Sleeping in the Rain

Every half hour there was a loud, long humming noise. It sounded like a distant prop plane or a vibrating sander. It would switch on suddenly, moan along for about a minute, and then switch off completely. Other than the noise of the light rain falling, whose volume was amplified against my tent, there was no other noise. It was completely black but my eyes were open. I leave my eyes open even when I'm trying to fall asleep. I turned in my sleeping bag like a chicken on a rotisserie, exposing my left shoulder and hip to the ground, to the fire that would within a few minutes cook that half of my body to a level of discomfort that would require me to rotate onto my stomach, and then my right side, and finally over onto my back again, leaving me evenly cooked all around and ready to begin another turn.

The humming noise sounded again. It was made by trucks crossing the long bridge that stretched over the pale milk chocolate river a quarter mile away. That much I knew. What I didn't know was that the surface of this bridge was made of a large steel grid. I didn't know that it would be so cold in the morning that it would still be raining and that the steel squares of the bridge would be slicker than ice under my tires.

So the following morning I rode towards it at a confident speed, naive to my impending misfortune. When I hit the bridge, the heavy back end of my bike drifted out sideways like a dirt track motorcycle racer would do to drift around a turn. The front wheel shifted quickly one square to the left and then shot back in line. My stomach cinched up and I knew I was going down. I tried to unclip my right foot from the pedal to help catch my fall, but before I did the back tire suddenly shot back into alignment as though pushed by an opposing force. Shaken and moving more slowly, I tentatively pedaled on. A second later, the rear tire drifted suddenly out to the right and once again I really felt that I couldn't save it, but just before I completely lost control, the bike corrected again. I tried shifting my weight forward and back, I tried going faster or slower, but I couldn't understand the physics of the thing. The bike just kept drifting wildly and unnervingly to the side before suddenly correcting again. The whole trip I don't think I have had such an arm and ab workout as I did then trying to stay balanced while drifting across the bridge. I was almost across, the last fifty feet, when the rear tire started drifting sideways again. Hold onto it, I told myself. It will correct in a minute, the back end of the bike hung in balance for a moment as the rear tire spun slowly at a diagonal. Just as I thought I had it, the back tire shot out suddenly, the bike careened around sideways, and I fell flat down on my side before I even realized what happened. I stuck out my hand to catch my fall and it slapped hard against the ice cold steel bridge as my bike landed on top of me, my feet still clipped to the pedals.

I’m alright, I realized as I picked myself up. Well except for my hand, but I don't think it's broken... I hoisted the bike upright and walked the remaining distance to solid ground. I looked back at the bridge which now seemed a forbidding dark tangle of wet steel in the cold grey morning light. It was my first fall, my only fall so far, and while I did have the cold shivers of adrenaline shaking through my hand, I felt lucky. If there had been a truck behind me...

The road I was on is called the Alaska Highway. It is perhaps incorrectly named given that the majority of the road runs through Canada, but the Alaska Highway it remains. There is a point where the Alaska Highway dips briefly into British Columbia before crawling back into the Yukon Territory. You can easily see this by looking on a map of the area, and my goal for the day was to get through the portion in British Colombia and back into the Yukon. I didn't make it.

It turned out to be much farther than it looked on the map and I ran out of energy that day. Tired, and having already ridden farther than I planned, I pulled over to camp in the grass along side of the road.

The grass was deep and heavy with water from the incessant drizzle. Small black spiders and ants hid from the rain on the underside of the blades. I pushed my bike away from the road and flipped out the kickstand with a twang. The bike would not stand up; the kickstand just sank straight into the muddy ground beneath the grass. Finally I managed to keep it upright, jamming the kickstand against a small rock, black and slick with mud. I began feeling around for a flat spot, using my feet to feel the undulations of earth concealed by the grass. Nowhere was really flat, but I finally found a place that was close enough and where the water wouldn't pool.

Seen from a passing car or truck, or out of the window of a warm house, a tent seems impossibly small, pathetically uncomfortable, sad and alone in the rain. But on the inside, with much fussing and organizing and drying off and cleaning up, it is possible to be fairly comfortable in most situations. This was one of my worst campsites, in the deep, wet, awkward band of grass dividing the highway from the forest, close enough that a passing semi was loud enough to wake you, without water or a shower or a place to get food. But even still, I managed to change into dry clothes, tuck my wet, clammy feet into good wool socks (the socks from Jesse’s friend), eat a decent meal, read my book, and even listen to music while doing it.

