Moosecumentary (Part 3, The Materiel)

Materiel: n. "the aggregate of things used or needed in any business, undertaking, or operation"

Over the years since we have been hunting, our materiel has evolved, advanced, enlarged, accumulated, adapted, and quite simply become more accommodating to our aging bodies.

To give you an idea, that first year we hunted together I had moved from BC, land of lotuses and rain, to Northern Alberta. The only boots I had were rubber. So they were the boots I took when we left to hunt that last week of September, 1989.

The three of us slept in a 3-man nylon tent with our boots outside because there was no room inside. There was no room for anything besides us in the tent. And when we got up in the morning, the boots were frozen and putting on frozen boots is not fun. My feet stayed numb till noon. We had to light a fire every morning after we got up to try to get warm.

We each took two 2-litre bottles of water for the week and if remember correctly, a two litre bottle full of pancake batter. That was for our drinking and cooking. For the week. We must have had other food...but the pancake batter is what sticks.

In the years that followed we stayed in a camper, then a tent trailer, and eventually the wall tent that we have now.

(more pics and content to come... stay tuned)

Moosecumentary (Part 2 -- The Machines)

I know this seems like an odd thing to blog about... like, who writes about their machines, ATVs, but it is part of the whole history and experience of our moose hunts. So they have to go into this Moosecumentary.

As mentioned in part 1, Reg, Tom, and I started hunting together about 22 years ago. They both had three-wheeled ATV trikes and they were the usual vehicle of choice for hunters. The first year I went with them I had no ATV, so Reg, who actually had two, loaned me one of his, a 1983 200cc Yamaha trike. Tom had a similar machine. IN those early days, everything was pretty primitive. We slept in an unheated tent, and when it snowed, were cold for a week.

I used Reg's extra trike that for a couple years until I bought a 250cc Polaris 4-wheel quad. Of the three machines, this was the most comfortable and powerful. The beauty of the Polaris was -- 4 wheels and no clutch making it more stable than the tippy trikes. Because of the tippyness, we used to tip over all the time. And they had no suspension so our backs perpetually ached from bouncing through the muskeg.

I had the Polaris until someone stole it, rode it into the bush and left it. The police eventually found it and phoned me with good news and bad news. The good news was they had found my quad. The bad news was they found it when a D-9 bulldozer clearing brush backed over it. When I got it back it was about 2 feet high.

The flattening precipitated the purchase of a used 1994 350 Honda Fourtrax, seen here. Tom had bought a new 400 Yamaha Grizzly and Reg continued to ride his little 200 Honda trike. We came realize during those years that Reg's success in riding up to game was due to the fact that his trike made less noise than our bigger machines.

In 1996, because of work I moved away from Fort McMurray, Alberta where we all lived, out to B.C. It was traumatic and teary. When the hunt ended that year I thought it would be my last...ever, with these guys. So I sold my quad to Reg, and said good bye to moose hunting with them.

Over the months that followed I started thinking, "Why do I have to quit going for the annual hunt?" Many people spend a week of vacation and spend way more than I do for a week of hunting. So I decided I could keep going. Sure it meant a 15 hour one-way drive, but it was worth it.

So I purchased my 1998 Honda 450 Fourtrax 4-wheel drive quad, nicknamed Emma, and a trailer, which I have used ever since. She's reliable, sturdy, and gets me out of some pretty messy places.

Tom went on to buy a Yamaha Rhino, which we nicknamed "The Popemobile" due to the plexiglass additions and then a another Yamaha Grizzly 500. Reg eventually bought a newer Honda Fourtrax. Gary started out with a Honda 300 Fourtrax but eventually bought his brother's Honda.

The point of this blog I guess is to say that as we evolved our hunting skills and personally grew up, so did our machines. Metaphorically, they were a reflection of the men who rode them.

What the future looks like for us or our machines, we have no idea.

Moosecumentary 2010 (Part 1 -- The Men)

I wanted to share my recent moose hunting experience with you, but as I thought about it, I need to put it in context for you to really appreciate what it means to me. I have broken it down into parts so that I can talk about different aspects of it, beginning with the guys I hunt with. For those who are a little squeamish, I have cropped the pictures. And that's not because because of how these guys look...

When I began moose-hunting, there were just three of us: Reg, Tom and me. The three of us hunted annually together for about 10 years.

Most of what I know about successful moose-hunting I learned from these two guys. We started out as friends and over the years we have grown together as friends and as hunters. We tried different hunting techniques and experiments, the success or failure of which have provided much laughter -- things like our black fleece cow moose decoy named Alice. All it ever brought in was a hungry coyote.

