Table of Contents The Prairies (II) Northern Ontario (2)
MAP of Northern Ontario

NORTHERN ONTARIO (PART I)

Bronze Medal Day

Up early, around 0700 hrs. Ate a breakfast of cold cereal, then cleaned my bike. The handlebars were still tight—I'd almost quit worrying about them. Other than swapping chains I needed to do little maintenance. I put on my clean chain, scrubbed the dirty one with degreaser, rinsed it and hung it on the line to dry. While I was doing this Randy wiped his and Patti's bikes down. Then the three of us rode downtown.

Their tent had continued to leak and enough was enough—they were looking for a replacement. At Canadian Tire they bought a six-man dome tent that served them well for the remainder of the trip. Randy was in now heaven. There was so much space compared to their previous little two-man pup-tent. We found Waves, one of the town's bike shops, where Randy had them look at his bottom bracket that seemed to be rough and noisy. My sole purchase was a water-bottle since one of mine had split along the seam. We had a cheap Chinese smorg for lunch, then prowled the town while the mechanic worked on Randy's bike. Back at the shop after taking a cursory look at the business district we learned that the mechanic had found no problem with Randy's bottom bracket. Returning to camp, we saw only the taillights of a reporter's departing car, she having done some interviews and taken a group photo for the local paper. Not long afterwards, 10 of us walked together to a restaurant/pub on the waterfront that the reporter had recommended, where we had supper. Bob joined us for the twenty-minute walk. His mobility seemed to have greatly improved. Randy and Patti chose not to go.

Reading the Kenora daily paper and catching up on some Atlanta Olympic coverage that I was sadly missing because of this adventure, I learned Clara Hughes was a Bronze Medal winner for Canada in the Women's Cycling Road Race. Yea!

The campground proprietor here is a character. He claims to have ridden some 20,000 kilometres on one trip, covering most of Africa. Completely sold on using a mountain bike for touring, I'm sure it was the only choice for his trip. While waiting with him for the pay phone to become vacant I also chatted with another character, a huge, bearded man who was pedalling from Winnipeg to Minneapolis. This guy, close to 50 years old, likely weighed 300 pounds. His department-store mountain bike was overflowing with non-tech equipment. His four panniers were bursting, his sleeping bag and tent tied on top of it all. I could barely lift the bike—he said he'd weighed it on a trucker's highway scale at 150 pounds. He rode in heavy hiking boots and bib-type overalls over a T-shirt. No helmet. But he was in no hurry. He proudly stated that he "rode right along" at 8-10 kph. "Besides," he added, "All that extra weight comes in handy on the downhills, where I often get up to over 15 kilometres per hour." In four days he had made it from Winnipeg to Kenora via the Trans-Canada. (Our group had taken a day and a half following a longer route.) How could one criticize him, though? He was brimming with enthusiasm and totally filled with joy to be on the road, travelling under his own power on such a journey. Cycling indeed has many aspects.

I am just a bit lonesome after talking to Lynn, and a bit homesick. It was good to have Ayrie join our conversation for a while tonight. She's getting many hours of work and is in good spirits. Later, while making my daily journal entry, I reflect that I'm really loving this trip—the loneliness is virtually the only downside of the entire thing.

This next segment, four days riding to Thunder Bay, should be OK. We leave the hectic, shoulderless dread of Highway 17 just ten or 15 km out of town, turning onto "friendly" Hwy 71 to Fort Francis. (Map of Northern Ontario)

At Fort Francis we'll change to # 11 'till two or three miles outside Thunder Bay. With Bob now sitting-out I'm wondering who I'll ride with? Maybe alone…? Or with Ray…? I feel like just starting out on my own and riding my own speed all day. A few days of that and I'll likely be looking for some company again. Oh well… Into the rocks and hills of the Canadian Shield.


All Alone Am I

Everyone was keen and eager to get on the road today, and people began departing the campsite early. Still undecided on whether I should ride alone or find some company, I took my time and puttered around getting ready. Bob was considering he might try a small portion of today's distance to get a feel for how his leg was recovering. The consensus was that he should have Jeff drop him off for the final 20-plus kilometres and ride into camp. Breakfast chores and van-packing being Ray and Bob's responsibilities today, I had kind of assumed Bob would volunteer to do up most of it, giving Ray a chance to take off whenever he was ready. But it didn't happen. Bob just fussed and puttered with trivial things so I helped Ray finish up. Debbie had departed for Manitoba immediately after dropping Ray off for breakfast, ending their final rest-day visit. Remembering how I felt when I'd left Lynn in Drumheller I was wondering if Ray might be feeling a bit down and want some company today. I never opened the subject, and neither did he. I hung around until he was ready, then got on my bike when he did, riding out a few feet to his side and slightly behind him. Ray stopped at the washroom as we passed it but he never gave me a glance or suggested that I wait for him. Deciding that I could take a hint, I just continued riding.

I mailed a few postcards on the way out of town, then picked up the pace on this beautiful day—sunny and bright, with a tailwind. The scenery was excellent. I was in a good mood, feeling rested, fit and strong. Suddenly I remembered that I'd left my second chain on the clothesline, hanging to dry. Within minutes a pay phone appeared at the road's edge, so I stopped and phoned back to the campsite. Of course I got an answering machine! God I hate those things! Leaving a message, but fully expecting the proprietor wouldn't even check the thing until long after Jeff departed, I had to hope the chain would still be on the line. Ray had moved it to the distant end, above some shrubbery, and if jostled too much it would have fallen into the weeds. "Dumb! Dumb! Dumb!" I said to myself. To lose the chain was just stupid. Fifty bucks is fifty bucks. Having done all I could, I shrugged my mental shoulders and found myself whistling one of my favourite travelling songs of this trip as I rode off. There's a bluebird on my windowsill… I really was in a good mood. (Riding back the 15 km was an option I didn't even entertain. It would've added an extra 30 km to the day.)

