed myself for riding at night, which I never ever do; but I quickly reasoned that in this case, I absolutely had to. There was a ferry leaving Skagway at eight in the morning with or without me. I wanted it to leave with me. So I stopped cursing and focused on my immediate problem.

I imagined standing up on a mountain pass for hours, freezing in the rain that was now verging on snow, waiting for headlights in the distance to offer a glimmer of hope. I knew there'd be none.

In these mountain passes, one slip of the front tire could be IT. I had to turn back on a gut feeling, and sure enough, just over the hill from Canada Customs, Henk's battery died again.

Funky Town

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-08-17T13:17:48-07:00

I like Whitehorse. It leaves a great first impression, and upon returning for the fourth time, i'm still impressed.

Robert Service Campground is a sweet little place on the south end of town along the Yukon River. In the land of monster RV's, it's nice to stay at a campground that specializes in private, wooded tent sites where world travellers and adventurers gather to rest for the night and swap stories before heading into the wilderness by canoe or kayak or hiking trail or highway.

I pulled in late last night, just as the Yukon sky was working its magical midnight sunset thing over the river. There's a particular shade of blue I've never seen anywhere but the night skies of the Yukon. It's deep and rich and dark and indescribably, mysteriously beautiful. It's the land, covered in purple fireweed and slender evergreens, that goes on forever, split open by deep canyons and inky waterways reflecting light beyond infinity, painting over what should be a coal black canvas with what verges on a hue outside the spectrum I can only call Yukon Midnight Blue. Anyway, it's worth it to come all the way here to see for yourself.

Germans and Swiss have regular, daily flights direct to Whitehorse. Somehow Europeans have discovered the Yukon, and for the moment seem to share it only with Quebecers. If the rest of Canada knew what it had, there'd be another stampede north; this one not for gold, but for a golden life.

The Alpine Bakery in Whitehorse is quite literally 'ground zero' for vegetarianism in the north. Suat, its hospitable and conscientious owner, has made it easy for vegetarians to survive in an isolated northern town more known for its caribou stew. He runs an organic vegetable co-op, buying local veggies whenever they're available, and shipping from BC when not, and creates wonderful aromas and flavors from his large open kitchen and wood-fired oven.

I stopped in today for lunch after taking Henk to see Doctor Red at Yukon Harley.

I almost cried with my first taste of Aztec Stew and my first sip of carrot/apple/ginger juice. After eating mostly uninspired food (or not eating because all I could find was uninspired food) for over two weeks on the road, it was sublime to savor a meal made with good intentions and top quality ingredients. Even the herbs and spices, I could tell, were of the highest quality. But most of all, I could taste the infusion of calm, healing energy that had gone into it. I almost cried because it's such a rare occasion to feel so utterly nurtured and healed by food.

People here have independent spirits and a sense of adventure. They're refreshingly authentic. They're not living here because of jobs or careers or pursuits of the intellect; they're here because they love nature, they're a little bit rebellious, they shun the trappings of urban centres, and they love their community and the unique northern lifestyle. It's a surprisingly funky town in a gorgeous natural setting, and the story of someone stopping to fill up for gas and staying forever has become cliche. One of these days I'll return (or still be here) for the women's hairy leg contest during Rendezvous, the February Winter Festival. It happens that I'm here in between the Longest Days Festival and the Storytelling Festival. The list of international happenings here is as long as the longest day.

Henk has to stay at the hospital overnight. They've got him pinned to the table and he can't move. When they told me they'd have to keep him longer than expected, my heart sank. Doctor Red so far hasn't given me that good-to-core confidence that Dustin inspired. Let's hope he's competent. It'll be strange not having Henk stand guard outside my tent tonight. Even stranger that I actually see him as my companion.

Long and Lonely Klondike Highway

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-08-16T20:45:57-07:00

Yes, it's a long and lonely road from Dawson to Whitehorse. It's only 550kms, but it seems like 800 because it's just so wonderfully remote.

I love it, even though the chip seal and gravel bite the hell out of Henk's rubber. This time, the longest stretch of freshly laid gravel was 14kms. Not bad for an isolated northern road, but it was slow-going for Henk and me. With his limping right side, we had a bit of a wobble in the inch-thick gravel, which made for very unstable driving. It took all my concentration, and a considerable amount of upper body strength to stay upright.

The guy on the phone at Yukon Harley highly recommended that I not ride with my right fork seal gone. But Dustin said that with my light weight, if I took it easy, I'd be fine. I trusted him over a voice on the phone, and rode, keeping Henk steady at 100km/h where the wobble seemed in check. It turned out the fork wasn't my only problem.

After I'd filled up at Stewart Crossing, Henk wouldn't start, as though the battery was dead again. That's impossible, though, because I literally just replaced my battery yesterday. So I asked a guy for a boost and Henk started instantly. Strange. When I filled up at Carmacks, I left the engine running for fear it would die again. Then, as I was riding into Whitehorse, I ran out of gas. Before I could reach for the reserve toggle, the engine died. Right there on the Alaska Highway across from a gas station/grocery store.

I suppose it could have been a lot worse. If you're going to break down on the highway, it may as well be across from a gas station. It didn't take long for me to find someone with cables, and Henk and I rode the last ten minutes to the Robert Service Campground knowing that I'd have to do the same in the morning to get Henk to his scheduled doctor's appointment.