Reg is an amazing guy. He's in the middle in this pic on the right. He's one of the smartest, most determined, hard-working, generous men I know. He is also the best hunter I have ever known. Bar none. He is the best at whatever he does because he works hard -- a life lesson I have tried, often unsuccessfully, to emulate.

Tom, on the right, is very much like Reg. He has a big heart, is funny, creative, handy, courageous, and sincere. He too is an excellent hunter and a good man.

The three of us have hunted together for 22 years. It has been a special part of my life.

After we had been hunting together for 10 years or so, we were joined by Gary. We had been friends, and Gary was a good rifle hunter, but he began to come along on our bowhunts. I remember the first time he came into our hunting camp. The three of us had been in the bush for 5 days and as is usually the case, we were getting pretty ripe. That day, it began to rain and it occurred to us that we could capitalize on it and shower. So doffing our clothes we were outside the tent catching the water as it ran off the tent soaping up and rinsing off when Gary arrived. Gary is a banjo player and I'm sure he could hear "dueling banjos" playing in his mind as he watched the spectacle in front of him.

Gary is a great guy. He has a tremendous sense of humour and like Reg and Tom is a skilled tradesman. He is gracious, practical, logical and kind. It should be noted that until this year, he has never bathed during the time with us in the bush.

Finally, a word about me. I am not a tradesman. Words are my craft. I do not come from the trades, nor do I have the practical skills these men have. I live in a different province and operate in a different occupational world. And yet when it comes to the hunt, we manage to all fit together.

We did some calculations. Collectively the 4 of us have 140 years of hunting experience. When it comes to bowhunting, it is merely 100 years. I'm not sure these facts are something to be proud of, but they are interesting in spite of making me feel really old.

Although our communication throughout the rest of the year is minimal, like salmon that annually return to their home streams, each year at the same time the 4 of us travel to our hunting spot and pick up where we left off the previous year. Spawning jokes and spinning tales. Although we have moved to different locations, and have each of us have lived our lives in our own different worlds, we have this common ritual. And amid all the other events that have transpired over the years, the hunting week serves as a place of calm and these men as a source of camaraderie. Bar none.

Weapons of Mass Distraction

We all know we live in a day when the pace of life seems to be going at breakneck speed. Working with communication in various forms I deal with this every day. Communication must be succinct, not texty or appear wordy lest that scare away the reader or listener who is increasingly looking to have her attention drawn in by a picture or pronounced font usage. People don't read, they survey, and if their eye is grabbed, well, then they might read a few lines -- but nothing more, because they get bored easily and have small attention spans.

I'm generalizing, but it is symptomatic of a larger malaise plaguing us today. I'm talking about the pursuit of meaning and fulfillment through the pursuit of money, things, and activities of whatever kind. The virtue of contentment is almost unheard of. We are constantly being fed the message of "get more", "this one's better", and "you need newer" in order to be fulfilled. And so we chase after all these things.

The paradox is this: we are so busy seeking life in these things yet they are the very things that strangle the life out of us. Is it just me or am I onto something here?

Midnight in the Outhouse

This is a retrospective. A comment from a friend caused me to flash back to an incident from my youth. I was 14 I think, and attending a long weekend church youth camp. I should have known this would be a weekend to remember after the first disaster.

I had arrived at the camp early with 3 other friends and spent some time looking around. The camp in situated near a small lake and canoeing is part of the program. We saw that some canvas-bottomed canoes for use on the weekend had been dropped off so we thought it to be an excellent idea to take a paddle on the lake before the rest of the campers arrived.

The 4 of us dragged the canoes down to the lake and launched out. I don't recall going too far. But we paddled to the far side of the lake, got out to go to the bathroom, and then decided to head back. What we didn't notice was that when the canoe was pulled out of the water it was dragged up on a snag -- a snag that ripped the canvas bottom. We relaunched into the lake to return, and our canoe soon sank. Not completely, but enough that we got soaked and had to swim to shore, dragging the water-filled canoe behind us.

Sometime during our great lake adventure the other campers arrived. They were assembled on the bleachers at the ball diamond -- a setting offering a splendid vantage point of the lake. So in the middle of the camp director's initial talk, 4 drowned rats trudged across a dirt field toward the camp dragging two canoes, one with the bottom ripped out. I'm sure it was quite the sight, and created wonderful first impressions. it turned out to be a warm-up for the main event.

On Sunday night, all the campers headed into town, about 15 miles away to participate in activities there. One of the guys I was with was old enough to drive and so we left early and drove his car back out to the camp, stopping at a small general store on the way. There we bought firecrackers -- a lot of firecrackers!

