Stumbling Around the Rockies

A Little Wool-vangelism

2012-01-15T13:13:00.000-08:00

I devote a fair amount of time, effort and money... oh yes, the money... in my quest for the perfect clothing and gear for the things I do. And I like to keep things as simple as possible. For example, I have always said that if a garment requires more care than just a quick run through the washer and dryer, then it doesn’t get to live in my closet.

It was with great reluctance that I allowed some wool to come into my life. A few years ago when I was preparing to hike the West Coast Trail, someone recommended Merino wool. The West Coast Trail is a grueling, multi-day backpack requiring that you carry as little clothing with you as possible (and, of course, no opportunity to shower). Merino was recommended for its ability to take the abuse and keep on... not stinking. You gotta do what you gotta do.

One of my West Coast Trail garments - a green sweater - became an essential item for a lot of my hikes, and even for my cycle commute in to work. I love that sweater, and since I’d already taken the plunge with allowing wool, I accumulated a small amount of other pieces.

Then, this past fall, in a moment of mindlessness, I accidentally ran the green sweater through the wash on the warm cycle. It came out... uh... small-child size. GAH!!! It was at that exact moment that I realized just how important my green wool sweater had become to me. It was perfect! Right down to its top-to-bottom direction pocket zippers. And I ruined it!! I tried to stretch it back into shape, but it was beyond hope.

I have consistently had problems with other fabrics. All the fleece and polypro and other fancy fabrics that the outdoor stores flog for proper comfort in the outdoors did not do what they purported. I know a lot of people who swear by them, but I decided that I must have magical non-wicking sweat because I consistently became chilled during events (due to the layer of sweat being held against my body by my “wicking” clothing), and especially after events when I felt like I would never be warm again.

A couple months ago, I went out snow shoeing with a wool base layer, then one of my Helly Hanson Merino hoodies, the green sweater’s replacement (a lovely, but inferior in a couple of ways, orange 1970’s-reminiscent wool sweater), then my outer shell. Wool, wool, and wool. And, to my amazement, I stayed warm and dry throughout the event AND in the vehicle after the event! Wool, wool, and wool. Wool, wool, and wool became my mantra, and the only thing I would step into the outdoors with, particularly in winter.

I love finding a solution to a long-standing problem. Even if it does require special care, I guess. Thanks to Value Village and Goodwill, I’ve added a few more wool pieces to ensure that I’m never without. My other “perfect solution” to date is Lole Traveler’s Pants, which I wear nearly every day because I can travel (or commute in them on my bike) and they still look like great business pants!

As I write this, I’m looking at the green sweater... soaked and stretched over my stuffed backpack in a second attempt to bring it back to its original size. Wish it luck... I would sure love to wear it again! And I promise to be more careful washing it in future. It can live in my closet as long as it likes.

Leech Attack

2011-04-10T14:11:00.001-07:00

On our last day in Australia, Carleen and John (Brent’s sister and her partner) took us out on a hike in Ku-Ring-Gai National Park near their home in Hornsby (north of Sydney). It was a phenomenal, scenic, lush, beautiful hike and we had a wonderful time – it was the best send-off possible… well… maybe except for one small part.

After walking several kilometres, ooh-ing, and aahh-ing, and taking an annoying amount of photos, we began passing groups of hikers who all offered a brief warning – watch out for the leeches. Uh… hello… we’re in a forest, but, ok, thanks for the tip. I had been fascinated by the enormous ant hills all over Oz, and we reached a section of trail where the trees were thinner and it was more of a low (chest height), thick foliage. There were several of these ant skyscrapers, and it was our last day so I stopped to get a picture of them.

As I was bent down checking out the ant hills, I noticed a “twig” that was waving about sort of like it was searching for something. I realized that I was looking at a leech. Cool! We’d walked several kilometres without seeing one of these, and everyone seemed pretty excited about them, so I made sure to get a picture of him.

We kept walking, and soon, Carleen noticed that she had several of these guys crawling on her shoes and socks. Turned out Brent did, too. We stopped briefly and pulled a few leeches off and kept going. We could see them everywhere on the trail – sitting on the ground, waving about, searching for a shoe to attach to. For some reason – John speculated that it was the lighter coloured shoes, Carleen and Brent got more of them than he or I did.

That put a fairly quick end to picture-taking time and we decided to zoom through that section of trail. Every couple of minutes, Car or Brent would stop and do some leech removal, often requiring Brent’s help – these little guys can REALLY hang on. Once, when Car stopped, she dug around and discovered a leech had gotten into her sock and was firmly attached to her ankle. She commenced with the shrieking and dancing around that one does when they discover a leech inside their sock firmly attached to her ankle and yelled something that sounded like “Brent!Brent!Brent!Help!”. Brent ran over and performed a leech extraction, but since it had been completely attached on her, her ankle bled out for about a half hour after that.