In my mind, an adventure wouldn't be an adventure if I didn't have to stretch beyond the familiar, or once in awhile rely on the kindness of strangers. The last thing I want when I leave my comfort zone is a predictable experience. And though I've covered familiar territory geographically on this portion of my journey, the mental, emotional, and spiritual terrain has been utterly unknown - uncomfortable even. It's sacred ground though; accessible to all, yet lost in translation to words or photos. That's The Unbloggable True North.

Leaving Dawson

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-08-15T23:27:18-07:00

I do believe I'm pokered out - or at least Diamond Tooth Gertie's pokered out for the moment. I've got their three delightfully cheesy can-can shows maddeningly embedded in my genetic hard-drive after hearing them nine times each. It's time to ride.

I often say I want to ride motorbike until I'm motorbiked out, and I keep thinking it's a season away, but that desire never leaves. I wonder if I'll tire of poker. As fun as it is to entertain the idea of making a living playing a game you enjoy, any honest poker player (is that an oxymoron?) will tell you it can be a grind. I had the most fun at the table when I sat beside someone with whom I could joke around - and that's not exactly serious poker playing. That's the trick. You've gotta be pretty serious about winning to win at poker.

But last night I was much more interested in chatting with the four native guys from Inuvik who'd stopped in to play on their way to Whitehorse for some kind of a skeet shooting tournament. They'd had some practice on the way down with a big male caribou. Jimmy, the young guy with a wonderful mischievous grin immediately to my left, said his aunt had called from Whitehorse saying that her freezer's empty. "No problem," he told her. "There's lots of caribou on the way." Over the course of an hour while Jimmy was separated from his fifty bucks by the local sharks, I found out that the buck who'd met his fate, after he'd been shot, had had his head severed, which was left for the bears (six grizzlies were waiting), then he'd been cut down the belly and his innards thrown into the grizzly smorg. He'd then been sliced in half and thrown onto the back of Jimmy's truck, where I imagine he will stay until Jimmy arrives at his aunt's village near Whitehorse, where she'll cut him into steaks and freeze him (the buck, not Jimmy). According to Jimmy, the tongue and the heart are the best-tasting parts.

Amazingly, this vegetarian was not in the least bit offended by the story. If people are going to eat meat, that is the way to do it.

I've played poker every evening for a week. Eight tournaments in total, and eight or nine 5/10 limit holdem games, as well as one 10/20 holdem and one 5/10 omaha hi-lo. I'll leave Dawson three hundred bucks richer, not half my ferry fare to Bellingham from Skagway. But I've gained a wealth of table experience I couldn't have gotten anywhere else. These Dawsonites are serious about their game, and I feel like I've had a free master class in how to win at poker. My game is much sharper now than before I got here, and I feel like I've finally begun to let loose some aggression - much needed at the poker table, and, for a passifist like myself, in life.

They say this is a game you can learn in an hour, but it takes a lifetime to master. When you play a lot, you realize how true that is. You can read all the how-to-win-at-poker books that you like, but until you've seen thousands of hands play out, you just don't have the experience to win consistently.

John says its easier for him to win in Dawson than it is down south in Laughlin, Arizona, where he spends his winters. "They're all older than me there," he says. And you just know some of those old guys have played more than a hand or two.

In the week I've been here, John managed to amass almost two grand. Watch out for him if you ever make it up this way. I made sure I sat near him whenever we played at the same table. Only twice were we in significant hands against each other. Last night, he busted me out of the tournament with his king/queen against my king/jack. I knew better than to call his all-in bet when a king came on the flop. The voice inside my head was saying "You know better than to call John on an all-in bet, even when you have top pair." And I did. But I called anyway. That's poker; and that's skill playing inexperience - exactly how the greats make their money. I was actually pretty happy it wasn't the other way around. Nobody wants to beat their teacher.

Then tonight, John was almost out of the tournament with just 50 or 100 in chips left. He went all-in and I continued betting with my jack/10 when a jack hit on the flop. He turned up his cards and showed pocket queens. Another jack hit on the river, and I busted him out - purely by luck. That's poker. "Now we're even," he laughed as he left the table. I went on to (finally) take third place.

I leave on the ferry for the southbound leg of the journey on Saturday from Skagway. It's three days of sailing, which I'm very much looking forward to. Unless there's some kind of a freaky game onboard in the card room, I won't be playing poker again until August 30 in Vegas.

Video of Buffalo on Alaska Highway

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-08-15T07:08:40-07:00

This herd of wild Buffalo live on the Alaska Highway just north of Liard Hotsprings.

Here are a few funny moments I had with them over a week ago en route to Whitehorse from Liard Hotsprings...

Video of Liard Hotsprings

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-08-14T15:39:05-07:00

It feels like weeks ago that I was at Liard Hotsprings, mile 495 of the Alaska Highway just south of the Yukon border. I stayed just one night this time because it wasn't raining and I didn't get happily stuck. Now that I'm ensconced at Bonanza Gold, my friends Gail and John's motel and RV park empire on the edge of Dawson City, I have the bandwidth and the electricity to share a few videos. Liard Hotsprings is a treasure. Stay tuned for more...

(When I say "the cooler end" I mean the end of the pool that's not boiling hot. It's actually about 38C.)

Henk's Mechanical Problems

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-08-12T22:52:26-07:00

It's been raining off and on all day today, and tonight while I was at Gertie's playing poker with the sharks, it poured. I expected my tent to be soggy when I returned, but it's actually held up very well. Apparently North Face guarantees their tents for life. Mine's about nine years old, and still perfect. I'm snug in my sleepingbag wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt; and four tea candles beside me have taken away any damp chill.