I rode alone all day, and loved it. I took all my breaks just when I wanted them, stopping for as long or as short as I wished and eating for as long as I desired. All worked well and I rode into the entrance to Caliper Lake Provincial Park about 1310 hrs, which turned out to be about two hours ahead of Jeff and the vehicle. I had been planning to do up some laundry—all my favourite riding clothes would then be dry and wearable again tomorrow, plus I could have the veggies all cut up for tonight's supper salad. Alas, with the van not yet there it was not to be.

Today was so fine that almost everyone took advantage of what nature and mankind (sorry Paddy, it's not yet personkind) had to offer. Most of us reached a splendid resort lodge at Sioux Narrows about 1030 hrs. After eating their lunches here, James, Paddy and Marny went down to the lake where they swam in their cycling clothes, then sun-bathed them dry for an hour or more.
Sioux Narrows

Christine, too, succumbed to the temptation, staying for a while to enjoy the sun and water. When these four later arrived together at the campground I was still by the gate, munching on an apple and resting on the back of a bench. Still no Jeff. They, too, seemed a bit ticked as they'd been hoping to get set up right away. Bob, it seems, had revised his plans. He began his cycling day at Kenora, arranging to be picked up when Jeff overtook him. He departed about 1000 hrs. However, because it was a relatively short day of 131 kms, Jeff decided to sleep-in and it was early afternoon when he finally cleared Kenora. Meanwhile, out on the road, Bob got hungry and went into a cafe to grab a bite to eat. No sooner had he stepped inside than he saw Jeff driving by and was unable to get outside quickly enough to flag him down. Bob continued riding.

Jeff continued driving, going almost the entire distance to the campground before concluding that he must have missed Bob somewhere and turned around. Bob ended up riding close to 100 km, and the van didn't get to the park until about 1500 hrs. Those of us waiting at the gate had no sympathy for Bob's plight, feeling that: a) he shouldn't have left the road's edge; and b) he should have ridden the final few miles, not the first ones. While his leg had held up fine, Bob was quite angry, and understandably pretty fatigued.

While waiting at the gate I had phoned home, somewhat surprising Lynn who was most happy to hear from me so early in the day. (It was just past noon in Edmonton.) Cycling slowly along behind the van as I followed it to our site on its eventual arrival, I realized I was truly homesick and was missing my family very much. Much of the joy of the experience was missing by not being able to share each day as it happened, and the empty feeling in my gut was lonesomeness. I had been phoning regularly but we both agreed that I would now try to do so every night, unless of course circumstances didn't allow for it. The additional phone bills would become just another part of overall trip expenses.

The Kenora paper had published a short article about us, including two photos. The reporter of the previous night personally delivered 13 individual copies early this morning. Jeff distributed them as we rode in. Of course I'd missed the picture-taking session, but Ray looked professional as he worked on his bicycle. It was a good souvenir. A nice gesture by the paper and the town.Bob did find my chain while dismantling the clothesline and brought it along for me. (The campground manager never did notify Jeff or Bob of my call.) Some place on the road today I notched 3,000 km from the start point in Vancouver. Halfway, just passed Thunder Bay, was beginning to become a dim possibility. Not there yet, but perhaps I could allow myself a glimpse of the reality of cycling over halfway across our country.


Mosquito Cove

July 24, Day 28 of the adventure, and overcast skies. Another "short" day of only 129 km, so no rush. For one reason or another many want to linger in the big city of Fort Francis as we pass through. Ken and Annette are looking for a bike shop; I think Ken's rear-end is bothering him and he is desirous of a new saddle.

Because bicycle tubes are porous they tend to lose 3-5 pounds of air pressure daily. Part of my morning routine was topping them up to the recommended pressure and the van's floor pump simplified this chore. The van was always close at hand, and the pump had a built-in gauge. Today, though, despite my efforts, something seemed wrong. The rear tire definitely felt under-inflated as I made my way over the gravelled two klicks leading back to the highway. Stopping to check, sure enough, it was soft. Damn! Not even on the highway yet and I have to change a rear tire. I hated the thought! "Perhaps there really is no hole in it," I thought desperately? "Perhaps I didn't use the pump right." I was clutching for any excuse to get out of changing the tire. So thinking, but not really believing, I pumped it hard using my bike-pump, then set off optimistically down Hwy 71, bound for Fort Francis and beyond.

This stretch of the highway's surface was rough asphalt flanked with gravelled shoulders. Motorists on this road seemed friendly to cyclists but even so I had to move onto the shoulder a few times when big trucks were passing. No horns honked at me all day, which pleased me. For some good news, my rear tire held air perfectly. Consequently, I never fully trusted the gauge on the floor-pump again.

Rode alone all day again. I went directly through Fort Francis, eating lunch on the far side of it. Today I found I had actually packed too much lunch. Usually two sandwiches, a couple oranges or bananas, an apple and some GORP (just in case) were my roadside lunch for those days having distances between 100 and 140 kilometres. Today I'd packed three sandwiches, but one was still uneaten at day's end. I'd packed extra because yesterday I'd felt bagged by midmorning. My pace today was very similar, but I tried different tactics—I stopped for my lunch some 45 minutes sooner. I didn't eat any more food than I had yesterday, but today I never felt like I was running out of gas. I recalled a nugget of wisdom—a cyclist can go for two hours without sustenance, but seldom can one go for three without feeling the effects. "Eat before you're hungry, drink before you're thirsty" is the cyclist's motto. Knowing it, I had ignored it. Yesterday I had paid.