We really kicked it into high gear after that – zooming down the trail, but compelled to stop occasionally to make sure we didn’t have any hangers-on that were getting dangerously close to pay-dirt.

Finally we reached a more open and dry section of trail (an old road) where we could stop and finish the leech removal. Seriously, these guys can REALLY hang on. You had to grab them, practically squishing them to get a grip, and tug like crazy. They seemed to have the ability to hang on with both ends, so sometimes you’d pull the end off that was stuck to your shoe or sock and the other end would swing around and grab on to you.

Because they could grab with both ends, they moved kind of like inch worms, crawling up… up… up… your shoe, sometimes stopping to try and attach to your sock, and sometimes getting more ambitious and finding their way inside the shoe (or in the case of Car’s “favourite”, inside a sock).

I had a lot of them on my shoes and some on my socks. Some of them were hiding out in the treads of my trail runners. I wasn’t very good at pulling them off, so I took to using a stick to try and pry them off.

In the final scene, our three terrorized heroes (Car, Brent and Rhonda… with John looking on in bemused impatience), danced around on the road flinging leeches in every direction… oh, but wait… somehow they can tell where you are (maybe smell?)… and each one of us had created a circle of leeches around us where we’d tossed them off, and in an almost coordinated fashion (or so it seemed), the armies of leeches circled and inch-worm creeped their way towards us trying for round two.

At the end of the hike, I thanked John for taking us out. He laughed because he thought I was being sarcastic, but I wasn’t. It had been a beautiful hike, and the stuff with the leeches… well, that’ll buff out… and it makes a great story!

It's Not About The Bike: Taming My Inner Lance Armstrong

2011-04-07T10:03:00.000-07:00

Why do I do this to myself? Why am I constantly comparing myself to others and finding myself wanting and feeling frustrated and ashamed? I don’t consider myself to be a competitive person. I don’t care about being the fastest or the strongest or reaching the most peaks or getting there first. Really, I don’t... so why do I do this to myself?

In the early days of the COC, I pushed myself pretty hard. There were very few volunteers, and I felt compelled to offer people the activities they wanted at the pace they wanted. It was a constant struggle of trying to keep up, and feeling like I had to “beg” people to stay in the back with me so I wouldn’t be left alone. As the club, and the volunteer team, grew, I was able to back off and figure out what I really wanted to do for me. I met people, hiked with them, and watched them move on to the more challenging activities. Gradually, though, I started to gather up some friends who stuck around... who enjoyed what I enjoyed, and some of them (yay for Brent, Marg and David... and several others who pop in and out) even enjoy doing stuff at my pace.

I’ve never been an athletic person… I don’t think my family has that gene. I hiked for the first time when I started the COC. I’m an ex-smoker who, very very regrettably, acquired a lovely lung condition related to that past sin. These are my physical parameters, and as I found my “pace buddies”, I came to accept that I do a lesser distance and slower pace than many (but not all) of the people around me, and I’ve been ok with that. In fact, I’ve become quite protective of “my pace” and I don’t plan activities that are going to make me feel bad, or with people who are going to make me feel bad. I’m out there to have fun, see some great scenery, marvel at some wonderful critters, and build community with my wonderful friends – not feel pushed to go further or faster or longer.

It hit me really hard, though, that I couldn’t do the cycle touring at the pace that Brent had set out for us for Australia. Honestly, I shouldn’t have expected to be able to – we’d both over-estimated what I would be able to do. His original calculation went something like this: Rhonda can ride 100km/day, with hills, but that’s a full day. We want to have time to do other stuff, though, and go more slowly and enjoy ourselves, so let’s lop off 30% and plan for riding about 70km/day. Australia is the flattest continent in the world, so that means less hills and easier riding, too. Sounds reasonable, right? I thought so. I didn’t give that a second thought. I was looking forward to getting off my butt after this long, brutal winter and pedaling off these ten pounds that have found me since I quit riding to work.