Back at the camp we hid out in one of the old buildings. The we ran around outside, trying to stay warm, out of sight, and trying to position ourselves for the arrival of the rest of the campers back at the camp. We were so preoccupied with hiding, we were unaware that the rest of the campers had already returned and were in the main mess hall enjoying warmth, food, and fun. Finally the campers emerged from the hall and were headed to the cabins. From our hiding place under the camp bus we threw firecrackers out into their feet. Havoc ensued. Yelling, screaming, and general mayhem broke out as campers and counselors alike ran everywhere trying to figure out where the firecrackers were coming from.

Guerrilla-like we ran from the bus to the bushes to the buildings. The counselors knew who the trouble-makers were by now and were actively searching for us. But we successfully evaded them for what seemed like another hour or two.

Eventually one of our gang got caught and taken to the cabin for the night. This foreshadowed what happened next. It was getting very late by now and we decided to "hole" up and hide in one of the outhouses. A fellow camper, hearing the call of nature chose an outhouse to visit. It was the one where we were hiding. When he opened the door he said, loud enough for one of the marauding counselors to hear, "Hey, what are 3 guys doing in this outhouse?" The irate counselor came over and slammed the door shut.

He held it tight while another counselor nailed several two by fours across the door with the dire warning that if we wanted to get out we would have to exit via the hole. Otherwise we would be spending the night in there.

Unfazed we shrugged off the warning and proceeded to drop firecrackers down the hole. Great fun! This continued for some time until we observed that it was around midnight and we should wind it down. But how do we exit? Down the hole didn't receive much consideration and the best option seemed to be kicking the back out of the outhouse. And so we proceeded to do that, taking turns and gradually loosening the lower corner of back wall.

When we just about had it opening wide enough to crawl through, one of the counselors showed up with a bucket of water. When we kicked the corner open, water was thrown in. We kicked again, and more water came in. Soon we were drenched, wet toilet paper was everywhere, and morale was sinking.

More threats from the counselors that if we didn't come out and behave, our parents would be called to come get us had the desired effect. We surrendered. Soaked but unbowed, we returned to our cabins for what was left of the night.

I don't know if our parents were ever told. But the next day we had to repair the outhouse and for that day at least, we all had dish duty.

We do a lot of things as young people that we regret later on. I feel fortunate that I I don't really have any serious regrets like many of my friends. As for this little adventure, I don't regret it at all. Throughout my life remembering the little adventure I now call midnight in the outhouse has provided many smiles.

Wrecked Him; Darn Near Killed Him

A little while ago someone I know was mountain biking and had a pretty severe fall.

He hit hard enough that he required an epidural to control the pain. While he eventually recovered, he wasn't too clear on the words he was using. He went around telling people he had an episiotomy, rather than an epidural. His experience is like another story I heard....

The pastor asked if anyone in the congregation would like to express
praise for answered prayers. Suzie Smith stood and walked to the
podium.

She said, "I have a praise. Two months ago, my husband,
Tom, had a terrible bicycle wreck and his scrotum was completely
crushed. The pain was excruciating and the doctors didn't know if
they could help him."

You could hear a muffled gasp from the men in the
congregation as they imagine the pain that poor Tom must have
experienced.

"Tom was unable to hold me or the children," she went
on, "and every move caused him terrible pain." We prayed as the
doctors performed a delicate operation, and it turned out they were able
to piece together the crushed remnants of Tom's scrotum, and wrap wire
around it to hold it in place."

Again, the men in the congregation cringed and squirmed uncomfortably as they imagined the horrible surgery performed on Tom. "Now," she announced in a quivering voice, "thank the Lord, Tom is out of the hospital and the doctors say that with time,
his scrotum should recover completely."

All the men sighed with unified relief. The pastor rose and tentatively asked if anyone else had something to say.

A man stood up and walked slowly to the podium.
He said, "I'm Tom Smith." The entire congregation held its breath. "I
just want to tell my wife the word is sternum."

Moral of the story? You tell me...

Doublecrossed

When I think of embarrassing moments in life, I think of an incident that took place on a live stage.

Rewind to a time when I was travelling and performing as a musician. I played trumpet and travelled with 3, sometimes 4, other guys. For the most part, the other guys were pretty straight-laced and although they each had a good sense of humour, they were generally serious.

That of course was the recipe for John, the one other group member and me to regularly have fun at their expense.

Our usual routine was to go on stage, play a song or two, and then introduce ourselves, starting with Dan, the group leader on the left, then me, then John.

On this particular occasion, we were playing a sacred concert staged in a church – fairly serious crowd. John thought it would be fun to liven things up a little during the introductions. So he said to me just before we went on, “When we introduce ourselves let’s all say we are Dan!” I thought that would be really funny and help to be a great icebreaker.