Responding to a challenge Jeff had unknowingly thrown at me over a beer one night a couple of weeks ago, I mooned him from my bike as he and Bob passed me this morning. Bud had apparently asked him how many times he'd been mooned, and at that time it hadn't happened at all. I had silently vowed to rectify that. So when I saw the yellow van approaching in my rear-view mirror, I did it. For a fleeting minute I panicked, "What if it isn't them?" But when I saw Bob giving me a "thumb's-up" as they passed I smiled happily. Incidentally, Bob rode the van all day today.

Today, for the first time in my life, I rode by a cyclist without saying a word or acknowledging their presence. It was tough, but as I passed Paddy this afternoon I did so silently. She said nothing in return. It's her move.

Taylor's Cove was our destination, a delightful spot about 40 km east of Fort Francis, on an arm of Rainy Lake. From the long causeway leaving Fort Francis all the way to here we had views of this sprawling lake, and the scenery was magnificent. Reaching the campsite I rode up to the truck, but before I even dismounted Jeff greeted me with "Just what I needed first thing in the morning, someone's bare butt in my face!" He smiled. Now, I thought happily, his trip is complete.

This protected little cove had a small area set aside for tents and I ignorantly pitched mine at the edge of the woods. Jeff chose the best spot right at the water's edge, where he listened to the waves lapping the shore all night. On the other hand, at my location along the tree-line I listened to the mosquitoes lapping blood all night. Mine. Getting into the tent was a blood battle. Getting in and out of it twice during the night for a pee (wouldn't you know it, tonight of all nights) was even less fun. I then had to swat the suckers that came in with me for 10 minutes. Packing up the tent in the morning was truly a nightmare. Northern Ontario was living up to its reputation! That morning Jeff told me that one of his greatest wishes was to one day meet up with a six-foot mosquito so he could punch the living Hell out of it, just to get even. This location had the worst horde of the entire trip.

Shower facilities here were excellent, having copious hot water, clean floors and walls, and no cost. It wasn't always so, but we had no really bad campsites. The overall quality far surpassed what Lynn and I had experienced some 20 years earlier when we had camped our way around and across Canada. Is there some inspection system in place now that weeds out the poor ones, or is it simply survival of the fittest?

Ken had bought a new saddle in Fort Francis that he liked well enough so far. It will take a few days of riding to know if it is really any better than the previous one.

No phone booth here, so out of touch with home two nights in a row. Ironic or what, after just deciding to call every night? The biggest problem with agreeing to call every night is causing worry at the other end when no phone call comes. I knew Lynn worried about me from the second I got on the plane to Vancouver 'till the moment I got back home in September. However, there was no need to compound it by worrying about a never-made phone call each day while I was on the highway. I hoped she'd realize all was well—I was simply unable to phone.


A Home-Made Bran Muffin

Today started out nice and sunny. Our route was due east almost all day, with Dawson Trail Campground in Quetico Provincial park, about 159 km away, being our quest. The north wind meant a steady crosswind, but it was no problem.

The highway was heavily-cracked pavement for the first 50 kms, then smooth for about 90 kms, and rough again for the final 20 or so. The lack of paved shoulders agravated the drop of an inch or two to the gravel border strips, but the trucks and smaller vehicles were again considerate. Only two towns populated today's map: Mine Centre, about 30 kms from our start point and the second, Atikokan, slightly passed the mid-point, appeared to be three or four kms off the main highway. So I put three water bottles on my bike, drank a full bottle of water immediately prior to leaving the camp-site, and headed off. (I found that this "cameling-up" method really worked. It gave me close to an hour's riding time before I needed to start drinking. Of course I needed a pee stop much earlier than when I didn't do it!)

I rode alone again today. The group spirit seems to have vanished into a "Look out for Number One" type of arrangement. The two married couples ride with their spouses and James stays close on Marny's wheel. All others are in a mad dash to get out of camp as quickly as possible with no regard or concern for anyone else. My journal that night reflected my feelings—"I'll take the Army way of team work over this way, anytime."

The highway was fairly straight, with the same continuous scenery of trees and rocks, having only a few decent hills to break it up and give it some character.

By the time I reached the junction of the road leading to Atikokan I was more than ready for a rest, and nearly out of water. I was really debating going into town regardless of the distance involved. Fortuitously there was a decent-looking information bureau on the corner, and it called my name. The white-haired lady inside was very friendly. She gladly filled my water bottles, engaging me in conversation all the while. She was definitely wanting some company, but since she was as deaf as a stone any conversation with her was most difficult. Breaking away, I went outside to a nice wooden patio and ate my final sandwich at a picnic table. I then got into my GORP bag, eating a large pile of the peanuts, raisins and sunflower seeds. The lady saw me eating the GORP and came out to ask if I wanted a home-cooked bran muffin, as she couldn't believe I could actually eat that birdseed. Never one to turn down home-baking, and especially on this trip, I opened the door for another round of shouted conversation while enjoying the delicious snack.

Great campground here in Quetico. Huge, really. Ontario provincial campgrounds are very well laid-out and very well maintained. But they tend to be humungous, as was this one, often with mostly gravelled roads, as was this one. Having done well in the past by simply riding in, looking around and happening upon the yellow Ryder van, I tried it again. Not this time. Eventually I returned to the gate for directions. I had noted the distance and time when I first reached the park—it was some nine kms and 25 minutes later when I found the van. Despite that, I was setting up my tent by 1345 hrs, and well before supper I had my laundry finished. Only $1.50 for the whole job. Cheapest yet. Ontario does have its good points.