Henk has an appointment at Yukon Harley Davidson in Whitehorse on Thursday to have his front fork seals replaced. The right fork started leaking profusely two days ago, onto the front brake disk and tire. I suppose after 86,000kms and nine seasons of riding - two of them on rough dusty northern roads - I have to expect little things to start to go. This is where Henk's wild cousin, Ulysses, comes in. As willing as Henk is to brave any road I bring him down, he's not exactly bred for chip seal and gravel. Ulysses has a 20% more adventurous spirit. I hope that by the time I can afford him, mine will still match.

It took me a good part of the day to find an expert opinion. Everyone in town's got what they believe is one. Igor, the photographer who travelled across the US on his motorbike in a snowstorm suggested some kind of spray-on silicone seal around the outside to stop the leaking at least until I got to Whitehorse; but first he suggested I find Doug, "the only mechanic in town," and cry long enough and hard enough for him to agree to drop his current back-listed projects to fix Henk.

"Are you Doug, the busy mechanic?" I asked when I finally found his compound and when he finally hung up the phone with an anxious customer whose car he was still working on. "Yes, and I don't do motorbikes," was his curt reply. "Hmm," I said. "I guess I won't bother wasting my energy on crying, like Igor suggested." "Igor's a..." his voice trailed off and I knew I was screwed. "Ok, do you have any suggestions? My front fork seals are toast." "No idea. You might try Northern Superior, but they're busy as hell and they charge through the nose..."

I tried a new approach and went to Northern Electric, a supply warehouse for the mining industry - a trip unto itself. Men in filthy ballcaps with hardened, blackened hands and faces etched with years of heavy gravel hauling were lined up waiting for one guy behind the counter to find their particular piece of metal tubing, or their particular nut and bolt attachment. It was a fascinating microcosm of modern day gold mining in the legendary Klondike. With all the technology available to us now, it still requires men willing to work their fingers to the bone to get gold.

I picked up a spray can of "gasket seal" as well as a tube of extremely toxic silicone goo, and when it was my turn with the guy who seemed to know everything about everything, I asked for his advice. "I've got a leaky seal," I said, still not even close to crying. "Which one of these might do the trick?" This sparked a flurry of advice and activity. Three or four guys came outside to look at Henk, who was bleeding onto the tire rim. Unafraid of getting a little dirtier, they stuck their fingers in the oil, sniffed it, almost tasted it, and came up with the solution: "You can't fix this from the outside. There's nothing you can do but replace the seals." I thought so. Somehow it seemed illogical that a band-aid would stop an internal wound.

"Go talk to Dustin out at the compound," someone suggested. "He'll be able to fix it." "Yeah, but he's real busy too," someone else said. "Try him anyway. He's a good guy. He'll take care of it for you."

So off to the compound I went, not entirely discouraged, looking for the dude named Dustin.

You know how sometimes people are able to instil confidence simply by uttering one word? It's amazing how much nuance is carried in in a greeting. Like some doctors, for example, have that "I'm going to take care of this and don't you worry" tone in their voice when they tell you to jump up on the table and say aahh. You just know, on a cellular level, that any concerns you may have will instantly vanish with his or her advice.

He said "Hello" and I knew I'd found my expert. Within Dustin's one word greeting was layered a willingness to meet me, a generosity of spirit, compassion, enthusiasm, intelligence, curiosity, and competence. He took a good look at Henk, as though he had all the time in the world, then gave me the prescription: let it bleed until it's dry. That way the oil won't leak anymore over the brake disk and tire - "Just come by here on your way out of town and I'll clean it up for you." In the worst case scenario, I'll have a bit of a bumpy ride to Whitehorse without my right front fork absorbing some of those potholes - "But you've gotta take it easy on that road anyway."

He saw the seal change as an easy job, and offered to do it himself by flying in the parts on Air North and setting aside some of his other work, but if I was going to Whitehorse anyway for a tune-up, his solution of drying the fork and cleaning up the oil spill would work just fine. My concerns, which had begun to magnify as the day had gone on from one opinionated person's opinion to another, disappeared.

If you ever have a mechanical problem of any kind while in Dawson City, go see Dustin at the native compound near the bridge.

Days in Dawson

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-08-09T08:16:58-07:00

I'm in the bathhouse waiting for the water to warm. It doesn't take long, but when you're the first to light a fire in the morning, you're starting from a cold standstill.

I love that bathing here is a ritual. You have to set aside a morning or an evening, and all the little preparations that go into making your bath give you a heightened sense of appreciation for that first splash of hot water on your skin. (And a heightened sense of appreciation for hot and cold running water!)

It's looking like another beautiful day here in Dawson City. So far, it's been pretty uneventful, which is perfect. Last year's journey here was epic. I'm glad that this one feels a little less Homeric. I'm happier this time around - not necessarily looking for anything or running away from or toward anything. I really just took this journey for the journey, and that concept in itself has proven epic enough without any great drama over which to cloak my story.

I find the people here to be very content; reason enough to want to be here. It's difficult to get a complaint out of any local even if you go fishing for one. I asked Terry, the guy who works the night shift directing traffic onto and off the ferry, back and forth across the river, if he likes his job. "I love it," he replied in a tone that matched his words. "I get to see the sun set and the moon rise and the sun rise over the river all in the same shift. " Indeed, as he spoke, the big fat mid-August full moon that had just revealed itself hovered like a beacon over the Yukon River, its moonbeam dancing on the blackened north-flowing current.

Way off toward infinity, on the endless eastern horizon, the sky had lightened ever so slightly with impending dawn. It's an eerily wonderful juxtaposition to be standing in the middle of at two in the morning; almost as though day and night had become intertwined in battle or in lovemaking somewhere over the edge of the earth, and neither one was willing to be the first to release its desperate grasp.