We played a couple of songs and then it was time for introductions. Dan started first…

“Hi my name is Dan so and so and I am from such and such a town.”

Then, playing along with the joke I said, “Hi, my name is Dan so and so and I am from such and such a town.”

Then John said, “Hi, my name is John and I am from such and such a town and turning to me he said, “Steve, what are you doing? You’re name isn’t Dan!”

Needless to say, red-faced, I had to backtrack in front of the audience and try to recover some semblance of my dignity.

Crabdog Woes

Ignorance isn't always bliss. Especially when it comes to laws and regulations.There have been a few times in my life i can think of that I wish I had read the regulations ahead of time. Instead I assumed, or listened to others, and shouldn't have.

This came home to me last week again when I was going crabbing at the beach. Others had told me what the daily limit was, and the size they were to be. So I headed out over the sandbars in search of the elusive crabs. I thought to myself as I walked,"Boy, I don't think I have seen so many crabs, but they are all undersize." I had picked up 10 or 15, checked the sex, and size and most were thrown back -- too small. Don't reach the 165 mm. (6.49 in.) minimum required size. Eventually I reached my daily limit of 4, and later that day we had a wonderful feast of crab.

Having obtained a copy of the regulations when I got my crab license, I thought, "I should check these out as far as crabs go." And here's what I discovered: First, there are two kinds of crabs that can be harvested, The Dungeness, and the Red Rock crab. I wasn't making a distinction in the type. I was assuming a crab was a crab. Next, in the bay where I was crabbing the daily limit for EACH type is 4, not 4 total. Finally, the Dungeness crabs must be 165 mm, whereas the Red Rock crabs only need to be 115 mm. (4.5 in.). In the two days I had been crabbing, I probably threw back at least 10 Red Rock crabs that were of legal size. I could have harvested many more had I known the regulations.

Although the crabbing instance is minor, it could have been more significant if I had erred on the wrong side of the law. I can immediately think of several other instances where I didn't know the laws or regulations, and one that could easily have resulted in a more serious accident and my death.

So my point here is simple: I need to make the effort know and to keep up on the laws and regulations that pertain to the spheres of life I interact with: Traffic laws, hunting and fishing regulations, and tax-laws to name few. Where these are too complicated such as some tax law, I should spend a little to pay for good advice. The dividends in long run will likely pay off.

Grounded on the Sand

It's been a little while since I was last here. I got back from Alberta on July 9th and after settling back into home that weekend, faced the onslaught of the backlog and catch up of work needing to be done. The glow of a great bike trip would soon be lost in deadlines, demands, and daily details.

Respite came in the form of a weekend at my parent's place at Boundary Bay.

"The Bay" is a special place for me, as it is for my brothers and sisters and most of my relatives on my Mom's side. I can't speak for them, but I can share my thoughts.

The property was bought in the late 40's by my Grandpa for the princely sum of $1500. It sat as an empty lot for a few years until my uncle built a beach cottage on it in the early 50's. Although both uncles and their lived there briefly at different times, it was primarily a sanctuary for my Grandpa. In the early days he would take the family out from Vancouver but later he would drive from his house on the bluff to sit on a bench he placed in the trees at the front of the property overlooking the water.

It was routine from the time I was born to spend time at the Bay. One month each summer was spent in the beach house, enjoying the sun, surf, and sand. Lifelong friendships were established, family reconnected and the finest fare that was ever gleaned from the sea was regularly consumed. Much of what was good in my growing up years was associated with the Bay. So much more could be said. Perhaps another time.

When my grandpa died, my mom inherited the beach property and the by now, old beach house was torn down. My parents built their current place on the property. The new place on the old property became the gathering place and a place of retreat and respite for us all. It became the place for regular family gatherings on holidays and any other excuse we could think of. As much as possible the family still gathers in whole or in part, now down to the 5th generation. Again, so much more could be written, but I'm just trying to provide a context.

It is because of this context that the Bay is a place of respite. A place with personal and family history. A place where laughter and tears have echoed for six decades now. And it is through retreating back to that welcome place periodically that I have often sharpened my focus, renewed my soul, and regrounded my spirit for everyday life.

And so I'll go back again and again.

Including this weekend.

Majestic Monoliths

I haven't blogged for a few days, mostly because the nights have been late. Here's a summary: in Medicine Hat Saturday and Sunday, Calgary Monday, Edmonton Tuesday, Grand Prairie Wednesday. It was my first time in Grande Prairie. It is a lot like Fort McMurray. In case you didn't know, it is in northwest Alberta. We met with Ed Elias from the radio station and had dinner with him and his wife Evelyn.
We flew out early, picked up our car in Edmonton, and drove to Calgary. In Calgary Ben and I picked up our bikes at a friend's and headed out for Golden.
It has been hot, and the heat and fatigue combined made it very difficult to stay awake. We finally got to Canmore and had a Timmies. That did the job to keep us awake through the multiple construction zones until we got to Golden. Actually, the construction detours provided us with an even more scenic ride past Johnston Canyon and other campgrounds.