Bob again rode the truck all day. Rumour has it he's contemplating a flight out of Thunder Bay. His ultimate destination is Nova Scotia, where he will visit an uncle he hasn't seen for a long time. His wife is to join him there. In our conversations Bob has said nothing to me about any change in plans, and I never ask. I sort of miss Bob's banter as we enter the campground these days as I know he would be grumbling. The three kilometres of gravel into here, after the end of the lengthy paved entrance road, would have driven him crazy. Also the tent sites, about 100 metres from the van's location near a power outlet, would have bugged him. My complaint is that the sole telephone is at the Park entrance, four gravel kms away. Because I'm not riding back out to it Lynn will not hear from me again tonight, the third day in a row now. Ontario parks are certainly fine for motorists, but much less so for those on a bicycle. Yeah I know, if one is dumb enough to be away out here in the wilderness on a bicycle one should not complain about a couple klicks of gravel. But hey, complaining is fun too, sometimes.

Tomorrow it's Thunder Bay, the Lakehead, the Halfway point. It is also going to be a long ride of 169 kms to get there. A note on our map warns us about a dangerously congested 20 kilometre stretch from where we join Highway 17 at Shabaqua Corners until we get off it at Kakabeka Falls. Annette worries for all of us about the big trucks and heavy traffic. She can't seem to get over the fact that if anyone is travelling the Canadian route across the continent then they must use this particular stretch of highway. There's no alternative to these particular 20 kilometres. It's a true bottleneck. She also frets about tomorrow's long distance, compounded by the loss of an hour's riding time when we cross the time-zone line just before Shebandowan, about halfway to the Lakehead. Therefore, she plans an even earlier start. Shortly after supper, with tomorrow's sandwiches hastily made, she and Ken disappear down the road into the dusk.

Deciding to build a campfire, Ray and Jeff take the van and return with a good stack of the free firewood. However, it needs splitting. Ray grabs the axe and whales away but it's immediately obvious that this axe is for chopping wood, not splitting it. We each take a turn getting the axe stuck in the chunks of wood, eventually getting enough small pieces whittled off to get the fire started. Over a beer or two we sit around and swap stories. I go to bed around 2200 hrs, leaving the others at the fire.
Coyotes

As planned, Ken and Annette are up and away early, with the rest of us not far behind. A woman, looking totally distraught, bewildered and nearly panic-stricken wandered into our site about 0630 hrs, asking directions to the canoe launching-pad. Not knowing, together we studied a map of the camp. There is no launching-pad even shown on the map, but help and clear directions would be available at the main entrance, I suggested, even offering her a lift in the van if she wished. She said she'd paddled all night, finally sleeping in her canoe for about an hour at 0500 hrs, and just had to get to the canoe-launching site by 0700 hrs. Refusing any help she stumbled off alone, sort of aiming at the road leading back to the entrance. Marny had also spoken to her. We both agreed she didn't appear to be drunk or drugged, just extremely tired and upset. Never saw her again; I trust she was OK.

I was last out of camp, yet it was only 0715 hrs. Bob and Jeff were already beginning to pack up. The wind was blowing from the south today, on our right side for the first 100 kms, then becoming a headwind for the final 70 kms when we turned south.

Today we passed two special landmarks. The first was about 19 km from our starting point, at the top of a long grade. This crest of land marked the division of the Arctic and Atlantic watersheds, attested to by a sign board.

Watershed

The other significant event was riding over the imaginary line that transposed us into the Central Time Zone. Otherwise the route was basically uneventful until reaching Highway 17, when it got busy.

Like nearly all of this trip, the forthcoming miles were unknown to us from a cycling perspective, and as always we were curious about the terrain we'd be crossing. Mainly we wondered if there would be any big hills, and if so, how many. Since Day One, whenever we chatted with locals at cafes or rest-stops we would question them about the road ahead. We quickly learned that the difference in perspective between a vehicle driver's point of view and a cyclist's point of view is VAST!!! Nine times out of ten the driver would say something like "Oh, it's not too bad at all. I think there may be a couple of hills, but nothing much, the road is nearly flat right to... Then we would mount our bikes, start down the road and within a mile or two we would be in our lowest gears grunting up some monster hill. Followed by another, then another, throughout the day. Slowly we learned to take a vehicle driver's topographical comments with a large grain of salt.

Today was another case in point. "Almost flat" we were told, but we were wiser by now and reserved a bit of our minds for the likelihood that we would be doing some climbing. And of course there were hills that made a cyclist work hard to get over, but today they were not too many, and not too steep. At the junction of Highway 17 were a couple of tempting cafes, but I kept going. Finally I stopped to eat my sandwiches on the steps of a school bordering the road, where the caretaker was cutting the grass. Traffic on Highway 17 was indeed very busy, but it was okay. No horns beeped at me while I was on it, but I did have to "bailout" onto the shoulder once in a while to let semi-trailers pass.

Kakabeka Falls are magnificent, affectionately known locally as The Niagara of the North, but having seen them before I didn't stop for a look. Most of the others also bypassed the Falls, to their loss. At the small town of Kakabeka Falls, right in the midst of a construction zone at the town's outskirts, the cut-off for our route along Oliver Road occurred.

Once on it traffic volumes immediately diminished to very light levels. The first few miles along Oliver Road were over big, rounded hills, then gradually the road flattened, becoming more built-up as it entered Thunder Bay. I had a final snack on someone's front lawn, chatting with the owner as he tended his flower garden, then rode into the University campus and found the registration desk.

Jeff had us sorted into two groups. Four of us, Ray, Bob, Jeff and I were in a four-bedroom house, White River #2, with a proper kitchen. The others each had their own individual room in a dorm just across the street. The van, parked behind our house, made it easy for the four of us to unload our two baskets, but a bit of a long carry for the others. The women protested somewhat about the long trip to their rooms, but to no avail. Bicycles inside these rooms wasn't a problem, solving our security worries.

I finally phoned Lynn, shortly after arriving. She's lonely as always, but all is well. She's doing a lot of yard work these days. I bet the lawn and gardens look splendid.Before supper I watched a couple hours of Olympic coverage in a games-room lounge, and couldn't believe my good luck. The final for the 100-metre sprint was just beginning, and I witnessed Donovan Bailey win the Gold Medal. The World's Fastest Man was a Canadian. Again. Hopefully now the Ben Johnson saga will fade into history.