Oh, but we left out one variable. Weight. I’ll come back to that, but first of all I have to interrupt myself to say… Australia… or at least the parts we went to… is amazingly UNFLAT. OK, weight. I know... yes, I do know… that when I add weight to my day, I have to cut the distance by about half. This includes backpacking (rather than day hiking) and snow shoeing (rather than day hiking). My preferred maximum for a day hike is about 18km. My preferred maximum for a day of backpacking or snow shoeing is about 8 or 9km. Half. Let’s re-visit that calculation: Rhonda can ride 100km/day, with hills, SUPPORTED (ie. with a van bringing all the stuff), but that’s a full day. Add the weight – Rhonda carrying her own stuff – and we have to cut that in half. 50km/day. That will be a full day. Lop some off to allow time for other things, and we’re looking at a reasonable plan of 35 to 40km/day.

It became very apparent, very early on, that with the mountains in Tasmania, and carrying my gear with me, there was no way I was going to do 70km/day and have time to enjoy other things. I knew that Brent could easily have done it, and I know that just about everyone else I know who cycles would have easily been able to do it. I felt wretched, especially because I was ruining the best-laid plan of my partner, and I didn’t want to disappoint him. Fortunately, Brent doesn’t seem to have been disappointed at all. He was perfectly fine with modifying our plans to accommodate his “small and weak” girlfriend (my words, not his). But it took me days to get over it... in a way I’m still getting over it. I’m going to have to find a way to carry my attitude about my hiking pace over to cycling and just be happy with it. I don’t care about being the fastest or the strongest or getting there first. Really, I don’t... so it’s time to adjust my attitude to my own abilities and be happy.

Incidentally, Brent had planned to ride about 1000km in Australia. We ended up riding just a little over 500. Pretty much half.

Top 10 Reasons Why Rhonda Should Not Cycle Tour

2011-03-29T14:55:00.000-07:00

"It's not because I can't, it's because I don't want to."

A few years ago, when Doug asked Brent to ride from Vancouver to Calgary, Brent knew he couldn't do it, but he didn't want to tell Doug that. So, he set his mind to training, and he trained hard so that when Doug called back, he'd be able to say no - not because he couldn't, but because he choose not to. Then, when Doug called back, they ended up riding across Canada together.

When Brent asked me to cycle tour with him, I had been on a bicycle about ten times in the previous 25 years, so I trained and developed strength and skill. I've done the Golden Triangle - a challenging three-day supported tour in the Rocky Mountains, an easy overnight unsupported ride outside of Edmonton, and some punctuated touring in Australia, and now I am telling him no not because I can't, but because I choose not to.

Here, in honor of David Letterman, whose show I've never seen, is the Top 10 reasons why I shouldn't cycle tour.

10. Cycle touring is like hitting yourself on the head with a hammer - it feels so good when you stop

9. I don't have the photoshop skills to turn pavement into trees and cars into butterflies

8. 90% of drivers being alert and considerate doesn't give me good enough odds

7. I prefer my critters live and frolicking in the bush rather than flattened on the pavement

6. I don't have the physical mass to haul the gear up the hills far enough to make the next town

5. I can't let myself get too fast for Marg and Rhonda pace

4. Pine trees and moss are more pleasant than transport truck brake smell and exhaust fumes

3. Spandex is not my colour

2. It is not an advantage to be the smallest, slowest, squishiest object trying to travel in the same space with large, hard, fast objects

1. The smell of road kill hinders my appreciation for vegemite

The Unplanned Rest Day

2011-03-25T18:17:00.000-07:00

"Unplanned Rest Day". It sounds so... restful. Pleasant. Unplanned it was. A day... sort of - it was about 24 hours long. Restful? Not really. Brent says you need to allow for a few Unplanned Rest Days in your tour schedule, but when we booked our bus from Marimbula to Sydney a couple days ago, we hadn't done that... Oops.

We cycled to Orbost in Gippsland (which we both love), and were planning out our next move. The next center with any services, Cann River, was about 80km down the road from Orbost. Theoretically, I can do 80km in a day, but I wasn't really comfortable with it, so we decided to give ourselves options - we'd stock up on provisions, and if necessary, camp somewhere on the side of the road halfway. We'd decide that morning if I was feeling up to an 80km haul, or if we'd try to stop halfway someplace.

Orbost was great - it's on the Snowy River. Yep... THE Snowy River. As we rode into town, we found the Caravan Park (Aussie for "Campground") right away and pulled in. The proprietor met us at the entrance and said that he could maybe give us a place to stay, but he'd have to figure out something on the "higher ground" as there were flood warnings for the Snowy and his park is low and right by the river. They were concerned about the lower parts of the park flooding. We got set up with a spot - right beside the clothesline beside the bathrooms (woo hoo) - and ventured into town. Bought the required provisions, and then made our way to the tavern where we decided to have dinner and beers before our next day(s) adventures.