Yet magically, night surrenders with surprising grace, knowing in a few months its time will come to cover this land. The spell of the Yukon, of which Robert Service wrote, is present in that hour, and I feel myself strangely drawn to spend more time uncovering its mysteries.

I asked a local sitting next to me at the poker table what it's like living here in the winter. "If you're somewhat together," he replied, "if you're half normal, and have anything at all going on for yourself, a winter here would drive you insane." I looked at him and smiled. He was dead serious. "But if you're half crazy, you'd fit right in."

It would come as no surprise to anyone who knows me if I decided to one day spend a winter here purely for the anthropological study. Nor would it be argued that I was half crazy.

I played poker again last night at Gertie's and won two hundred bucks. I should stick to the five-ten game, because I managed to turn two hundred into five hundred bucks over the course of a couple of hours. It's the tournaments I'm not quite getting. I played in my second one, and once again came in fourth. I call myself 'bubble girl'. Going out on the bubble is no fun. You either want to go out first with a bang, or come in the money. Being on the bubble is just maddening. But I can't seem to get the strategy down for a timed tournament. There simply isn't time to wait for an ideal opportunity. There's a lessen in there somewhere. Like, what are you waiting for? Turn your seven-two off-suit into a winning hand because life is not going to wait for you.

video of the bathhouse:

Diamond Tooth Gertie's

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-08-07T21:38:00-07:00

I played poker tonight for three hours and made a hundred bucks.

Diamond Tooth Gertie's is Canada's first legalized gambling hall, conceived of in 1899 by the hospitable captain of a crowded ocean steamer bringing gold seekers from Seattle to the Klondike. For over a hundred years, people from all over the world have met here to try their luck at the tables, be entertained by the dancers, and meet fellow adventurers.

I learned to play here last year from John Hendley, who plays professionally, and whose chips were piled to table-tilting proportions the night we first agreed to the exchange of poker lessons for restaurant help. He taught me the basics, gave me some of his strategy and a bankroll, then set me loose in the shark pool. I lost.

But I've been practising; and playing in the shark pool I found so intimidating a year ago tonight felt like swimming with dolphins.

It's a friendly game here at Gertie's, and there's always a happy freak or two at the table - unlike in L.A., where people seem to be miserably grinding out a living.

Everyone knows each other and gets along. I'm sure that over the weeks, the money simply trades hands, although I know that it ends up more often in John's hands than any others.

We started the evening at 7:30 with a ten-person tournament with a thirty-five dollar buy in. Re-buys and add-ons were allowed until half an hour before the game ended on the dot at 8:30. It's quite a different game than the one I'm used to where you play until the final two are heads up, then keep on playing until one guy goes out, regardless of the time. Part of my strategy is patience, but when the clock is ticking, patience doesn't always pay. I literally didn't have a starting hand the entire hour, but by folding almost every single hand, I managed to stay in the game until only four of us were left. The problem with that is only three people get paid, and of course I was the short stack. If I had gotten lucky and the number three guy had gone out, I would have simply fluked into a paying position. But I didn't, and went out on the bubble when I went all-in three hands from the end with the best hand I'd had all game: ten king off.

When the tournament ended, the game changed to 5-10 limit hold'em. Here's where patience can pay. I waited and waited, folding seven-two off and nine-four off, until the right opportunity to get in a hand presented itself. I won two nice pots with ace queen that paired both on the flop, beating john out of his flush draw, and jack queen that did the same. That was enough to get back my tournament entry plus a hundred dollars. When I got up to leave, one of the regulars said, "You're taking our money and leaving, eh?" I told him I'd be back tomorrow night if he wanted to try and get it back.

Video Blog of Klondike Highway

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-08-07T21:37:21-07:00

Video Blog of Alaska Highway

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-08-07T13:51:04-07:00

The Far North

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-08-05T20:24:52-07:00

Aaahh. The Yukon! I'm finally here! Four thousand kilometres from Christina Lake, I'm finally in Dawson City.

Here in my little tent running on 72% battery at the River Hostel. It's 12:18am and only just beginning to get dark. The constant drone of the five minute ferry that crosses the Yukon River twenty four hours a day makes me feel like Huck Finn on a grand adventure. Or Becky.

I arrived here appropriately filthy and full of anticipation for the outdoor prospector's bath. Thank god for Germans! A couple had been in the bathhouse before me and made a roaring fire under the water. When I arrived, dusty, with a face full of bugs, there was no need to saw wood - all I had to do was strip and ladle steaming hot water over my skin. By the time I'd finished bathing, the heated wood house had warmed and dried my sarong, which had been wet in my bag since Liard Hotsprings.

The Klondike Highway today was beautiful, but it took me eight hours to cover just over 500km.

I stopped frequently to take mini films, which I'll point you to soon, and the road was broken up with long stretches of construction and gravel. The pavement north of 60 is actually not pavement at all. It's a combination of dirt and gravel, seal-coated with oil. When they're re-doing it, the rain can turn the dirt into a slippery mixture of chocolate pudding and stones. I barely hung on to Henk at 60km/h when he slid sideways, so I decided to slow down. When the days are this long, there's no hurry to arrive before ten or eleven pm.

Everyone complains of the roads up here, but the state of the roads is partially what makes it such an adventure. If it were easy, everyone would be here. I, for one, am glad it's hard as hell to get here.