After supper, cooked by necessity in the empty house next door as the oven in ours didn't work, Jeff, Bob, Ray and I walked out the back of the campus and down the hill into town for a drink or two. Over a beer at a roadhouse called Casey's we saw a country bar, Coyotes, across the street, that seemed quite lively. Jeff had to give it a try. He was in a rare mood that night, downing three pitchers of beer while I had two glasses. He was acting fine, hadn't caused any commotion, but suddenly there was an agitated bouncer at the table rudely telling Jeff he was cut off. One more sip by Jeff and he would throw all of us out, he said. Surprised? Not much! Bob thinks it's due to Jeff's friendly talk to one of the waitresses who just happens to be the girlfriend of that particular bouncer. Perhaps. It might also be Jeff's earlier, hilarious attempt to do the Macarena. This was my initial exposure to the Macarena, and it transfixed me, seeing the entire dance floor full with everyone moving in unison to the catchy rhythm and tune. Then suddenly, positioned right beside one of the best dancers on the floor, was Jeff. His long arms were a half-beat behind and frequently moving to the wrong part of his body. Funniest of all was at the end of each segment. The entire floor would jump a quarter turn clockwise, followed by Jeff some perceptible time later. Two hundred people jump, Jeff jumps. And again. In any case, we intended to drink up the several beer we had paid for, so we remained. It took a couple slaps to Jeff's wrists every now and then to keep him from grabbing a glass, but none of us really appreciated how drunk he was. Not until he slowly slid his hand across the table, wrapped his fingers around a full pitcher of beer and squeezed it to pick it up. It squirted out of his hand, slid off the table and emptied into Ray's lap. Have a beer, Ray. That reduced our time to clear the table somewhat and we soon took our leave.

Ray and I chatted for perhaps and hour once back in our apartment before we, too, called it quits for the night.


The Wisdom of Many

Got a bit of a sleep-in today, rising about 0830 hrs, then sharing an omelette that Bob cooked-up for breakfast. Then I rode downtown with Randy and Patti. I was looking for a couple odds-and-ends and a bank machine, and they were looking for an optical shop and a bike store. For those of us who had bypassed Winnipeg, the Lakehead was our first truly big city since Vancouver. Reaching it was a treat. We knew it would have all the major facilities. Randy's glasses, purchased just prior to the trip, had special UV coating and anti-glare protection, and were tinted slightly. Some time back, I think in Alberta, parts of the coating had started to lift, causing blurring through some areas of the lenses. He had been asking at various points along the way if a remedy or cure was possible. As the days passed the deterioration continued, to the point where his vision is now truly being impaired. We found an optical lab, but they closed on Saturdays. A big optical shop in the Inter-City Mall told Randy that the best they could do would be to make him some new lenses. They were kind enough to phone his local store in Smithers, B. C., and explain the situation to them. The Smithers store promised to reimburse Randy for the cost of the replacement lenses. All the bells and whistles weren't on the new ones, but at least he could see properly again. I left my friends there, returning to the University to clean up my bike and find some lunch.

Randy and Patti stayed downtown looking for a bike shop. Still hearing, or feeling, some roughness through the pedals as he rode, Randy was again looking for an answer to the problem that bothered him prior to Kenora. He had the mechanic tear the bottom bracket apart. Finding nothing there, further investigation revealed worn-out bearings in one pedal. New pedals ended the grinding feeling. Incidentally, we all used Shimano SPD clipless pedals, except Christine, who used toe-clips, James who had a Look system, and Bob, who had Speed Play pedals along with the special cleats designed expressly for them. The Speed Play system is extremely lightweight and allows tremendous floatation, like 100 degrees or something. Bob, though, seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time digging debris out of his cleats so the shoes and pedals would snap together. The Look and Speed Play shoes were terrible to walk in.

I phoned Lynn during the afternoon, wrote postcards to just about everybody I knew, and caught some more Olympics on TV. A nice lazy day, with comfortable chairs to sit on instead of stumps, fence rails, tailgates, picnic tables or the ground. Strange as it seems though, by now my tent seemed to be home and nights when I wasn't in it were a disruption to my routine, causing a bit of mental discomfort.

Bob and Ray had spent some part of the day getting one of Thunder Bay's famous Finnish massage treatments.

Supper at Casey's was a unanimous choice, based on our previous night's sample. Everyone was going, except Christine. The menu offered a good variety at reasonable cost, and the ambience reminded me of Earl's Restaurants. The cafe was within easy walking distance. Leaving together, talking and laughing, we made our way down the hill towards Casey's. Before we had even reached the top of the hill, however, Albert separated himself from us saying "I know how to get there," and he walked off alone, at right-angles to our course. "Stubborn old Albert," someone said. "A typical Dutchman," said someone else. We had been at Casey's for perhaps 10 minutes when Albert walked in. As he sat down, slightly red-faced, he said "I should have known that eleven people know more than just one."

Walking back up the hill in the fading light of sunset, we prepared our minds for another day on the road. Tomorrow we would pass the Terry Fox Memorial, the "official" halfway point of the Tour du Canada. Wow! We felt so proud! But… that much riding behind us and we were still only halfway?

There was much cycling still to do!

Cyclist


Jeff Makes Lunch Tour du Canada has few established traditions, but one that does exist is that of the support driver preparing and serving the riders a lunch at the halfway point. Today we would reach this point. It was Day 32, July 28, overcast but warm, and a short day of only 110 klicks. The day was slow getting underway. No one was in any hurry. After moving our personal kit back to the van we started leaving the campus, singly and in small groups, between 0830 and 0900 hrs. Before my even having a chance to get underway Ken and Annette were back at the van. Annette had jammed her chain while shifting, peeling off one link's side-plate. Ken bought a new chain from Jeff and quickly installed it. Joining with Ray and me, the four of us started off together. However, somewhere in the first few blocks of town Ray and I became separated from Annette and Ken and we didn't see them again until lunch.