The tavern was great, and the proprietor, Mick, gave a demonstration of sticking money to his ceiling. There's a fan that keeps the bills in place, and you wrap a bill in a coin, then throw it, hard, up at the ceiling. The bill is supposed to stay, and the coin falls back down. If you miss three times, you have to pitch in out of your pocket into a charity they support. Brent tried to film him doing this, and the call came out that to film, you have to contribute, so I went digging for an Aussie fin, while Brent produced a Canadian one. Mick was pretty sure the Canadian one wouldn't stick because it's made of paper - the Aussie ones are made of plastic, but he managed to stick both bills to the ceiling on his first tries. There was a bit of a crowd gathered around watching the whole thing unfold, and as it wrapped up, a woman approached us. She introduced herself as Chrissy and asked where we were headed. We told her of our tentative plans, and she INSISTED that we stop in Cabbage Tree Creek the next night and stay - it is halfway to Cann River. That sounded pretty good to me - problem solved. Chrissy chatted with us for a while and told us about her motor bike club and friends (she had four friends in tow). Chrissy was going to give us her phone number, but then said that it had trouble receiving calls, and what we should do instead was to go to town, stop at the General Store and talk to Jo and Pete - the proprietors - and get them to contact her for us.

The next morning, we got up and had a leisurely breakfast, found out about the flooding was less than expected, but it was enough to close the scenic route to Cabbage Tree Creek via Marlow. Dang. OK, so the scenic route would have been 50km, but the main highway was only 30, so we only had 30km to do that day, which left us with tonnes of time to hang out in Orbost before heading out. We poked around, checked out the flooding, including goes a short distance down the road to Marlow. Finally, at around 1:30, we left Orbost and started our journey to Cabbage Tree Creek. It was a good day riding... or, rather, as good a day as possible on highway. I made a decision that day and told Brent that I just didn't enjoy highway riding. I don't like the traffic whizzing by - I feel like I'm spending way too much of my time frightened. He was very good about that, and we'll explore options where we can keep touring together... "with modifications".

Anyway, along the route to Cabbage Tree Creek, we stopped at a rest stop for a snack, where we were briefly pummelled by a rain cloud that blew in, smacked us down, and then blew right back out as quickly as it had some. The rest of the trip to Cabbage Tree Creek was fine. When we got there, as instructed, we stopped at the General Store and talked with Jo. I introduced myself and said that Chrissy had said she could contact her for us. Jo's response: "Which Chrissy? John-Boy's Chrissy?"... uh-oh. I said "I don't know... the Chrissy that I met at the tavern in Orbost last night". Kind of an inauspicious start. Anyway, Jo gave us directions to "John-Boy's Chrissy's" place, which involved riding up a hill, around the community hall, and then following this secluded, wind-ey, ill-maintained road which had recently had a fire run through the surrounding forest. As Brent and I followed the secluded, wind-ey, ill-maintained road, I got cold feet. I thought, Chrissy had told us she would tell Jo to expect us, which she clearly hadn't done, and since we'd met her in a tavern, we thought perhaps she'd forgotten or changed her mind, or even extended the invitation to be "nice" without expecting us to take her up on it. So, before we reached the place, we turned around and re-traced our steps back to the General Store, discussing our options, including trying to find a place to pitch tent someplace in town where we "wouldn't annoy anyone".

Back at the General Store, Jo said there wasn't really anyplace around we could pitch tent, but then suggested that we could camp on a patch of land behind her store. There was no shower, but she did have an outdoor toilet which we could use. It sounded like heaven so I quickly accepted. As we were setting up the tent, it clouded over and started to rain. Just as we were finishing up and deciding how we were going to cook our fancy peas, couscous and pumpkin soup with spam dinner, Chrissy and her crew arrived and began waving us back up to the store. Her whole gang had come out for dinner. Jo had closed up shop early so that everyone could bring some alcohol for their dinner - Jo's place is unlicensed. We had a fantastic time visiting with Chrissy and crew, and had wonderful steak sandwiches from Jo rather than the concoction we'd planned for ourselves.