It was spectacular to ride through the Rockies on a motorcycle. I couldn't help but marvel at the massive, majestic mountains. These monoliths stand as mute witnesses to bygone aeons. In their presence my existence needs to be reframed as limited, weak, and fleeting. In light of that, how do we then live? What can be done that will stand as firm as these peaks?

A ride through the mountains is healthy for the soul. It can bring perspective to life -- a life that may be tyrannized by time and the urgent, having lost sight of the eternal and the important.

Tomorrow, we go home.

And Then There Were Two

Our morning started out in Kalispell, Montana with breakfast at Perkins' reataurant, which is not a bad place if you have to find something.

Our plan for the day was to finish off our week of riding together with a ride on one of the most well-known (among bikers anyway) and spectacular roads anywhere -- The Road to the Sun in Glacier National Park in Montana. It was originally built when cars were first invented. It is hard to imagine how they built it with mules and carts as it clings tentatively to the side of the mountain.

I first drove this road on a family holiday 20 years ago. Again, I had thought it would be a wonderful motorcycle road, never thinking I would ever one day actually drive it.

This year's ride provided a different experience than previously and from what I had expected. Spring thaw had been harsh to the road. Much of it had been washed away and so construction challenges were prevalent. There was so much more traffic than I expected, no doubt due, in part to being the US July 4th weekend. Finally, fog, rain, sleet/snow provided the final challenge. The rain gear came out at the beginning of the road, and didn't come off till the end. At least we were colorful --Ben in his "Harley orange" Bob in his red and white, and me in my yellow pvc.

The run was ended at Johnson's restaurant and campground where the potato soup warmed the innards and provided us with one last meal together. From there George and Bob headed back to Kalispell to continue their ride together for another week, while Ben and I rode the 20 miles to the Canadian border.

Ben and I rode to Medicine Hat where we end our vacation week and begin a week of radio station and donor meetings throughout Alberta.

It has been a wonderful experience in many ways. Great men to travel with, good roads to ride, wonderful memories to cherish, and the catharsis of having had nothing to worry about except keeping the shiny side up and my knees in the breeze.

(PS --Thanks to Bob for the pictures!)

Beautiful Places, Empty Spaces

We were in Dillon MT. last night. If you've ever seen the movie "Hot Fuzz" it was kind of like that. Cars in the streets, but no one around. Actually, I've noticed that about quite a number of the small towns we've been in. I wonder, "Where are the people? Are they in their houses watching The Price is Right?"

One of our group, Jim, left us this morning and headed home to Calgary. Admittedly, it was hard to say good-bye. He is such a unique character and brings down-home wit and wisdom to our riding and conversations. Speaking of someone that he had frustrating business dealings with he said in typical fashion, "I'd like to grab him by the lips, pull him through a knothole and give him a good talking to."

Perhaps the sadness at Jim's departure foreshadows the beginning of the end of our adventure and a return to the more mundane. It is hard to describe the feeling of getting up each day and hardly knowing what day it is, where you are going, or when you will get wherever you eventually decide to go. It has been a refreshing and stark contrast to my normal life of clock-dominated routine.

It was cool when we started out -- about 10 degrees C. So we stopped for coffee in, of all places, Wisdom. Are you searching for wisdom? Well, we found it. And we had coffee at Fetty's. No muffins. Or jam for the toast we eventually ordered. And the danish were soggy. The pickup parked out front with the two rifles in the gun-rack took me back to my days of growing up on the Canadian prairies.

We had lunch in Missoula, and although it rained a little on the way to Kalispell, this time we had our rain-gear on and didn't get wet.

In total we traveled about 500km today so it was a shorter day. Our estimated total distance travelled so far since leaving last Friday is about 4400 km.

We arrived in Kalispell mid-afternoon before heading to Capers for supper -- rated #2 of 68 restaurants in town. There, I was a little more adventurous and had Rattlesnake sausage pizza for supper. If you ever get a chance to try it -- do! It doesn't taste like chicken!

Be careful what you dream for...

There have been many times, while driving my car down a particular road I've thought, and even said out loud, "This would be an awesome road to take on the motorcycle."

That thought was in my mind twenty years ago when, while on a family vacation, I drove through Yellowstone National Park. And I didn't even own a bike at the time! Today, I had that dream fulfilled.