The highway was busy but caused no problems. Knowing that the Terry Fox Memorial site is just east of Thunder Bay I was watching for it on the right-hand (south) side of the road where I had visited it years earlier. A left-turn sign to gain access to the memorial had me confused for a minute before realizing that it had a new (and much finer) location. A short approach road climbed to a bluff overlooking the highway, beyond which lay Lake Superior and the Lakehead's signature rock formation, the Sleeping Giant. This long mass of rock projecting into Lake Superior truly resembles a person lying on their back. The memorial itself is the centrepiece of a circular area, with Terry mounted on the original pedestal. Snuggled into the woods and away from the busy highway this is a much improved site in every way. Ray took a couple of pictures, then we continued. Albert later recounted being not-too-politely told by a motorist to move his bike away from the monument and quit cluttering it up, so that he, the motorist, could take a photo. The centrepiece of one person's world is clutter to another.

About halfway to our campground in Nipigon we came upon the van, pulled over at the Pearl River Rest Area. Cold meats and salads covered a picnic table. How we enjoyed Jeff's treat—this lunch was a terrific change from the daily PB sandwiches. We especially loved the tub of butterscotch ice cream presented for dessert, knowing that we absolutely must eat it right now. It was melting fast and there was no way to save it. Randy, Bob and I did our best to not let any go to waste, ably assisted by Albert who was also ever-ready for ice cream. A group photo session then ensued as tribute to reaching the halfway point of our odyssey. A non-suspecting stranger volunteered to be our photographer, only too late discovering there were 11 or 12 cameras to operate before he could rejoin his family. Our joyous mood was contagious, though, and he happily clicked away, one after another, until everyone had their memento of this unique occasion.

Back: Paddy, James, Marny, Christine, Bob, Ray
Front: Don, Ken, Annette, Albert, Patti, Randy

I rode off in a mood of euphoria, a big smile on my face, realizing I had now crossed over half of this country using only my own power. At the very worst, I can now and forever say I have ridden a bicycle over halfway across Canada. With hopes that the second half will go as well as the first I silently thank Lynn for her great gift of encouraging me to do this, and then accepting her lonely summer so that I can actually attempt it. Her selflessness, her insistence that I go out and do a training ride on many an overcast or dreary day, and her endless love for me, have got me here. This ride has brought me joy, happiness and self-esteem beyond measure. Beyond any words I can pen. I owe her forever.

Tonight was again our turn to cook. Some days earlier, exasperated with the continual responsibility of deciding what to prepare, Patti had given me sort of an ultimatum to come up with tonight's menu. With help from Lynn (over the phone) I secured the formula for a tuna casserole that we often enjoy at home. Patti, free of the stress of decision making, intuitively combined the ingredients into a tasty meal. As always, Randy and I cut and washed some vegetables, preparing a salad (with lots of garlic) to go with it.

This campsite in Nipigon, the Stillwater Tent and Trailer Park, was a pleasant area, with above average showers.

Bob rode his bike the last half of today, from the Pearl River lunch stop to the campground.

Serendipity

We were now fully into Canadian Shield country, and the big hills were rolling under our tires. This next stretch of highway looked like a challenge, but luckily today's ride was again a fairly short haul of only 111 kilometres to Terrace Bay. The overcast continued, becoming a slight drizzle that hit us about noon. Most of the time while on the road today I wore my light nylon jacket, offsetting the rain and gentle headwind on this cool, damp day. The misty rain chilled us, and the moisture-laden air coated my glasses with water droplets. Seeing anything through them became so difficult that I decided that I could see better without them and stashed them in a jersey pocket. Colours were again vivid, but images beyond a few feet were mostly a blur. The feeling of riding like this, with my vision less than perfect, is somewhat akin to overrunning one's headlights in the dark. On the other hand, it is always a revelation to me how much the rainfall seems to lessen whenever the world is not being obliterated by rivulets of raindrops an inch before my eyes.

Riding sweep with Patti and Randy, we stayed together as best we could. It was along here that Patti, repeatedly pulling ahead of Randy on the uphills, realized she was now a much stronger cyclist than ever before. She loved it! She even teased him a bit about it. Randy, who was having difficulty with all the hills lately, said his legs were feeling weak. His big old mountain bike, and more likely his 225-plus pounds, were catching up to him. There were two extra big hills today. While we were grunting our way up the second of these monsters we decided to look for a place to warm ourselves. The reward of struggling up a long uphill was, as always, a long effortless ride down. Patti and I braked to a stop when we reached the entrance road to Rossport, thinking there might be someplace in the town where we could buy a warm lunch. When Randy joined us we continued the descent into town, dropping down a short, steep hill to the town's main street, situated on the shore of Lake Superior.

Rossport (on a Sunny Day)

The downhill leading into town made us dread an equivalent climb to rejoin the highway, but no matter. Riding slowly along Main Street we soon happened upon a collection of familiar-looking bikes leaning against a rock retaining wall. This wall in turn supported a beautiful rock garden, and above it all perched a snug-looking establishment intriguingly named "The Serendipity Cafe." Quickly ascending the stone stairway we joined the others who were already eating their dessert. They urged us to try the ham and cheese sandwich. A meal all by itself—piled high, and delicious. Their dessert, a Serendipity Sundae, likewise looked far too good to pass up, so I ordered one of those as well.

This cafe was one of the few spots where nearly all of us converged. Amazing, too, was the number of other highway travellers choosing to stop there, considering its whereabouts appeared on only one highway billboard. I certainly recommend the place if anyone is passing that way, although prices are a tad high.