The rain rained on and on, and the gals pointed out that we had pitched out tent in the path of the overflow from the rainwater capture tank. Oops. Brent moved the tent over to a better spot, with some coaching from the gals. That night, we listened to the rain and wind tag team the tent. In the morning, I felt like we'd been bitch-slapped all night by a rain cloud, but my trusty McKinnon backpack tent held up well. The rain was not showing any signs of letting up, and riding the next 50km to Cann River sounded not only unpleasant, but possibly treacherous that day. We started discussing options and thought we might catch a bus from Cabbage Tree Creek to Cann River. I knew Countrylink would insist that the bikes had to be boxed, and we didn't happen to just have a couple of bike boxes laying around, so we crossed them off the list. I looked up the timetables for Premier, which we were going to use to get from Merimbula to Sydney in a few days. Their bus comes through Cabbage Treek Creek at 00:45. Brent suggested VLine, so I tried them, but they don't allow bikes on their coaches at all. We decided to wait 'til noon and see if a random generous stranger might stumble into the General Store and offer to give us a lift up the road, and barring that, we would book the 00:45 bus with Premier.

We had breakfast in the general store, and Jo (and Pete, who is a minor player in this story because he's down with a back injury) said it was no problem to loiter on their front porch for the day while we waited for 00:45. The rain rained on, and we talked to a few random strangers, but none with the generosity, or the vehicle capacity, to drive us up the road. Around noon we caved and booked a ride on the Premier 00:45 coach. The rain rained on and we bought a couple of used books from Jo's used book bin. We had lunch in the general store and kept our post on the front porch (covered, of course). The rain rained on. We read the used books and did some Sudoku puzzles, and Brent did some journaling. Later in the afternoon, Edie from Wollongong, a random generous stranger, stumbled in with a bike rack and enough room for us, our bikes and our gear and offered to drive us to Cann River. We considered it, but given that the weather is not expected to let up, and we'd already booked Premier (and made tentative accommodation arrangements in Merimbula), and the weather was supposed to be nicer further north, we declined, but we did get her contact information to possibly visit in Wollongong. We had dinner in the General Store and Jo and Pete VERY GRACIOUSLY offered to let us stay inside the store after they closed at 20:00 to wait for the 00:45 bus. They closed up and went to bed, leaving us full run of their store and kitchen. They even brought us a couple of beanbag chairs to use so we'd be reasonably comfortable. We were REALLY lucky. Brent and I made a foot sandwich with the beanbags to try to warm our feet back up after been cold and wet for over 24 hours, and I slept for a bit with my head down on the table. Thankfully, the 00:45 showed up on time and didn't blow on past (which, apparently, has happened). We piled the bikes and junk on the bus and off we went to Merimbula.

Sadly, the 00:45 departing Cabbage Tree Creek arrives in Merimbula at 03:10. Guess what's open in Merimbula at 03:10? Right. At least it wasn't raining, and we used our map to find a park near the ocean/beach where we set up tent and slept until the sun came up at about 6:45.

The place we'd tentatively booked, Mermaid Holiday Units, was not able to accept us at 3:10 because the unit they had for us was still occupied, but luckily, the folks were out, and we were in at 9:00AM. Best. Shower. Ever. But... no longer in a sleeping kind of mood. That will just have to wait.

Next time I have an "Unplanned Rest Day", I might plan it a little better.

Close Encounters of the Wombat Kind (Critters of Tasmania)

2011-03-18T15:15:00.001-07:00

I love critters and I was very excited about seeing some very odd critters while in Tasmania. I most wanted to see a Tasmanian Devil, an Echidna, and a Wombat. I'd read that Tasmanian Devils are endangered due to a transmittable face cancer, and knew that they would be scarce. I'd never even heard of an echidna until Brent mentioned them, and then once I'd seen some pics on google I knew I had to see one. We had also googled wombats and decided they were very cute critters - so cute that we wanted to bring one home and we would love it and pet it and we would call it George... until we discovered how LARGE these cute critters are.

Naturally, I expected to be greeted at the airport by an army of kangaroos and wallabys, but since Hobart is the most populous city in Tasmania, I was disappointed. We rode from Hobart to Richmond and then on to Triabunna seeing nary a live critter, although many many unfortunate road-killed wallabys and opossums.

We stopped for lunch after Richmond and while Brent was off... Brenting around somewhere... I did see quite a remarkable show. Where we'd stopped for lunch there were many horseflies which are just as vicious as the horseflies back home. One of the vile varmints was flying around me when it suddenly found itself trapped in a spider's web on the side of the picnic table. I watched as it struggled, tightening its own trap around itself. A relatively small spider walked down the web about half way, had a look, and then turned and went back up into its hidey-hole. I was disappointed at not seeing more action than that until I noticed that there were several teeny-tiny baby spiders coming down the web. As the struggles of the horsefly lessened, the baby spiders got bolder... many of them making their way closer and closer to the fly. As they approached, the fly would sometimes spring into a panic, struggling more. Occasionally, a baby spider would be flung off into the abyss, but it would always manage to leave a lifeline web trailing back up to the main web and it would crawl back up. It was absolutely fascinating to watch the advance of the baby spiders as they got bolder and the fly got weaker. Finally, they actually reached the fly and commenced their lunch. A very interesting bit of nature, and I was enthralled by the grizzly show.

