My Trans-Canada Bike Adventure — Wild Camping on the Ride for Di

Yes, I Wild Camped. Will I Ever Do It Again?

When I first came across the expression “wild camping” while preparing for the Journey of My Life, I had an image—as you might—of a truly wild camping experience.

You know: butt naked except for maybe a loincloth, carrying a spear you made yourself from a branch. You’d kill whatever you needed for dinner—a squirrel, a rabbit, maybe a bear—and cook it over a fire you started by rubbing two sticks together.

As it turns out, wild camping in the bike-touring world is not quite that wild.

Mind you, it’s still considerably wilder than the camping I’m used to.

Over the years, our family camping trips have evolved into major social events. And since they are mainly social, responsibility for them lies almost entirely in the capable hands of Deanna, Minister of Domestic Affairs and All Things Social.

In these areas of responsibility, I operate strictly on a need-to-know basis.

Deanna is also part German, and she possesses many of the endearing traits—rightly or wrongly—attributed to that heritage: precision, attention to detail, and discipline.

Camping for her is a finely tuned operation. Everyone has assigned tasks. Meals are planned and responsibilities shared. And, as if by magic, somehow four or five of the best adjoining campsites have been secured for family and close friends.

Rustic?

Well, if my sister Cathie comes along, we have espressos or lattes in the morning. If she doesn’t, we go really wild and drink percolated coffee—which Deanna and our son-in-law, Drew, have perfected.

Our meals would rival what you’d expect in a fine restaurant, just without the fancy plates and cutlery.

At night, marshmallows are toasted, s’mores are devoured, Drew plays guitar, people sing along, and stories are told around the campfire.

The only suggestion for improvement I heard this year came from one of the grandchildren, who asked that Grandpa’s campfire story not be quite so scary next time.

And our gear?

Light, minimalist and practical?

Not exactly.

We have a tent large enough to host a small cocktail party, an inflatable mattress so thick and high off the ground you almost need a ladder to mount it, huge memory-foam pillows, and some very nice linens to complement the sleeping bags.

Wild camping on a bicycle is not like that.

Everything Has to Fit on the Bike

On a bike, if you can’t carry it, you don’t take it. And generally, the fewer things you carry—and the lighter they are—the better.

I bought a specialized bikepacking tent—the one I mentioned earlier that feels like sleeping in a toppled-over phone booth—and a much smaller sleeping bag. Normal camping equipment is simply too bulky.

There is still a surprising amount of gear to carry. I have roughly 100 items, counting the bike, bags, tools, clothing and camping equipment. Thanks to all the experienced cyclists who post their gear lists online, I also brought along a number of things I never imagined I’d actually use.

But I’ve used pretty much everything.

Take needle-nose pliers.

I thought, Why on earth am I carrying these? I’ve never needed pliers on a bike ride in my life.

On this trip, I’ve used them probably a dozen times.

Once, on a long, secluded stretch of road, a tiny piece of wire penetrated my tire. Without those pliers, I couldn’t have removed it. And without removing it, I couldn’t have installed a new tube without immediately puncturing that one too.

We can argue about tubeless tires another time.

And then there’s the ultralight plastic trowel.

TMI Warning

Part of the wild-camping code is to Leave No Trace.

This presents certain challenges when it comes to one’s daily constitution.

The accepted solution is to carry an ultralight plastic trowel so that, when nature calls:

● You dig a hole of a prescribed depth, width and so forth—which seems to vary depending on the author, presumably according to the author’s perhaps boastful personal production volume.

● In places such as British Columbia or the Canadian Shield, where digging into the ground can be nearly impossible, you cover everything thoroughly with rocks.

This amuses me to no end.

At my age, I am literally stooping to new lows.

And yet there is something weirdly satisfying about the whole procedure. Perhaps there’s a little feline DNA in me, giving me some primitive gratification from figuratively kicking kitty litter over my “gifts.”

The understanding is: that no one else should see or smell what you’ve done!

Picking the Right Place

Finding a good wild-camping site isn’t easy, particularly for a newbie like me.

There seem to be three basic approaches.

1. The organized approach.
 Use an app such as iOverlander to find places where other wild campers have stayed legally, including Crown land. The locations can be approximate, though, and so far I haven’t had much success with it.

But I remain determined.

2. The calculated approach.
 Set a minimum and maximum distance you want to ride that day, then look for the best possible camping spot somewhere between the two.

My results using this method have been decidedly hit-and-miss.

3. The emergency approach.
 The weather becomes absolutely horrible, you’re completely exhausted, darkness is coming—or, to use the more precise technical term, you’re fucked.

Three of my six wild-camping experiences have fallen into Category Three.

Not recommended.

I’m not particularly proud of one of them, shown in the photo.

I had been turned away from a campground packed with long-weekend crowds. No hotel rooms were available. So I kept riding and searching…and searching…and searching.

Eventually, I found a tiny elevated square of ground, barely large enough for my tent.

Nearby, a glacial river thundered down the mountainside. Trains roared past through the night, their whistles screaming and their wheels squealing and grinding as they rounded the mountain curves.

And somehow, I had one of the best sleeps of the entire trip.

Exhaustion is apparently an excellent soundproofing system.

Darkness, Northern Lights and Being Completely Alone

I’ve slept deep in the woods on a cloudy night where it was so dark that the mysterious noises outside the tent were almost reassuring.

At least they reminded me that I was still of this world.

Another night, I camped in an open area. Sometime during the night, I reluctantly crawled out of my warm sleeping bag to pee—and found myself standing beneath the Northern Lights.

They danced and shimmered across the sky, mesmerizing enough that I forgot about the cold and just stood there watching.

There are some things you simply can’t plan.

Note to self: Don’t camp in an open area on a clear night. The condensation can make it seem as though it rained all night.

Four of my wild-camping experiences—including the last two nights—have also been in places with absolutely no cellular service.

No calls. No texts. No contact with family or friends.

Just me, my little toppled-over phone booth, the darkness and whatever is making that noise outside.

Final Thoughts on Wild Camping

I’ve had some extraordinary moments wild camping on this trip.

But when this ride is over, I’ll probably never do it again.

But as I ride hour after hour, memories surface.

Sometimes it’s something shitty I’ve done in my life, intentionally or otherwise.

Sometimes it’s something shitty someone has done to me.

And sometimes it’s something shitty that worked its way into my personality during those long, tough “Earning” years of life.

For each one, I’ve figuratively dug a hole of the prescribed depth and width, or I’ve covered it completely with rocks.

No one needs to see—or smell—the mess