Everything Is Changing
It took me almost 12 days to cross the roughly 1,500 kilometres of Ontario. Now I’m into my fourth day in Quebec, about 60 kilometres east of Quebec City.
Everything has been changing.
At campgrounds west or Ontario, I met a couple from Vancouver who were returning home after dropping their daughter off at Queen’s University. There were tears.
I met another couple from Winnipeg who were on their way to drop their son off at the University of Alberta. There will be tears.
As the end of August approached, U-Haul vans and trailers began appearing everywhere, along with pickup trucks piled high with the accumulated possessions of university-bound children..
The days are shockingly shorter than when I started this journey. Mornings are increasingly dark, foggy and cold, which affects how early I can get on the road. And darkness now determines when I have to get off it.
Tonight, it was dark before 7:30.
That doesn’t leave much time to pitch a tent, shower, make dinner, clean up and settle in for the night—let alone write anything coherent about it.
I never intended to be on this journey this late in the season.
The weather is becoming more unpredictable. The mornings are colder. And increasingly, the winds are coming from the north.
So much has changed.
And so much continues to change.
From Wilderness to Civilization
The boreal forests and vast, secluded expanses of Northern Ontario have gradually given way to farmland, towns and cities.
There’s less need now to plan around long, lonely stretches of road. Gas stations, grocery stores and convenience stores have returned to my life.
Civilization!
From just west of Mattawa in Northern Ontario all the way to Rigaud, Quebec, I rode hundreds of kilometres on converted rail trails—mostly flat, often following the Ottawa River.
They carried me through forests, marshes and fields, across rivers and around lakes.
And best of all:
No cars.
Near Ottawa, excellent cycling infrastructure carried me safely through the city and eventually onto the Prescott-Russell Recreational Trail.
After thousands of kilometres of highways, shoulders, transport trucks and the occasional white-knuckled encounter with traffic, there’s something almost decadent about a bike trail.
Day 44 — A Perfect Day on a Bike
Today is Day 44.
The day started somewhat miserably in Portneuf, west of Quebec City.
It was 7°C when I climbed onto the bike, cold enough that my breath hung in the air like little clouds announcing: Fall is coming.
Fortunately, the temperature climbed quickly.
And unlike the previous day—when I spent hours battling 20 km/h winds from the northeast—the wind had swung around to the northwest.
A tailwind!
One of cycling’s greatest miracles.
Suddenly the bike felt lighter, my legs felt stronger, and I began entertaining the completely irrational idea that perhaps I had become a much better cyclist overnight.
I followed the Route Verte, much of it along Highway 138, with mostly wide paved shoulders. I passed through beautiful towns with wonderful views of the St. Lawrence River.
It was simply a marvellous day to be on a bike.
Approaching Quebec City, I joined the bike path along the river. It was filled with walkers, joggers and cyclists, all seemingly determined to squeeze everything they could out of this perfect late-summer day.
People were even swimming in the St. Lawrence.
In September.
Canadians.
I crossed the river by ferry and continued east along Highway 132 toward Montmagny.
Just a few weeks ago, I was riding kilometre after kilometre through wilderness.
Now there are roadside stands everywhere, selling sweet corn, raspberries, blueberries and apples.
The landscape is changing.
The season is changing.
And I think the journey is changing, too.
Coming Home — But Not Staying
One of the strangest moments came on Day 39, when I rolled into the driveway of our home in Ottawa.
Home.
After weeks of sleeping in a tent, eating beside my bicycle, wondering where the next source of water might be and calculating every day around wind, weather and distance, I was suddenly standing in my own driveway.
But I couldn’t stay long.
I’ve heard enough about what may await me farther east—and especially on the road toward St. John’s—to know that I need to keep moving.
Winter is coming.
And it has started sending me warning letters.
Ottawa also felt like another kind of dividing line.
Somewhere around there, my Western Adventure ended.
I stepped on the weight scales at home.
Imagine 25 x 1 lb bricks of butter piled on a table…that is the equivalent of how much fat I left in Western Canada. My apologies to my western friends!
Now I’m on my Eastern Adventure.
And something else has changed.
I feel that much of what I set out to prove has already been proven.
I can do this.
That realization brought back a quote I remember from my university days:
“What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson
There are still thousands of kilometres ahead.
But perhaps the biggest distance I needed to cross was never on the map.
Milestones
● Entered my sixth province
● Entered my third time zone
● Passed the halfway point
And then there was the biggest surprise of the entire journey.
The Last Person I Expected to See
One of the most isolated stretches of my entire trip was the road through Northern Ontario between Longlac and Hearst.
It’s roughly 230 kilometres with virtually nothing.
No gas stations.
No stores.
No potable water.
No cellular service.
You carry what you need.
I carried enough food and water to get me through and brought a water filter so I could refill from rivers along the way—which I did.
I divided the ride into two days.
The first was about 125 kilometres, after which I found a suitable place in the forest to pitch my tent.
That night, under the stars in the vastness of the Northern Ontario wilderness, I could hardly have felt more alone.
The next morning, I performed what had become my standard wild-camping ritual: checking whether the food bag I had hung high in a tree the night before was still there—or whether a bear had enjoyed a much better breakfast than I had.
The bag was still hanging.
Always a beautiful sight.
I broke camp and continued toward Hearst.
Around lunchtime, I spotted a gated entrance to a private commercial property just off the highway. It gave me a convenient place to lean my bike, sit down and eat.
I had barely stopped when a vehicle travelling along the highway slowed down.
Then it stopped.
I hadn’t spoken to another human being in a day and a half.
I looked toward the vehicle.
And I couldn’t quite comprehend what I was seeing.
Because the last person in the world I expected to see was also the best person in the world I could have hoped to see.
Deanna.
She had secretly cooked up a plan with the rest of the family.
And there she was.
In the middle of nowhere.
Somewhere between Longlac and Hearst.
Close to the halfway point of my ride across Canada.
After weeks of cycling alone, I had suddenly found my wife standing beside a lonely highway in Northern Ontario.
Surprise!
Her arrival has changed this journey profoundly—and wonderfully.
So much so that it deserves a story of its own.
And I’ll tell that one next…or maybe later
My sister, Dianne, passed away on May 20th 2026, succumbing to Ovarian Cancer. It’s often referred to as the Silent Killer because, as in my sister’s case, the symptoms can easily be mistaken for other conditions, leading to delays in detection and treatment until it is too late. Please donate to help in research to end this dreadful disease, by clicking here.
A few words about this remarkable person can be found here.