My Trans-Canada Bike Adventure

Days 3–6: Ride for Di

On Day 3, after a full day and a half of riding through relentless rain, both my gear and my spirit were soaked and heavy. The weather forecast wasn’t promising.

But it wasn’t the rain that worried me.

I could see the monsters—the mountains—for far too early and far too long. They loomed behind the clouds of doubt: “Will I conquer the mountains…or will they conquer me?”

If you had told me then on Day 3 that, just a few days later, on July 29, I’d be rolling into Salmon Arm, I wouldn’t have believed you.

“Did I conquer the mountains?” I would have asked.

You’d have tell me: “Let’s just say it’s been one hell of an ugly fight—and one that’s far from over.”

I’ll save that story for a future blog.

But back to Day 3.

Even as the monsters grew larger, British Columbia reminded me why I’d fallen in love with this province when I lived here more than forty years ago. I hadn’t seen these landscapes since 1985: orchards, vegetable farms, mixed crops, roadside fruit stands, garden centres, and endless fields painted in shades of green and gold.

Then came my first real mountain climb.

I won.

Barely.

More on that later.

Hope

Or was it?

Hope, British Columbia.

This journey is about hope—hope for a cure, hope for change. I had been looking forward to arriving here.

Instead of welcome signs, though, I was greeted by road closure signs because of the massive wildfires ahead.

I’d been following the updates closely. My preferred route—Option A—had briefly reopened before closing again. Option B was also shut down.

If you’d told me that day that I’d be in Salmon Arm on July 29, I definitely wouldn’t have believed you.

Fortunately, the wonderful people at the Hope Visitor Information Centre, along with several local residents, helped me piece together an alternate route. It would prove to be longer, noisier, and hillier—but free from smoke and wildfire.

Nothing brings home the reality of these fires more than talking to the people living through them. They spoke about lost tourism, businesses struggling, and the growing perception that the area is no longer a safe destination. My heart goes out to those who have lost their homes and everything they owned.

Later, I cycled through an area that had recently burned. Where a forest should have stood was a vast landscape of blackened tree trunks and ash.

It was sobering.

This journey is reminding me that I need to become more involved in the fight against climate change.

That evening, I rode until my legs could carry me no farther and there was just enough daylight left to safely pitch my tent on Crown land. I hung my food bag high in a tree—high enough that a bear couldn’t reach it, and, more importantly, far enough away that it wouldn’t come looking for food inside my tent.

Day 4 – On the road to Merritt

If you’d told me on Day 4 that I’d be in Salmon Arm on July 29, I still wouldn’t have believed you.

I was grinding up what felt like my hundredth climb toward Merritt, barely able to turn the pedals and struggling to keep my fully loaded bike upright at 7 km/h, when I spotted the sign:

“Merritt 13 km”

“Fuck, that will take me two more hours at that speed! I can’t do it!”

How nice to quickly recall that Merritt sits deep in the valley.

The remaining 13 kilometres were all downhill.

And steep enough that I hit 70 km/h on my thoroughly non-aerodynamic touring tank.

Without question, it was the best part of the day.

Day 5: The Road to Kamloops

If you’d told me on Day 5 that I’d make it to Kamloops, I would have answered,

“Of course!”

What a world-class day of cycling.

Flat roads. Nicola Lake stretching beside me. A welcome tailwind. Just enough rolling hills to keep things interesting. Kilometre after kilometre of spectacular scenery, with light traffic and endless views.

I would recommend this ride to anyone.

What a contrast from only two days earlier.

Then: rain, lush green forests, and cool temperatures.

Now: drought, blazing sunshine, and temperatures climbing into the high 30s Celsius.

There was one exception.

The route took me onto a long gravel section. Under normal circumstances, it might have been fantastic riding, taking cyclists into landscapes you’d never experience from a car. But with 110 pounds of bike and gear, it became a nightmare.

The road was covered in washboard gravel, crossed by about twenty cattle guards (which may scare cows, but they certainly scared me!), before narrowing into what was only slightly better than a cow path.

Progress was painfully slow.

I worried constantly that a rack would crack or that something else would break under the pounding. There was no cell service, no traffic, and no one around.

If something failed out there, it would have been a very long walk.

Somewhere along that stretch, the expensive sunglasses my son had given me—and my left cycling sandal—were shaken loose from my panniers.

Who was going to go back and find them?

These days I’m sporting $9.99 Canadian Tire sunglasses and an equally inexpensive pair of flip-flops.

Day 6: Kamloops

I’m here.

Roughly 600 kilometres into the journey.

About 7.7% complete.

Another incredible day on the bike.

I saw a large deer, a bald eagle, countless goats, horses, cows, and chickens, enjoyed some magnificent riding, and endured several more long, painful climbs.

I’ll tell you about those in another post.

The temperature reached 36°C, and I was constantly running low on water during the long, isolated stretches between communities.

There was another lengthy gravel section, although thankfully this one was much better maintained.

If you’d asked me on Day 6 whether I thought I’d make it all the way across Canada, I would have said that it was looking far more promising than it had just a few days earlier.

But there are still many mountains to climb…

…and, no doubt, many surprises waiting around the next bend.

As I ride, I often think back to Dianne’s words of encouragement.