Our next step after Triabunna was to take the ferry over to Maria Island (Maria pronounced Ma-rye-ah, not like we would have expected). Brent had read a blog from some campers bemoaning their time on Maria who had been ousted from their tent and treed by a band of vicious emus. So, of course, we thought we had to go to Maria to get treed by emus. Unfortunately, we learned after we got there that the emus on the island were extinct. But, we were greeted by an enthusiastic gang fight between two groups of Tasmanian Native Hens, and shortly after by some Cape Barren Geese. These birds are amazing and hilarious. They look sort of like dinosaurs with their sturdy heads, legs and feet. Their legs and feet look like they're wearing red leg-warmers and black wellies. The best thing about them is their sound... they make a grunting sound like pigs. I really enjoyed lying in our tent in the morning listen to the kookaburra's insane laughter from one side and the grunting geese from the other side.

We still hadn't seen any live marsupials about, so we asked Donna-Lea, the Maria Island National Park warden, who recommended taking our flashlights out after dark and walk up the hill by the camp site. After nightfall we set out, and I spotted what looked like a critter not far from our tent. The critter was basically rock-shaped, though, so I chalked it up to my overactive imagination until the rock started tottering away. It was a wombat... about the size of a large cat. We pursued the wombat around the camp site for a few minutes trying to get a good photo until we decided we'd traumatized it enough and set off up the hill. Along the way we saw lots and lots of the critters we'd been wishing for. A large group of wallabys on the grassy side, and lots and lots of... um... something-or-others on the tree side. The something-or-others turned out to be opossums. Australian opossums are WAY cuter than North American opossums with their big bushy tails. We thought they were cats a couple of times - they were the right size, moved very similarly, and had big fluffy tails. When we'd get a decent look, though, the body and face shape were just slightly "wrong".

Being experienced campers from North America, we weren't sure what to do with our food and other aromatic items over night. We asked about hanging stuff from a tree like we might do back home, but we were told that wasn't necessary. We could just keep the stuff inside our tent with us as the critters generally weren't bold enough to try to get into the tent for it. It's generally the opossums you have to protect your stuff from, and I was thankful to Lana for the tip about tying your boots together to prevent an opossum taking off with one for a good chew.

Across the island I also enjoyed hearing cicadas, which I loved in Atlanta as well. We saw some bats and tadpoles. I liked the little flounder-like dudes who skittered along in the sand on the beach in Swansea, and the little crab dudes who made the little rings of sand on the beach where they dug their little holes to sit in. As Brent and I were exploring the beach, we'd left the bikes tied up back at the parking lot and returned to discover that Brent's bicycle was an ant magnet. We did our best to rid the bicycle of ants before we continued on, but there were probably several hundred ants still on the bike (and on Brent) for the next day or so. Thankfully they weren't a biting variety of ants. While we were on Maria, I saw my first Huntsman spider, which I wish I'd known was harmless before I saw him. He was an impressive 3" or so across, and sitting on my panier. After we took several photos of him, we tried to get him to move off my panier, but the more I tried to encourage him to leave (with a stick), the more he tried to hide in a crevice of the panier. Finally we got rid of him, and we've seen a couple more since then. They don't even bother me now that I know they won't kill me. Our final stop in Tasmania was Devonport, where we were scheduled to take the Spirit of Tasmania ferry over to the mainland. A highlight in Devonport for us was the red-breasted cockatoos that were EVERYWHERE. On the grass... flying around... sitting on the power lines. I also enjoyed the Masked Lapwings around Devonport which have hilarious yellow faces and black caps which look like 1970's style toupees.

Unfortunately, the Tasmanian Devil and Echidna completely eluded us while on Tasmania. I guess we'll just have to come back and try again.

Eating My Way Across Tasmania

2011-03-12T23:23:00.000-08:00

One of the first things that I picked up from Brent when we met was something that he'd picked up from a girl that he went to high school with. She said that her mom said that the Chinese say that every time you eat a new food you add 144 days to your life.

Brent has made it a habit to try different foods. He says that if someone considers it food somewhere, he'll try it. And then he "logs" his 144 days for the experience. I don't think he actually keeps a tally... it's just a game. I think. I am not quite that adventurous. I like food, but I am more of a "stick to what I know I like" kind of girl. Brent has expanded my horizons a bit... can you say 'durian'?