Continuing along the main street and passing the town's crowded harbour, we rejoiced in discovering that the highway had dropped to our level, meeting Main Street at lakeside and sparing us any return climb. In fact, this was the turning point where the highway began to level off, to the extent that there were no more huge hills today. The final 50 km from Schreiber to Terrace Bay were relatively flat.

For many years, since first passing by the town of Schreiber when I was perhaps 14, the town and its name have stuck in my head. It's true an aunt and uncle lived here for a while, but so did other relatives in other small towns. Whenever taking this route across Ontario I always fret about having a breakdown or accident along here, but have no basis for this feeling. In any case, I rode very cautiously all day, making it a point to always keep within sight of others.

Once passed Schreiber the ominous feeling evaporated and I rode alone for the final few miles. Now I feel like I can relax and forget about any ill fortune biting me. At least along here, on this trip.

The 600 km stretch from Nipigon to Sault Ste Marie has few towns, with distances between them averaging 100 kms. Water is, of course, vital to us all and each of us drank several litres daily, at times as much as a litre per hour. Each day of the entire distance around Lake Superior I carried three water bottles on my bike and was often deep into the third one before finding replenishment. Having the third full bottle onboard means a significant addition in weight. For me it's a necessity that my old legs simply must contend with as they lug me up and over the hills. Others carried extra water in their saddle bags or rear packs. From the trip's earliest days the choice of drinking water was a very individual thing. Many preferred buying bottled water over the free tap-water available from the campsite or store/service stations along the way. The prime objection to the local water was the taste, varying as it did from town to town. Some of it truly was quite out-of-the-ordinary. Admittedly, the water across the Prairies tasted, at times, truly awful. Here in the Canadian Shield the water's colour resembled tea, I think because of the high concentration of iron in the rock. This colour was off-putting but the taste wasn't too bad. On principle, I drank only tap water for the entire trip. Canada has perhaps the largest freshwater supply of any country in the world, I reasoned, and be darned if I was going to pay for it. Others, though, bought water daily, and I would guess it became a major cost item of their overall expenses.

Bob managed about 40 kms on his bike today, riding into camp from Rossport.

We were aiming for Terrace Bay, a pulp town. The mill creates a certain rotten-egg smell, never forgotten once encountered. We were lucky on this occasion. The favourable wind was keeping the rank smell away from us.

The wastewater from the mill is milk-white sludge, supersaturated with contaminates, anPolluted waterd reeking so highly it would make a maggot vomit. At one point by the road's edge this raw outflow was pouring into a stream, with seemingly no effort made to clean it up. This polluted stream ran white for many miles before there was any sign of the effluent dissipating. Riding passed this smelly outflow was not pleasant—a cyclist breathes much more deeply than a motorist, has no windows to roll up, and takes considerably longer to move beyond any given point.

Tonight's campground in Terrace Bay lay on the bank of the Aguasabon River. The facilities are great: grass tent sites, good shower facilities, a basketball standard, and a small store with an adjoining TV room. While I was busily writing a few postcards, Christine and James played a spirited game of one-on-one basketball, later joined by Marny and Bob. They devised some kind of competitive scoring system, and switched to shooting free-throws. Christine proved to be the best shot, which ticked James!

The proprietor invited us to watch a video movie later in the evening, if there was any interest. Around 2000 hrs most of us gathered in the store and perused their collection of perhaps 50 movies, finally agreeing on one. It must have been really terrific because I can't remember anything about it other than having seen it before. Even its title escapes me. We watched it in a small, empty room adjacent to the office/store. Since we were lacking anything to sit on, the owner brought out a couple of mattresses to keep us off the wooden floor. It was a nice change-of-pace and a different way to pass away a dull, rainy evening. By movies-end only Bob, Ray, James and I were still there. Since I recall so little of it my concerns must also have been elsewhere.

Back to the tent to sleep. Rain fell occasionally throughout the night, and a train whistle woke me once from fairly close-by, across the highway.


The Yellow Brick Road

Ray frequently spoke about this day as we travelled, saying we would ride The Yellow Brick Road and experience a night at a gold mine. We were eager to do so. Terrace Bay and White River are about 170 kms apart, with only the town of Marathon, some 12 klicks off the highway, between them. Campsites simply don't exist. The tour coordinator, Bud, had surmounted this difficulty by establishing a friendship with the managers of the Golden Giant gold mine at Hemlo, a former railroad whistle-stop long since abandoned. A geologist at the mine later informed me that Tour du Canada was the sole outfit permitted to camp there, and had been doing so for a few years now. They treated us royally. We were to learn that preparations for our arrival were extensive. They included cleaning up a small field normally used for laying-out and drying core samples, erecting a couple floodlights, running power and water for the vehicle and bringing in two Port-a-Potties. Two university students were on-call to transport us in one of the mine's minivans and to give us a guided tour of the mine's aboveground workings. We would feel pretty special.

It was raining when we started out from Terrace Bay, and cool. Riding alone in the wetness I kept up a decent pace, trying not to let the constant precipitation get me down. Actually, it's not the rain itself that gets me down—riding in a warm rain can be a pleasant experience. Rather, it's the stream of water coming off my front tire that dampens my spirits. Picked-up by the tire, the dirty and oily highway sludge is carried around until caught by the slipstream, then blown upwards and backwards into my face. Slowing down reduces the effect. Speed obviously increases it. Consequently, the naturally-gained acceleration when descending a hill means a proportionate increase in facial water, totally offsetting the normal thrill of going fast. A front fender may reduce or even eliminate this problem but I am still unsure that a fender in the rain betters no fender on dry pavement. So I continue to ride with no fenders on my bike. (The pack mounted behind my saddle prevents the rear tire from giving me the customary "skunk-stripe" plastered on the jersey's of many storm-caught road cyclists.)