The following morning it was still raining. Even a light drizzle sounds loud as it pops against the top of the tent, making it easy to think the rain is much heavier than it actually is. I always took some pleasure in making breakfast, leaning out of my sleeping bag and warming water for oatmeal and tea. But it was raining and I didn't want to cook out in the rain. I decided to try and use my stove inside the vestibule of my tent.

My camping stove runs on gasoline, an ill suited fuel for the purpose, but one that was very practical for me since I could refill it nearly anywhere. I took out my stove and fuel canister from their little black canvas bags and flipped out the little aluminum feet of the stove. Using the pump built into the top of the fuel can, I counted to twenty as I pressurized the bottle. I inserted the braided steel fuel line into the nozzle on the canister, locked it in place and opened the pressure to the fuel line. Now for the tricky part. The stove will not burn properly until it warms up. To do this you are supposed to bleed a tablespoon of gasoline onto the wick and let it burn a big smoky fireball for several minutes. This can sometimes be dramatic and a little unnerving. More than once I had found myself scrambling to move pieces of paper, plastic and articles of clothing away from a larger than expected fireball after accidentally letting out too much gas.

I mashed down a section of grass beneath my rainfly and balanced my stove on its aluminum base. I pulled my lighter from inside my shirt where I had been warming it in order to be ready to ignite the fuel. I flicked open the collapsible flame adjuster and gently twisted it open. A small amount of gasoline sputtered and bubbled in the center of the jet. I quickly shut off the fuel supply, snapped open my lighter, and held it to the little puddle of fuel.

It didn't take for several seconds, but then I whipped my hand away as it suddenly exploded into a bright orange fireball with thick black smoke. Instantly the inside of the tent was warm. The heat seemed to soften the wet fabric of the tent, which started to sag down closer to the flame. I reached around the flame to press the canvas away from the fire and with my other hand unzipped the door of the rainfly partway to let some of the smoke and heat out. Small droplets of cold rain snuck through the crack and landed on my pillow, disappearing instantly into its black fabric. After a moment the flame died down until it was barely visible, like the flame of a candle. Gently I eased open the fuel line just enough to let a small amount of gas through.

The stove had not yet warmed up properly so the gas that now seeped through the nozzle was part vapor and part liquid. This caused the stove to spew a rapid series of fire balls with a loud puff puff puff puff! A moment later the explosions diminished and the flame began to burn a hot blue.

I pulled apart my cooking pots, filled one with water, and placed it on the stove. The flame sputtered again as I cranked it up to full power and felt around the stove with my hand to see how much heat it was emitting at its edges. It seemed ok, barely.

I closed the flap a little bit to stop the rain from coming in, scooted around, and grabbed my bags of food. The bags were long cylinders, simple and light. As this was the case, I often had to pull everything out of them in order to get what I actually wanted. A minute later, my sleeping bag was lined with food: the beef jerky from Deadhorse, vitamins, rice meal, several powdered supplements, a handful of snickers bars, a bag of sugar, salt and pepper, dried apricots, canned cashews, trail mix, peanut butter and jelly, two oranges and an apple, crackers, pasta, chili, powdered milk, honey, tea, and finally, my oatmeal.

I poured several bags of the oatmeal into my silicone bowl and added in powdered vitamins, honey, and a spoonful of powdered milk.

The little stove sounds like a miniature rocket when it gets warmed up, so much so that I actually checked to see if it generated any thrust the first couple times I used it.

I took the cap off of the pot and a cloud of steam mushroomed out of it. I added the boiling water to my oatmeal concoction and threw some tea into what remained in the pot.

The rain continued lightly and loudly. I unzipped the door a little further, struck by a sudden fear that I had forgotten to zip up the bag on my handle bars. I peeked through the crack and saw the bike a few feet away, sad and wet, but perfectly in order.