I had the entire road to myself today. Just me, Henk, a mamma grizzly, and her two tiny cubs. I rounded a bend around 90kms north of Whitehorse and our eyes met. She was just off the road, not ten feet from my right knee. I didn't get far down the road before I realized I needed - NEEDED - a longer look. I couldn't pass by this astonishing creature without properly saying hello.

I turned around and crept as close as I dared. Not close enough to get a photo, but close enough for her to hear the rev of Henk's engine as I kept my left hand on the clutch and my right on the throttle, ready to bolt if I had to. She was digging in the ground for grubs and feeding them to her two adorable tiny cubs who were rolling around in the prickly grass. There was not another soul around for miles, and the occasional car that did pass just zoomed by, missing it all entirely.

It's an odd feeling, being out in the middle of nowhere, just me and little Henk, in the presence of such magnificence. It took awhile before I could discern that the strange primal feeling which had jolted my belly and overcome me was actually not fear. It was a form of reverence I'd never experienced before. Deep and personal and intimate; fierce and ancient and religious.

I kept Henk's engine running, even though I desperately wanted to turn off the noise and be the silent observer. Each time I moved an inch closer, she'd look up from her digging with her ears at attention and her black eyes directly on mine. I remained at a distance we both agreed on and watched for fifteen minutes before finally turning back northbound with a renewed sense of awe for the far north.

The North

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-08-02T20:17:04-07:00

It's a beautiful sunny day here at eight thirty am in Chetwynd. I'll be in Dawson Creek having coffee at Mile 0 of the Alaska Highway within the hour. If the weather holds, I may just make it to Liard Hotsprings, Mile 495, today.

The ride yesterday from Jasper along the Yellowhead Highway was spectacular. I dressed in my usual 7 layers to stay warm in the deep freeze that is the Rocky Mountains, and when the sun came out, it warmed about as thoroughly as the lightbulb in your freezer. After passing Mt. Robson, the highest peak in the Rockies at 12,972 ft, it filled my rearview mirror with its cloud-topped massiveness for miles.

Half-way between Jasper and Prince George, the stresses of the city finally washed away with a spontaneous outburst of tears of joy inside my helmet, and my spirits lifted to new levels. It's difficult to describe the feeling I get when the closed-in concrete disappears and the world expands to an infinity of endless evergreen and open sky falling to faraway peaks on the horizon. Its as though the infinite in me recognizes it - or I am the infinity I'm riding through; and for a good healthy change, I feel myself again. I finally feel sane. If I could bring you with me, you'd understand when I tell you "This is who I am."

Whiteswan with Kevin

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-07-31T05:51:49-07:00

We got off to a late start on Saturday. No surprise I didn't get up at six am as intended. By the time Kevin and I had had our coffees and packed up Henk and his new friend Honda Hurricane, it was eleven. Our intention was to ride to Banff, where I'd stay for a visit and he'd continue his loop around to Revelstoke and back home to his girls.

We couldn't have had more perfect conditions for Kevin's first ride. The sun was out, the pavement was dry, traffic was sparse, and our bikes were both well-tuned and newly rubbered.

We flew to Invermere, Lightning and Hurricane, like a summer storm, and stopped at the Blue Dog Cafe for a bite.

Kevin was enjoying the ride even more than he'd thought he would. He's a big off-road guy, and rides his little Honda dirtbike all over every backroad mountain pass in the Kootenays. I could tell, though, he was loving gliding smoothly down the asphalt without having to heave the bike over fallen logs or dodge hanging branches and lazy cows.

When we passed the turnoff to the hotsprings at Whiteswan, I thought I detected a right turn signal from Kevin in my rearview mirror. We decided over dinner to backtrack and try to camp there for the night, rather than fight the crowds in the Banff campgrounds on a Saturday night. It was an easy decision. He'd been to Whiteswan in his truck a couple of weeks ago, and assured me they'd upgraded the gravel and dirt logging road. Henk and Hurricane would have no trouble.

It was slow-going in the dusk, bumping over potholes and skidding over gravel, and when we arrived at the campground 20kms up the mountain, we got the last campsite. We set up camp - my old reliable North Face tent with newly custom made poles by Joseph at Europe Bound in Toronto, and Kevin's bear bait bivey.

The temperature had dropped nicely up there, and the clear night sky was an explosion of falling stars. We walked around the lake and caught up on each others' lives. It's been six years since we've spent a night together. Kevin's been busy growing a child, and it's only now that she's four he's becoming free enough to get away for 24 hours. Lauren appeared out of nowhere and took his life on a very different path than he'd planned. Now he lives for his girls, and it's wonderful to watch. He remains one of my most admired humans.

We got up with the sun, shivered while packing up camp, and headed down to the hotsprings for a soak. Mmmmm. Lussier Hotsprings, 17kms up a logging road near Canal Flats, is a treasure.

There were already ten or fifteen people lounging in the various pools. It's the busiest I've ever seen it up there. Great things inevitably get discovered by the masses.

We stayed for an hour or so, soaking up the sulphur water and spruce forest, then hit the road. Kevin planned on leaving me at Radium, then heading around Golden and Revelstoke back toward home. By the time we got to Radium, though, the sky had darkened over the mountains, threatening storms. I suggested he go back the way we came. Why ride through a Rocky Mountain rainstorm if you don't have to?

I, on the other hand, had to.

I used to joke, when I lived in Banff and wanted out, that Banff had a perpetual black cloud hovering over it.

It seemed at the time to be true, but in reality, I knew it to be the black cloud over me.

But here I was, riding into Banff through a cold rain, wondering if it's just me. I arrived and snapped a photo of Rundle Mountain just as the first lightning bolt struck.