Brent and I are currently in the Backpacker hostel in Swansea, Tasmania. He is in the kitchen area whipping us up some wallaby sausages while I'm burning through out expensive internet minutes.

When we arrived in Australia, we began noticing right away all the crazy different foods to try, including the "Burger Rings" in the vending machine at the airport. At our first grocery stop, I buy us a "Cherry Ripe" bar. I do like chocolate bars, and I like cherries, so I figure this is a safe first step into the foods of Australia.

We stayed at a great cabin/bungalow in Richmond, and as we wiled away the evening of our first day's riding, contemplating the map and other visitor information, we broke out said "Cherry Ripe" bar. I enthusiastically bit off a big bite, only to discover that the non-advertised MAIN ingredient of a "Cherry Ripe" bar is shredded coconut. BLICK! I hate coconut. Brent graciously ate the whole remainder of the vile candy.

Over breakfast the next morning, we enjoyed a variety of breakfast foods and made ourselves some toast with the biscuits provided. In the basket of jams and other yummies to put on your toast, they had little packets of vegemite. I have heard for years about how horrible vegemite is from various friends, but I've also heard it's very salty. Perhaps I won't hate it as much as others... I do like my salt. I spread a little bit onto the corner of my biscuit and tasted it. It wasn't completely disgusting, and I could appreciate that it would be an acquired taste that I wouldn't bother acquiring, and if you grew up around the stuff, it would probably be enjoyable.

Later that day, as I struggled my way through the 60km from Richmond to Orford, I had the unpleasant experience of smelling several semi-fresh road-killed wallabies, brush-tail oppossums, and other unfortunate critters. Road kill is a distinctive and disgusting smell... something I won't forget and will avoid as much as possible in future. That night, as Brent and I lounged in the pub in Orford, a smell wafted in and we both immediately thought "road kill" until it dawned on us both that what we were smelling was actually vegemite. The two smells do share some similarities, forevermore ending my vegemite-eating career, if there had been any doubt.

Surely, it has to get better than this. I have nowhere to go but up after my Cherry Ripe and Vegemite introductions to Australian food.

So far along the way, we've logged:
- Jaffa ice cream: This is chocolate and orange mixed ice cream which looks sort of like tiger... except it's chocolate instead of licorice for the dark color. It's ok... I do prefer tiger, but for someone who doesn't like the black licorice, I bet this would be a real treat.
- A steak sandwich "with the lot": Brent didn't know what "with the lot" meant, but of course he ordered it. It turned out to be a steak sandwich with a thin steak, plus egg, bacon, cheese, pickled beet and cole slaw. I had definite steak sandwich envy as I watched him scarff this one.
- Salad: When you get a salad with your meal, the salad is often a leaf of lettuce, with cole slaw on top, then garnished with beets, tomatoes and cucumbers (and other stuff).
- Chicken schnitzel with pepper sauce: This was really really tasty, but it is the prime suspect as to what gave me the food poisoning
- Wasabi cheese: I like cheese, and I like wasabi, so I thought what the heck. It is ok... just ok. Sort of like velveeta with a bit of a horseradish kick to it.
- Crisps: We have, of course, had to try the burger rings and chicken chips that are common around here.
- Rice Bubbles: We haven't eaten any, because with the familiar picture of little bits of rice with Snap, Crackle and Pop nearby endorsing them, I know once I had my first taste of Rice Bubbles they would turn out to be plain ol' Rice Krispies. A rose by any other name...
- Bullets: A co-worker asked me to bring some of these back for him. I was prepared to say 'no' until he qualified saying that they are chocolate-covered black licorice. Of course I'll bring back THAT kind of bullets. One of these days I'll try some, too, but that is for another day.

Time for my wallaby sausages. Wish me luck!

Done In by the Tasmanian Highways

2011-03-11T15:15:00.000-08:00

We, and our bicycles, arrived in Hobart, explored a little and stayed at the Brunswick Hotel (hostel). In the morning, we went for a walk and were very pleasantly surprised by how clean - disturbingly clean - the harbour there is.

Since we seemed to have no jet lag at all, we left Hobart a day early to begin our tour, and I was very grateful to discover that there is an Inter-City Cycleway that was supposed to connect Hobart to Richmond (and other points). We headed up the Inter-City Cycleway towards Richmond. Being that we needed to get used to doing everything on the "wrong" side of the road, starting out on a Cycleway was perfect. I felt happy and strong. The Cycleway, sadly, didn't last long and soon spit us out onto the highway to Richmond. I found the undulating hills to be very challenging while hauling the extra weight of the gear. I have two rear panniers, two front panniers, a back box, and a backpack. There was one very long hill to climb, which I did climb completely on-bike, but not without some serious whingeing. We made the 30km to Richmond and I was pretty happy to stop, wondering how I was going to make out with the ~70km/day Brent had planned for us.