Breakfast was too nice. It made too perfect an excuse to linger in the tent and avoid the work, avoid the cold, and avoid the rain. But ultimately, somehow, I put myself in motion gathering up all my food and cooking gear, dumping the small amount of water remaining in the pot into the grass, and organizing all the rest of my stuff into piles.

Crawling to the side, I rolled up my sleeping pad and stuffed the sleeping bag into its case. Now the dreaded part: I pulled off my warm pajamas and slid into my still wet cycling clothes. My socks were still drenched as were my shoes which bubbled water as I squeezed into them. I pulled on my rain jacket and my wide brimmed hat and hoisted myself awkwardly out of the tent.

Rain is not ideal, but it is actually not so miserable to bike in, provided it’s not too cold and that you accept that you're just going to get wet. The worst part of rain is actually the setting up and tearing down of a campsite because all of your stuff gets wet in the process. I had laid awake the night before thinking of a way to avoid this. I quickly and carefully removed all the gear from inside the tent, tucking it inside 'waterproof' inserts inside my panniers and then covering the panniers with external 'waterproof' covers. This was the only way that I was able to keep my gear mostly dry. I then turned my attention to how to get the tent and rainfly packed up without getting the entire tent wet. I first went around and pulled out all the tent stakes that were holding the fly and gathered them up in one muddy little pile.

The cover now adhered in its wetness to the tent underneath. Reaching under the rainfly I unclipped the tent poles and popped them out from the four corners of the tent. There was now a deflated pile of wet nylon at my feet with tent poles sticking out at either end. I disassembled the poles so that they would slide out smoothly and pulled them out from the other end. After folding them up and stuffing them away, I yanked the tent out from beneath the cover and crumpled it into my pannier and followed it with the sopping wet rainfly.

Ready to go. At least so I thought. To do it properly I still had to brush my teeth and put on sunscreen and dig my gloves back out and clean my glasses and then I could go. I thought about it for a minute and then decided not to do any of those things, but pushed my bike carefully through the grass, up the little embankment, and back onto the road.

Stikine

The continental divide runs along the peaks of the Rocky Mountains and delineates the point at which streams flow either west to the pacific or east to the Hudson Bay and the Arctic Ocean. On my map I could see a faint dotted line marking the division. I began to think to myself that if I was about to cross anything as impressive sounding as 'The Continental Divide' then I must have not only climbed far higher than I realized, but I must also have a terrific descent waiting for me on the other side.

My map had marked on it a place called Swift River which was just barely back in the Yukon Territory. I arrived there soon, hoping to supplement my breakfast with some coffee and to use a restroom. Swift River turned out to be just two buildings joined together by a string of junk: old boards, bikes, tarps, several cars, and even an old school bus. Out in front were several ancient looking fuel pumps. Inside sat two men who looked as soft and rotten as the junk that sat out in the rain. The building was an old wooden house of poor construction. It was dark inside and the building seemed to sag under piles of old clothes and souvenirs collecting slowly in the corners. The floor echoed under my cleated shoes. By the kitchen in the back a sign had been hung that read, ‘Don't bother the help, they’re harder to find than customers.' A joke, sure, but a true statement, no doubt. I asked for coffee and the fatter man, who seemed more a part of his ancient chair than his own person, gestured with his finger to the man with bad teeth, who, with a severe limp, made his way back into the kitchen to fetch my coffee.

I answered the questions, where I was from and where I was going and yeah I had come across some bears and no I wasn't going to bike home when I got to Argentina. I paid the man for twenty cents of gasoline and went outside to fill my camping stove. I took several photos of the pumps and the junk, and set off again.

Up and over the continental divide and down the far side. On the map I could see the road run right down out of the mountains and into flat terrain before Watson Lake. Hours later, I reached the flatlands.

Well that's not true. I reached that point on my map where the subtle bumps of shading that represented mountains ends. In reality the terrain was steep and repetitive. Empty forests draped over hills large enough to make me very frustrated by the time I reached their peaks.

The junction for the Cassiar Highway drops south out of the Alaska Highway a solid twenty miles before Watson Lake. I decided that I carried with me enough food to just dive right into the wild Cassiar and avoid altogether the forty miles back and forth from Watson Lake.