I was up early today and began by washing the dirt from yesterday's storm off the bike. I had also tried to repair a detached speedometer cable, but that had to wait until tonight. We left Cody Wyoming with blue skies and big smiles.

At the suggestion of fellow motorcyclists whom we met at breakfast we changed our plan and headed to Chief Joseph park with its scenic highway. And the ride was amazing! The consensus was that it was one of the best rides we have ever been on. There is almost no traffic and the roads themselves are in almost pristine condition.

Completing that we headed into Yellowstone Park. Apart from the intermittent road construction
the travelling was fabulous. We saw a tremendous diversity of wildlife -- moose, bears, deer, antelope, eagles as well as the ever-changing landscape of this vast century-old park. I saw herds of bison, as well as herds of tourists gathered to take their picture. It was a busy place, but to be able to traverse the highways of Yellowstone was actually a dream come true.

But here's the funny thing -- I didn't realize this was something I had thought about doing before until I was doing it. My mind flashed back to my previous visit 20 years earlier, and it clicked. Have you ever had that experience? You've thought about doing something and then forgot about it? It's not deja' vu because I hadn't done it before. Nor did I see myself riding these roads. It was simply a desire, an aspiration.

Someone once said, "Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it." Granted that is intended in a negative context. But maybe there's something good at work here too. Dreams don't cost anything. So why not dream big. You never know -- it just might happen.

Oh yea, I got the pictures into yesterday's blog. Check 'em out.

Riders on the Storm

We started out our day in what I think has got to be one of the most overrated towns in all of the US --Sturgis, South Dakota. For those unaware, it is the biker Mecca. Each year literally thousands upon tens of thousands of bikers of all descriptions descend on this town for two weeks. It becomes party central. But the town itself is rather drab and unremarkable. The surrounding area is beautiful, but if you didn't know it, it could be Anytown, USA. Nevertheless, I now can say I've been there, and got the T-shirt to prove it.

Our travels today took us to Devil's Tower, a place sacred to Native American Indians (yes, they call themselves that down here). It was the first national monument declared so by Teddy Roosevelt in 1906. As a single column of stone rising over 1200 feet above the plain around it, it is truly an awe inspiring spectacle.

Once into Wyoming we stopped for coffee at a Starbucks in a town called Gillette. There we met a man we later named "Zeke, the mayor of Gillette." He wasn't really the mayor, just a friendly motorcycle enthusiast. Interestingly he had tattoos of all the different bikes he had owned. Not pictures of the bikes themselves, but the trade marks. So he had a BMW tattoo and a Harley Davidson one, and who knows what else. From the time he came in, to the time he pulled a chair up to join us, till we left, he never stopped talking.

Which brings me to some thoughts about gregarious Americans. Most are very friendly and will tell you their life story just because you made eye contact, and even when you don't! But having a motorcycle is like moths to the flame with every biker, former biker, and wanna-be biker. And they don't so much want to find out about you, as tell you about themselves. Usually in a loud, megaphone-like voice. Being Canadians, we smile, nod politely, and listen till we can leave. Ahhh, Americans -- ya gotta love 'em.

The concensus of our group was that the weather we ran into this afternoon, was the worst any of us had ever encountered on a motorcycle. It was literally a battle to make off the mountain in one piece.

We saw the storm gathering in the distance, and, unfortunately it was where we were headed. Lightening flashed as we got closer. Our road took us up Mt. Baldy, and then we had to descend. The lightening hit close. I wondered if it could hit a moving target. Rain began lightly. Because we were up on the mountain, there was sleet. But as we began the descent the rain grew heavier, and the wind picked up blowing sand and sleet and rain. It was all we could do to keep the bikes on the road in the wind-gusts as we descended the curvy mountain road. The wind was so bad, it blew my windshield partially out of its base and disconnected my speedometer cable.

At one point I stopped to put my rain gear on, but because the road was so steep I couldn't put the bike on its stand -- it kept rolling off. And during the minute I spent trying to use the kick-stand, I got soaked.

Fortunately we all made it safe to the bottom of the mountain, and proceeded on to Cody, Wyoming--a town whose identity is rooted in the persona and antics of Buffalo Bill Cody. We ate supper in his hotel, which is still standing. We recounted the battle on Mt.Baldy and agreed we were glad we too were still standing.

Took a licking, and it stopped ticking...

Ever wish you could have a "do-over?"

You know, those times you do something, perhaps not thinking, and when it goes wrong, wish you could do it all over again? It seemed like a good idea at the time, and maybe it was, but something changed, so the end result wasn't what you wanted or expected.

That happened to me today.