All day the rain lasted, varying from light drizzles to heavy downpours. This was only the second full day of rain we'd had, since way back in B.C. in fact. We couldn't complain. Wet and a bit cold, I stopped at a tiny coffee shop/service station where the highway met the road leading to Neys Provincial Park. Lingering over a hot chocolate and cinnamon bun, I delayed leaving to the point of embarrassment while warming up and drying off. Two or three other sodden cyclists joined me there before I left.

A note on the map warned us that we were not to be on the mine's approach road between 1600 and 1630 hrs, which was during a shift change. I was there well before that, around 1415 hrs. The map also indicated that we'd pass two other gold mines before reaching the Golden Giant. Despite the warning it still seemed like a long way between the first two mines. It was even farther from the second to the third, and some doubts about missing my

Gold Mine near Hemlo

turnoff were beginning to creep into my head before finally reaching the Golden Giant's entrance road. The sign on this approach road really was The Yellow Brick Road. It seems that the initial paving crew mistakenly used a pile of gold-bearing ore instead of regular gravel, so the road actually was paved with gold. To my eye it didn't look golden as I rode in on it, but its hue and texture definitely differed from the rest of today's roads.

Our van was nowhere to be seen as I entered the mine site. Stopping at a fork in the road, I was contemplating which direction to take when a pickup truck bearing the mine's logo pulled up. After confirming that I was with Tour du Canada the driver directed me to our designated area. I cycled to it. Nothing was there—just a puddle-strewn expanse of rocky dirt. Leaning my bike against a nearby fence I mentally prepared to simply stand in the rain and wait. After a few minutes of this, getting colder and wetter, I set about poking my nose into the ATCO trailer/offices inside the fenced compound, eventually finding some warm bodies. Quick-talking myself inside for a coffee I met Ralph, a geologist working at the site but not directly employed by the mine. He and two or three others shared this large mobile home, using it for both offices and living quarters. Ralph was a good person to get to know. He later took pity on all of us by offering indoor sleeping space and the use of his clothes dryer for our completely soaked day's riding clothes. And my soaked sleeping bag, I discovered on Jeff's arrival. A corner of the protective tarp had slipped, exposing it to the rain until Jeff got up and loaded the van. The dryer was a godsend for all of us.

On his arrival Bob asked about any motels in the area. At Ralph's mention of a motel of sorts "just down the road" Bob at once wanted to drive down for a look. I hopped into the van with him and Jeff. Within half-a-mile of rejoining Highway 17 a small old motel appeared. Despite its shabby and decrepit appearance, Bob got out to check the prices—it was apparent he didn't relish setting up and sleeping in the rain. (This was yet another day Bob didn't ride his bike. In this rain, it didn't surprise me.)

When the rain slowed to a momentary stop about 1600 hrs I took immediate advantage of the break and put my tent up. I needed the 6" iron spikes I occasionally used to peg my tent into this rocky ground. Albert, too, was in by this time and took advantage of the rain's stoppage. Only Ray, Albert and I ever did pitch our tents that night. When Marny arrived and learned about Ralph's dry and warm trailer she quickly disappeared. Eventually seven or eight people were sitting around his table enjoying the warmth and his coffee. Ralph then offered sleeping space for the men on the living room floor and showed the women some floor space in a nearby trailer. Randy and Patti couldn't resist the thought of a warm, dry motel room and they rode to it, joining Bob who had already booked in. (Randy and Patti rode back to our location for supper and breakfast; Bob scrounged food at the motel.)

Late in the day's ride Ken's chain broke, very similar to the way Annette's came apart when leaving Thunder Bay. Ken spliced it on the road by removing one link then limped in with a greatly reduced gear selection. He then prolonged his own misery by mistakenly turning too early at the second gold mine's entrance road.

Ray was getting desperate for a town with a bike shop. His rear wheel was getting more and more out of true and wobbling badly. Ralph, a "gold mine" of information, (sorry, couldn't resist) told us there was an excellent bike shop in Sault Ste Marie. The Soo was much too far away to reach that night, but there was also one in Marathon, only about 30 km away. So Jeff drove Ray and Ken into Marathon. The mechanic there doubted Ray's wheel would have made it to the Soo before it "tacoed" on him. Relacing the wheel with new spokes put it back into true and soon it was once again serviceable. Ken bought a new chain.

Supper was pretty ragged, with everyone eating at different times, but by 1900 hrs all had eaten and the dishes cleaned up. Then the two university students ferried us to the mine, initially for showers then again for our guided tour. The elaborate shower facilities on the men's side were most impressive, and better than "acceptable" on the women's side I heard. We men showered in the huge facilities designed to cope with a full shift coming up from underground. There were at least 50 shower-heads, with tremendously copious output. As hot as ever desired. We just stood there, luxuriating in the warmth. Adjoining the shower room was the "drying room" where I estimated 200 pairs of overalls were hanging to dry in preparation for the following shifts. To overstate the obvious, that area was very hot and dry. It seemed cruel to be going back out to a wet, cold, rainy evening.

The tour guides were geology students. Their families lived in the area and both of their fathers worked in the mine, a prerequisite for students seeking summer employment with the company. They walked and talked us through the big plant, pointing out all the steps the ore takes: coming up from underground, getting pulverized, and being treated with various chemicals to separate the gold. Finally we saw the pouring vat and ingot moulds. No pouring scheduled for that night, unfortunately for us. It was well after 2100 hrs by the time the tour ended, with the guides pointing out photos of their fathers on the big display board. We apologized to the young women for keeping them working so late. They laughed, said they were being paid overtime and didn't mind a bit. Again it was impressive how well the mining company was treating us.

With the continuing rain drumming on my tent I fell asleep, mindful that this truly unique day would be one of the trips lasting memories.


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