Restaurants, convenience stores, and gas stations can, with a good level of reliability, be expected at any point where two red lines on the map meet, that is to say at a junction of two major roads (major being a relative term). Reaching the Cassiar, I saw with relief that the rule held true.

It was a nice building, made of large varnished wooden logs, and was arranged in such a way as to be accommodating. There was RV parking in the back and there were showers and a restaurant. Expensive as it was to camp there, I stepped into the gift shop to pay. The proximity to a good breakfast would make camping there entirely worth it.

As I approached the counter, the only other customer in the store, a man of about forty-five with a baseball cap and an ill kept moustache cut sideways in front of me. He had several white t-shirts draped over his arm, all bearing, in quivering blue letters dressed in ice, the phrase, 'I Survived the Alaska Highway.' The man paid for his shirts, and returned to his motor home.

The restaurant was good! The first place I had been that really seemed to be aware of the fact that food ought to have flavor, and put any effort at all into making it so.

'It's good!' I told the server who was also the owner. 'It's the first good food I've had in a long time! A lot of the places, well...I don't know, I feel like a lot of the places I've been don't really, they just don't-'

'I know,' the woman said seriously, and judging from her expression, not only did she know, but she considered the very idea of those other places frightening.

Cycle touring requires a comfort, or an acceptance of the unknown. I was at the head of a vastly remote and wild stretch of highway in northern Canada and knew very little more than that. Some people are able to frantically and fastidiously plan and research every detail, but I find that this limits one’s ability to respond and adapt to new situations. And on a trip of the scale I am doing it is simply impractical. I had only a rough idea of how long the road was and how long it would take me to get through it. I didn't know how much was paved or how cold it would get or how often there were other people or anything like that. I was uncertain about things as essential as food and water. The best information I could get on such topics was by asking locals, but the most they can tell you is, 'yeah, there are some stops. I think there's a grocery in Dease Lake.' Hardly conducive to a relaxed frame of mind, or to a detailed plan. As for water, my electronic water purifier had always been fussy and had finally died my last day in Alaska. I didn't know if there were at all frequent towns where I'd be able to refill, or even creeks whose water I'd have to boil. And then I would need fuel for my stove to boil the water and I had no idea how often there'd be gas.

Nevertheless, the following morning, after a good breakfast and real coffee, I turned right off of the Alaska Highway and simply began doing the work, began making progress, understanding that it didn't matter whether or not I knew all the details, but that with endless patience and effort I would emerge on the far side.

Superstition

I was heading to Watson Lake. Watson Lake is a relatively large town in the Yukon, and before you begin to develop any idealistic notions about a quaint little village set into the beautiful forests of the far north, you should know that Watson Lake is not most famous for its scenery, but rather for its 'signpost forest.'

I never did make it there to see this undoubtedly stunning wonder, but I know it consists of hundreds of road signs from all over the world that have been tacked up to wooden posts in an area creating a 'forest.' While the glory and charm of this forest are heavily touted on every tourist brochure in every cafe along the highway, I heard it described as 'not very impressive' by another cyclist, and so do not regret never having seen it. Nevertheless Watson Lake was my target, my mental destination. Cities like that meant a day off, a grocery store, and laundry. At least that's the frame I mind I was in at that point on my trip.

The day after leaving David behind by the lake was difficult. It was one of those days that was bland and unscenic. The trees seemed shrubby once again, like they had been further north. I watched much too closely as the kilometers clicked by and constantly felt like stopping. You’re tired. Make lunch, pull over and camp here. Take a day off. At least take a break. To this, some other part of me would simply respond, you're not tired, you're just looking for an out. And it was true, in part. I was actually tired, but I was mainly just looking for an out. At that point in my trip I was still stopping frequently, even if only for a minute or two. Every hour or so I would congratulate and encourage myself and take a couple bites of food. If anything, this at least helped to break the monotony of an entire day on a bike.

I finally allowed myself a break at a small rest area. That was one thing that always cracked me up, all those rest areas. Why are there so many rest areas? Who is doing so much resting anyways? This particular pull out was equipped with an outhouse and several informational boards with faded drawings of birds and plants and brief descriptions explaining the landscape. I still couldn't sit still long enough to really read any of these signs. I walked around munching a Snickers bar -sorry William- and tried anyways…

'...hundreds of acres burn leaving behind an environment of blah blah...well suited for many types of new blah blah blah which you can see by the thousands in the spring.'