My nieces and nephew ran out to greet me and helped unload my wet gear. "I thought you weren't going to get here Auntie Moi!" Ahhh. I love them.

Flowing

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-07-27T15:42:24-07:00

I just picked up Henk from Scott at Kaotic Kustom Choppers in Grand Forks. He has brand new rubber on both ends, his fluids have been changed, his primary chain tightened, signal lightbulb replaced, bolts and screws checked, and now he's purring like a kitty and ready to go. I'm itching to ride also. The weather at Christina Lake has been phenomenal. Not a drop of rain has fallen in the entire two weeks I've been in Toronto, and I'm thinking I might have ideal conditions this time around. That would be a first. Last year, my ride began in the rain, and almost every day of riding came with some form of precipitation, including low-lying clouds and cold rain all the way up the Alaska Highway.

If I'm lucky, this time I'll get to see where the Rockies begin (or end) in the north; where those colossal cold jagged bones of the earth rumble toward its sacrum, tumbling quiet to its kundalini cauldron where twin elements, fire and ice intermingle in ecstacy and geologic passions are stirred to boiling - then left in utter silence to simply witness the passage of time.

There's magic up north. People ask me "Why the Yukon?" Last year my answer was because I'd never been. This time it's because I want more. More of the midnight sun glowing purple over the fireweed alongside the Yukon River darkened deep magenta, still sparkling diamonds at eleven pm. It's a gentle and present approach to nightfall that makes a day in the Yukon feel like a lifetime. I want more of the medicinal scented Labrador Tea tucked in to the cool earthtoned mossy tundra at Tombstone; more beautiful silence - silence in the Yukon is indescribable - unlike any silence I've ever heard.

When I've had enough of that northern solitude, I can stop in at Alpine Bakery in Whitehorse, where Suat extended his entire vegetarian community my way when I arrived a chilled and bedraggled mess last year. His organic soups are the cure for any kind of road weariness, and his oven-baked veggie pizzas and vegan chocolate truffles are worth the ride up the Alaska Highway. Yoga classes upstairs are a perfect way to pry my bones away from Henk's gas tank.

Then there's Dawson City and the outdoor bathhouse at the River Hostel. You want to arrive plenty filthy to enjoy that to its fullest. Once clean and warm and dry and feeling like a modern day Klondike Kate, it's off to Diamond Tooth Gertie's, Canada's first ever casino, where nightly poker tournaments are held. Last year, professional poker player John Hendley taught me the basics. This year, with a little bit of luck, I hope to practice my skills and maybe even win a few.

But all that is still a good five day's ride away, if the weather holds and if I don't get happily delayed by friends and family.

First thing tomorrow morning, I begin the first Canadian leg with my great friend Kevin, who just got his motorbike license, and who's borrowed a Honda 600 somethingorother to ride with me to Banff. It's his first road ride, and my first time in a long time venturing out with another rider. I'm looking forward to the chance to share one of my favorite rides on earth with one of my favorite humans in the world.

Christina Lake

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-07-17T12:40:12-07:00

I've been coming to Christina Lake for about 18 years, almost every summer, several times in fall, once in winter; and it feels like my home away from home whenever I feel I need one, or haven't got one elsewhere. Like an old friend I haven't seen for a year, there's an instant recognition, a comfortable sinking in to the familiar relationship with the breathtaking landscape - expanse of sun-warmed water and water-coloured layers of evergreen-gray mountains - and a heart-warming feeling that as long as Christina Lake is here, all is right in the world.

Christina Lake is Canada's warmest fresh-water lake, and in my opinion, Canada's best kept secret - until recently. There's not much of a town, and hardly any development, but over the last five years or so, I've seen the telltale signs of inevitable growth. The road around the lake has been extended to accommodate some cottages once only accessible by boat, real estate prices have gone through the roof, and low on the west mountain, bulldozers have begun to cut long stretches of trees away to make room for the first of what I dread will be many mountainside subdivisions.

I arrived after three long sweaty days riding in 98 degree heat from Colorado through northern Utah, central Idaho, southern Montana and northern Washington. The only relief from the heat came in the last half hour before reaching the Canadian border on the 395, where the Kettle River provides cool moisture for the many shade trees winding their way north to the tin can trailer manned by one woman at Canada Customs.

I melted patiently in the sun while waiting for her to finish with the guy in the rusted-out half-ton ahead of me. I kind of count on customs officers to feel sorry for me, hoping to get the interrogation over with quickly, and I imagine what they must think when I pull up: "Poor girl, travelling alone, can't find any friends to go with her, doesn't have a boyfriend to drive the bike, sweating in her leathers. She can't possibly be up to anything illegal." Not that I'm ever doing anything illegal, but customs officers have a way of making the most innocent purchase seem like a crime, and contacts in your address book seem like border-line terrorists.

Anyway, it worked. All she asked me was "Isn't it hot in those leathers?" and whether I'd made any purchases in the states. She asked to see a receipt for my 17-dollar Wal-Mart tent, and when I couldn't find it without dropping a hundred gas slips on the boiling pavement, she waved me through. I think she was getting sweaty just looking at me.

When I arrived at the lake, my pals Rick and Jim were out in the boat, nowhere to be found. I dropped my leathers on the dock and dove in. Canada's warmest fresh-water lake was still cool enough to feel amazing after three days of burning up asphalt and de-toxing in my custom leather sauna.