When we arrived yesterday in Belle Fourche, South Dakota, I mentioned to Ben that his rear tire was worn down. So the plan became to go to the Harley Dealer in Rapid City. A short but windy distance away. We grabbed breakfast first at the Perkins in Spearfish. Completing that we readied ourselves to head to Rapid City to get the tire changed.

I did something I've never done before: I put my iPhone on the dashboard of my windshield as I put on my jacket. I intended to put the phone in my pocket. But something distracted me, likely I was the last one ready, so I hurried...and absentmindedly left the phone on the dash.

As I bounced through a construction zone, something black hit my knee and in my mirror I saw it land on the road. My first thought was, "What was that? Must've been some piece of debris off the road."

But then the thought flashed through my mind, "Where's my phone? Was that my phone?" I felt my pocket. No phone. "Oh no!"

I pulled over and made a quick U-turn and headed back. There was no place to park but I saw the phone on the road so I pulled over anyway. Traffic swerved around me.

Sure enough. There he was. "Maybe he isn't badly hurt" I thought. (BTW My phone is male). But no, he was dead. I knew it when I saw his little black body lying on the asphalt. I knew he was lifeless. He would never ring again. Never again would I hear his cheery little chirps signalling him delivering my mail mail. My constant companion lay dead. And it was my fault.

I carefully scooped him up, cast a quick glance for oncoming cars as I searched for his case. I knew he'd want it. I saw part of it, grabbed it, hopped back on the bike and tried to catch up with the others.

The rest of the day went well. We saw some awesome country, including Mt. Rushmore. And we ended up in Sturgis, the biker's Mecca. We got the tires changed and overall, had a great day of riding. But for me, I wish I could have a "do-over."

I've had that in life too. Maybe you have too. A mistake, a thoughtless word uttered, maybe even an intentional risk. And when it all goes sideways, we wish for a "do-over."

But do-overs only happen in our imaginations, or childhood games. In real adult life we don't get them. What's done is done, and we have to live with the consequences. Self-recrimination usually doesn't help. Neither does blaming others for our mistakes.

So what do we do, when we can't have a "do-over?"

Here's what I've observed about situations needing a "do-over." Sometimes there is mercy, meaning we don't get what we deserve. Consequences don't play out to their logical outcome. Their impact is minimized and in some cases they're even redeemed so that the mistake becomes part of a greater tapestry for good.

Sometimes all that is needed is an attitude-change on our part -- having a humble and contrite heart. A bad situation might be transformed into something good.

So next time, you need a "do-over" in life, check your attitude and change it if need be. If only that worked when it comes to iPhones.

A Polecat by any other name...

One of the great things about riding a motorcycle is that you get to experience your environment in a more "first-hand" way. Bikers refer to cars as a "cage." But when you ride along a ribbon of highway without a cage, you see AND smell so much more.

Today we left Missoula MT about 7:00 am knowing that we had a long way to go. We went through Butte, and Belgrade. Ate lunch in Bozeman. Then on to Boudras and Billings, eventually ending our day in Belle Fourche...and I didn't plan all the "B" names. In total we rode 994 km today. (Ever heard of bike-butt?) In Boudras it was so hot I went into the gas station and there was Clint Eastwood. He was hot too so I asked him if he wanted some of my water. He said, "I reckon." He was grateful and offered me a part in his next movie. Said he needed someone with my moxie. But I told him I was on a bike trip and couldn't do it.

So besides seeing amazing geography, rock formations, and landscapes in Montana, Wyoming, and South Dakota, we saw the battlefield at the the Little Bighorn where Custer had his last stand. We saw the headwaters of the Missouri river. There were deer and antelope, and they were playing at home on the range. We saw quaint American towns, many with homemade sculptures on the lawns, reminding me again that there is a fine line between hobbies and mental illness.

And the smells -- fresh mown hay and...skunks! Dead skunks on the road. I've never been on a trip where I saw and smelled so many dead skunks. On average, one an hour I'd say. The lowly polecats met their demise in such an undignified way, protesting with an aroma that ensured they would be remembered by any who passed that way.

And tomorrow it's on to Sturgis.

That's How We Roll...

We set out today from Kennewick WA, and drove some of the most beautiful country around as we travelled along the Clearwater river en route to our our destination for the night, Missoula MT -- a total of 563 km, or 350 miles. Along the way we stopped at Lewiston ID and just had to drive the famous Lewiston Grade. Its hairpin turns make it a challenge and for any thrill-seeking biker.

The rest of the day was excellent! Weather was hot so we tried to stay hydrated. Tomorrow we head to the biker's Mecca: Sturgis SD. Its 636 mi. almost 1200 km. away. Pretty ambitious, so stay tuned to see if we can do it.