I moved on to the next sign which had a hand drawn raven.

'The raven is a highly intelligent bird which plays a role in local mythology and tribal superstitions. The raven is generally considered a bad omen or the representation of an evil spirit.' My interest started to fade. 'Feathers are often used blah blah...' I finished munching my candy bar and got back on the bike.

In the distance a narrow black line quivered against the sky at the top of a low rise. I squinted, trying to determine what it was. It can't be another cyclist, it's too skinny... The line wiggled back and forth, oscillating like a mirage or a post blurred in heat rising off the ground. Slowly the specter solidified and within minutes I was face to face with it. It stared back at me. Its eyes were a brilliant reflective orange in which I could see myself and the mountains behind me. Its head was narrow and bulging and fluted on top, like a giant mushroom. Its arms and legs were skinny and black and it was smiling at me.

'Hello!' he said.

'Hi,' I answered, looking into his face which was tucked beneath a bike helmet that seemed somehow a little too puffy and behind a pair of brilliantly orange sunglasses that turned up at the edges making him look like some kind of insect. He wore long sleeve, black skin tight cycling clothes, and had absolutely no equipment on his bike which is why he looked so thin at a distance.

'Where're you going?' I asked him.

He smiled at me even more broadly, straddling his bike and standing partway in the highway.

'Well you see, I'm a Christian,' he said stretching his right arm out wide, touching his left fingertips to his chest and inclining his head slightly, almost as though the entire motion were a subdued but still theatrical bow, 'and I've been traveling on this here bike to spread the word of the good Lord Jesus Christ.'

He spoke with a Texan accent and had the energy and charisma of a fledgling television pastor. He was young, maybe in his late twenties.

'Oh, I'm a Christian too,' I said to him.

'Well the evidence of the Lord is all around us,' he said, sweeping his arm around at the mountains.

That's a rather silly argument, not that I'm gonna argue, I thought.

We exchanged information and wished one another well. It turned out that 'Jesse' had come up from Florida and was ultimately heading up to Deadhorse, after taking several months off in Alaska. I don’t know where he is now, but I don't think he could have actually done it before winter began in earnest, making the road impassable. Jesse was supported by a friend who drove a truck and pulled a trailer with his gear. I met the friend a few miles later.

I don't remember his name. It was a common name, but I had one of those moments where you hear a name and could not repeat it even a moment after hearing it. He was a big kid. I'm sure he played great football when he was in high school, and maybe even college. He had powerful hands and a big head. He was such a contrast to the light and slender frame of Jesse that I had trouble imagining them as friends.

He had actually driven past me catching up to Jesse, and then turned around and caught back up to me to give me a drink. He was too nice and it didn't seem natural coming from a guy with such a powerful build, although I do not doubt his sincerity. After giving me a soda he drove off, but turned around again and caught up with me fifteen minutes later, having found the pair of socks he couldn't find for me the first time he looked. I wish I could remember his name.

That evening it started to rain. A light, cold and dark rain that began just as I was pulling off the road to camp. I had reached Teslin, home of a grocery store. Well, that's what all the travelers said as it seems to be the only thing there worth anything to anyone. There was also a restaurant which had RV parking. I set up my tent in light rain down by the lake, had a shower, and crawled into bed.

When the rain cover is on the tent it is impossible to see out of. There are no windows and two doors have to be unzipped in order to get out. This leaves one feeling pretty vulnerable and blind. I lay there thinking about all the things that had happened recently, about being on my own again and how much I looked forward to getting south.

I was just beginning to drift off when suddenly a big black hand slapped down hard on top of my rain cover and began scratching against it furiously. My stomach cinched and my heart jumped in surprise as sharp black fingers began scraping frantically against the rain cover.

I stared for a moment and then reached up and punched the scrambling dark spot with the side of my fist. Instantly it disappeared, vanishing completely, making no noise at all. I laid my head back down and tried to slow my heart.

A raven, I thought, it was only a raven.