Good thing I de-tox on the road, because cocktail hour happens around seven in the summer at Christina Lake; and Rick and Jim, unfailingly, make an event of it. White wine spritzers, pomegranate martinis, and Australian Chardonnay are best sipped slowly at the south end of the lake, accompanied by some Kootenay Kitchen Jalapeno VegePate and crackers, while staring disbelievingly at the three giant red cherry orbs glowing momentarily from the crests of the west mountains as the wind picks up, lifting the waves on the lake to threatening whitecaps, and lightning slices the north sky like Zorro on Oso Negro Espresso.

Rolling

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-07-06T11:31:51-07:00

I've so needed to fill my eyeballs and every pore with the movement of the road. Transitions in mood and landscape happen so seemlessly, the supposed dark and scary unknown becomes the present in one smooth time continuum of rubber on pavement and palm on throttle meditation.

Colorado Idaho Montana

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-07-03T18:17:43-07:00

I'm in Missoula, Montana at the KOA Kampground where all the workers have happy yellow t-shirts and a happy yellow t-shirted employee rides around in a golf cart making sure the peace is maintained. It's a bit like Pleasantville, but pleasant enough for one quick sleep - and I've actually got Wi-Fi at my site I7. That's a first. Judging by the KOA map of North America near the office, they've got more locations than Starbucks.

When you're a girl travelling alone on the July 4 weekend, you can't be too picky about where you pitch your tent. They put me under a nice big tree beside one of their trademark 'kabins' that happens to be occupied by a nice couple in their fifties from Alabama, who ride Harleys and bring along a support vehicle and their three big dogs. I told them I wished I had a support vehicle yesterday when I rode through a pelting thunderstorm, and they brought me over a Jack Daniels on ice and had a seat at my picnic table for a chat. They do heavy construction and engineering for oil companies, and are heading to Rifle, Colorado, exactly where I picked up Henk yesterday, to bid on a ten year job for Shell Oil. I'm sure they'll win the bid, because the head honcho there rides a Harley. Sometimes just being a fellow motorcycle enthusiast can be enough of an in for a big fat hog of a contract.

After being kidnapped by my friend Brett, his best friend Sheila, and a handful of lesbians from Boulder for a lovely weekend of camping and giggling by a lake near Basalt, Colorado, I finally got to pick up Henk. He was dusty, but started for me on the second try. I could hardly contain my excitement when it became apparent that there would be no more delays.

An active thunder cloud hovered overtop while I prepared my bags and tent and sleepingbag and got into the familiar bungycord and safety check routine. I said a quick goodbye to Brett and his dog named Ling and hopped on, hoping I could dash out from under the storm before it got a chance to dump.

Just west of the turnoff for Moab, I came up against a wall of thunder and lightning. Off to the north, the wall was more of a curtain, so I took the opportunity to turn off the westbound route. After meeting two two-wheel riders within two weeks of each other who'd been struck by lightning while riding in the Yukon, I have a new respect (fear) for lightning. Whenever I'm riding in lightning now, if there's nowhere to pull over, I simply think to myself, I'm either going to die, in which case there's nothing to worry about, or I'm going to survive, in which case, there's nothing to worry about. It sort of works.

I passed forteen or fifteen riders from Wyoming, some of them strapping their bikes into their support vehicle. I almost stopped and pretended I was part of the group, but the rain was actually pretty refreshing in the southern Utah 90 degree summer afternoon, and it's the most alive I've felt in months.

I rode in the red rock blow dryer until eight pm, then pulled in to a busy campground beside an amusement park north of Salt Lake City. I almost stopped in Bountiful, but realized me pulling in to a town populated by a Mormon cult leader and his twenty-one wives and sixty-eight children would be the epitome of evil.

I payed my camp fee, rolled Henk over to C542, pulled out my North Face tent from my borrowed saddlebag for the first time in seven months... and laughed when I realized that in my haste to get on the road with Henk and in my haste to dodge the thunderstorm, I'd stupidly left the poles behind in the storage room in Rifle. My close neighbors, three teenage girls and a boy on one side, and a young couple on the other weirdly celebrating their anniversary, were well entertained while I bungee corded my tent fly to a tree and the fence, using a broken fence rung as my main teepee pole, then tied Henk into the lopsided mix. It actually worked quite well and I managed to sleep just fine.

Today was a blurr of United States. Utah, Idaho, and Montana.

Utah is more beautiful arriving than leaving. Those massive red rock formations creep up on you from a moonscape horizon that seems perpetually out of grasp, until one moment you look up and you're bathed in pink sunlight reflecting off the imposing sandstone surfaces in all directions. Then you're in it; and all that pink and lavender and fushia and red at sunset and sunrise and all that red and brown and rust jutting into the blue Utah sky, unimaginable formations, blows your mind. And after awhile, you'd die to see a green tree.

Highway 15 between Provo and an hour north of Salt Lake City is ugly. I usually stay far away from interstate highways, but in the interest of getting to Christina Lake on schedule by the 6th, I've been screaming along at 90 miles an hour with the rest of them. I was riding behind a transport truck first thing this morning, when something hit my calf. Hard. It wasn't a bee. I think it was a chunk of metal from the undercarriage of the truck. Either that, or something he'd run over on the highway. It happened too fast, and I was too close behind him to even see what the hell it was. Crazy.

Idaho, my first time through, was a lush winding trail of canyons and river valleys with checkered harvest farmland glowing in the September sun. Today, I took a different route north, and discovered where they keep all those potatoes. Central Idaho, baby. Central Idaho. Miles upon miles of potatoes. Potatoes as far as the eye can see. Potatoes being irrigated, flowering in the early July heat, looking like they're almost ready to ship around the world. I'll have to do a potato latke or campfire potato recipe in honor of Idaho.