It occurred to me as the miles flew by, that each of us on this trip is so different. We have very different personalities, backgrounds, jobs, hometowns, -- even motorcycles and styles of riding! I'm not a speed demon -- I enjoy the journey. But others like to "book it" and the faster and further, the better! I enjoy the view from the back of the group, others can't stand to have anyone or anything in front of them.

But I think we recognize the differences between us, and even embrace them as strengths. No one is better, just different. We recognize that and accept each other.
That's just how we roll.

And in a nutshell, that's how all of us have to treat each other as we travel life's highway together.

The Scene of the Crime

It was just over 30 years ago that she blew her face off. It wasn't expected. Oh, some said they knew but the rest wouldn't believe them. Then one day, "Boom" and it was over.

There are a few significant events that our in our lifetime that we remember forever. This is one of those events for me. I was visiting family when the shocking news came.

On May 18th 1980, Mount St. Helen's blew her face off and devastated everything around her. After visiting family I had to drive through the ash-covered countryside to return home. And today I returned to the scene of the crime. Honestly, I couldn't believe how barren the landscape still is in places. The grey tree trunks hit in the original blast still stand starkly as mute witnesses to the unfathomable force unleashed that day. The landscape is definitely still scarred badly.

But in other places there are signs of new vegetation and animal life. A land once completely obliterated, is being restored and renewed. New life is taking place.

It reminded me that no disaster or devestation in our lives is completely unrecoverable. No past is too bad to overcome. It may take time, and there may still be a lot of scarring. But healing can come. Restoration and recovery are possible.

We've all had a Mount St. Helen's in our life. And if you haven't yet, just wait. It will come. But the lesson of the mountain is not just that of remembering the horrible damage it caused. It is also the lesson of recovery, renewal, and above all, hope.

One more thing, we covered 450k today and ended up in Kennewick. I had the biggest Calzone ever! And no, I didn't eat the whole thing!

And so the Adventure begins...

Ben and I finally set out from the office around noon. At our first stop, the border, we had a minor setback. We had some contraband good which could either be confiscated or returned to Canada. So we parked out bikes in the US and walked back to Canada, leaving our goods at the little brokerage there. Then we walked back across the line, hopped on the bikes and carried on.

We had decided to cross into the Excited States of America at Aldergrove. Probably waited about 25 minutes. Bob and George were behind us and we met up with them in Lynden at about 1:20 and proceeded from there. Jim left from Calgary at 7:00 this morning heading west.

Everything was pretty smooth until we hit Seattle, catching the Friday afternoon rush hour. Did some stop and go, weaving and bobbing in and out of lanes as we tried to stay together. I'll leave that to your imaginations.

Got down to Tacoma around 5 o'clockish, got gas and had a drink.

I saw a side of Tacoma I didn't expect. As we turned and headed east we went through miles and miles of Mexican shops and restaurants. I thought, "This isn't Texas or Arizona!" But it might as well have been.

We arrived at our stop for the night in Ashford, near Mt. Ranier. The road in was beautiful, holding promise for twisty roads tomorrow.

We had supper at the WildBerry restaurant -- authentic Himalayan food. The featured entree was Yak steak. Authentic Yak from Colorado -- or so our little Sherpa server told us. The other guys tried some Himalayan cuisine-- I stuck to the meatloaf, (and now the meatloaf is sticking to me). My beverage of choice was a hitherto unheard of and untasted libation called Moose Drool. Actually quite nice.

To cap it all off, as we exited the restaurant who should pull up but Jim, thereby ending his 1200km ride from Calgary today.

We're debating just what we should call ourselves -- maybe some of you have some suggestions. One idea is "The Twisted Misters." Make your comments.

Today was a good start. My ribs weren't too sore from the fall three weeks ago -- better than I expected. So now its time to relax, and dream about putting the knees to the breeze tomorrow.

T'was the Night before...

I leave tomorrow on a much-anticipated motorcycle trip.

This isn't the first time I have strapped on the leathers and succumbed to the beckoning open road. The first major trip was in 07 and branded The Musty Steers tour. We, of course, were the Musty Steers. The name Wild Hogs was already taken. It was a great adventure. Perhaps I'll write about it another time.

The second trip was in 08. We became The Knights of the Open Road... (don't laugh). We traversed BC, Montana, Idaho, and Washington -- about 5000 km in a week --returning safe and talking about a future ride.

So here we are. Just about ready to go. Final packing is underway as I try to allay that niggling sense that I will forget something.

Bike is ready, including the Canadian flag on the aerial -- we'll be in the Excited States of America on July 1 so I gotta show some Canuck pride.

Back to the packing. More tomorrow...