As soon as I crossed into Montana, the landscape became more familiar; rolling, green, more mountainous. I rode north for a couple hours, through a brief but powerful downpour over the Continental Divide. The sweet smell of mountain sage after the rain filled my helmet like a drug; and I flew. I turned left onto the 90 toward Missoula, and every pine tree in Montana in a chorus released their pine molecules in harmony, filling my cells to their nuclei. The taxi drivers in Toronto try to fake this scent with those little cardboard toxic chemical pine things they hang from their mirrors. I'm here to tell you they smell nothing like a pine forest. Kill the cardboard pine trees!

It's now dark and quiet in KOA land, but for the occasional pre-4th of July blast of fireworks from the neighboring suburb.

I stopped somewhere along the way today at a gigantic Wal-Mart alongside the highway thinking I might be able to pick up some tent poles. Instead I got a tiny little tent for 17 bucks. Made in China. Crazy. I kept passing a Wal-Mart truck today on the highway. Every time I'd stop for gas, he'd gain ground, then I'd catch up to him again. It got to be funny, and the white-bearded driver and I began waving to each other as I passed. I contemplated for a long time the morality of buying a 17 dollar tent at Wal-Mart, considering all the energy it must have taken to get the little 5' x 6' nylon tarp and collapsible poles all the way from somewhere in China to Pocatello, Idaho, and considering all the valid protests against globalization and homogenization. Wal-Mart is about to become the world's largest retailer of organic products. Is that an oxymoron? Maybe that's all I needed to know to make it ok to buy a 17 dollar tent there. Maybe Wal-Mart is about to open themselves up to a whole new demographic. All I know is that it's next to impossible not to become a hypocrite the moment you start to pontificate.

Henk's running like a dream. Right now he's getting his deserved rest, and keeping watch over me with the happy KOA guy in the golf cart.

On the Road Again

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-06-28T09:04:12-07:00

I was hanging from the waist upside down this morning on my dewy little strip of grass between the basketball courts and muscle beach after a light jog to the border of Santa Monica. The shimmering palm fronds dangled, rooted to the clear ocean skies, and dogs of all genetic codes peed into the air. Sweat defied gravity too, running up my forehead to mingle with the sea-salted dewdrops.

I'm always a little bit nervous before heading out alone on a road trip. It's a lot like turning your world upside down. The rules you've grown accustomed to no longer apply and you have to rethink everything in the context of survival. It's easy for me to become locked in the comfort of companionship. Too easy. And every year around this time, my sanity depends on the solitude and fresh challenges of the road.

I suppose it has to do with hibernating all cold Canadian winter watching too much tv and growing cynical in the city. I need to shed that skin and feel a little more raw, a little more alive. The wind on my face, riding through a rainstorm, rushing to set my tent up before dark, climbing into my sleeping bag on the lumpy ground with my fleece sweater as a pillow, alone with my thoughts in the fresh air and the open road. I understand why people die pursuing their passions: to not pursue them is a worse death.

I don't quite know what it is about being in the middle of nowhere alone, knowing no-one on the planet knows exactly where you are at that moment. It's comforting in a whole other way - no - it's ecstatic!

The Freaks of Venice

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-06-22T17:45:25-07:00

I'm struttin' solo down the boardwalk in vintage cowboy boots and ragtag tassles, past the vendors of t-shirts, toerings and tattoos, off to see some crazies singin' songs and recitin' poetry over a plastic cup of chilled California Chardonnay. Howdy! It's several blocks of rolling incoming Pacific tide headin' north, so I smile, and say to the guy glidin' by on his purple air-brushed beach cruiser blastin' reggae for children Eensey Weensey Spider, "Hey dude! Double me to Seven Dudley?" Dude smiles and blows me a kiss through his headphones, "Hey girlfriend! Lookin' good girlfriend! Bonjour Paris!" Ball man, I call him Ball Man, the muscleman who works out at Muscle Beach then displays his muscles on the boardwalk in an eensey weensey bikini brief while rolling a little lead ball over his biceps, Ball Man tries to pick up women by telling them some woman he would never touch with a ten foot pole tried to pick him up. Ho boy! Guitar Man, who landed with a record deal in his twenties and never left lift-off never leaves his spot number fifty-two with two bicycles, an amp, a tarpaulin, and a book. He's here to stay. He's got conviction. He loves readin' and playin' here. He plays electric for the guy in the trench coat with the dreadlocked beard and choruses of jimi angels in his head movin' him to gyrations and wild fluctuations of his picking fingers. Man! I wish my angels rocked that hard! "Hey barefoot skateboard boy with long windblown hair, totin' your surfboard and wearin' your wetsuit at two pm on a tuesday like you don't give a shit what people think you look like, which makes you look ultra cool, will you teach me to surf?" Freedom people super heroes drummin', strummin', posin', rantin', paintin', ravin', bikin', bladin', surfin', swimmin', runnin', sailin', flyin, singin', dancin', windward windblown ocean speedway...Venice Beach, darlin' you do things my way.

The Journey

nordholt@hotmail.com — 2006-06-16T09:03:30-07:00

Meet Henk. He's a 1997 Buell S1 Lightning whom I fell in love with at first sight in the spring of '98.

Henk was the ultimate physical expression of freedom; and when I saw him gleaming all silver on silver from across the crowded showroom of show-off deep-throttled Harleys, worlds opened.

In a flash of desire, I saw tens of thousands of miles of open road, and warm summer months of welcomed solitude. This was a relationship I could finally commit to. And so began our love affair of eight years and counting...