Day 2 was very tough. We rode only 60km from Richmond to Orford. The pavement was quite rough asphalt, which slows me down even more than the hills, head winds, and extra weight. There were four long, sometimes steep, hills that I pushed the bike up, including Black Charlie's Opening and Bust-Me-Gall Hill. Good thing Brent is a patient (very patient) man. He stayed with me and encouraged me... and ultimately ended up insisting on taking some weight from me. The road was narrow, with poor shoulders and there was quite a bit of traffic, including many logging trucks which would fly by and create a bike-shuddering vaccuum in their wake. I was working hard at the cycling, and concentrating hard on staying on the shoulder and not weaving out onto the road. I knew I'd be very happy to reach the east coast, which was where the bulk of our fun was waiting for us, with a nice coastal route and less mountains.

In Orford the accommodations were very slim pickings and we ended up renting a $45 room with a shared bathroom down at the end of the building. The sink was plugged and half-full of rusty water and there was no shower, but I enjoyed very much chatting with Cindy from Papua New Guinea who was staying a couple doors down. It was in Orford where I first saw the southern hemisphere stars - they are SO bright and spectacular - WOW! And there were two "clouds" of stars. Brent and I had read in "Death from the Skies" (cheers, Haysn) that the Milky Way is in the process of absorbing two smaller galaxies and we wondered if that was what we were seeing.

Day 3 was an easy 10km ride to Triabunna where we caught the ferry over to Maria Island and then did a couple of hikes to Fossil Cliffs and Painted Cliffs. We camped at the Darlington site, and then on Day 4 we rode from Darlington down to French's Farm and back, which was a pleasant 20km round trip on a dirt (sometimes sandy) road before catching the ferry back to Triabunna.

Day 5... the moment of truth. We're finally at the east coast highway and heading up towards Swansea. Swansea was supposed to be an easy 50km up the road, with much less elevation gain and loss than previous days. In spite of having mild food poisoning the night before, I hoped that we would be able to overshoot Swansea, camping someplace north, so that we'd be on target to make our kilometers and be in Devonport in plenty of time for our ferry on Thursday.

The hills were, overall, shorter and less steep than Black Charlie's Opening and Bust-Me-Gall but they weren't exactly easy, either. The highest single climb was only about 100m, but we gained and lost so many meters throughout the day that I would guess, overall, it was probably 1000m or so gained and lost. Brent took the bag with our food and cooking gear (my heaviest) and I took his bag with his sleeping bag and liner. To my surprise, beyond our highest climb of 100m, there were two more very big, challenging hills - the Rocky Hills - that I ended up pushing up (even though I'd done the first 100m climb).

What finally broke me, though, was the road. It is a narrow, winding, two-lane highway with absolutely NO shoulder. No shoulder. The side of the road mostly came to an abrupt end, with a 4" drop-off into... whatever... sometimes a soft clay slope, sometimes a steep ditch of rocks and plants. The road itself barely has room for two vehicles to safely pass each other in opposite direction - there's no room for bikes in the mix. There were a lot less big trucks than before, but they were still prevalent, and the vehicle, caravan, and towed-boat traffic was relentless. Many of the drivers were quite cautious about going around us, but there were plenty who weren't, and there were several times when traffic met from both directions that I felt we'd narrowly escaped. I struggled to stay on the road, as far off to the side as possible without falling off the side drop-off into... whatever. It was frustrating, disheartening, and treacherous.

About halfway to Swansea, I called it quits in my head. I told Brent, as a head's up, that I wanted to discuss contingency plans because I was having a miserable time. Fighting to stay on the road and avoiding the traffic afforded me no time to even look around and enjoy what I was supposed to be here enjoying (and, frankly, there wasn't much in the way of views for at least the first half, as we had constant hills between us and the coast). When we arrived in Swansea, it was still fairly early in the day, but we knew that the riding was done for the day - I was done.

We booked into the Swansea Backpackers, which is run by a very nice lady named Sharon, who is also an avid cyclist. She said that she doesn't know why they promote Tasmania's highways as cycle tour routes - she feels they're very treacherous and dangerous, and advised that if we continued, we would not find shoulders further up either. She mostly cycles off-road. She said that some of Australia's states have great shoulders and they're wonderful for touring. Apparently, though, Tasmania, and the Great Coast Road (the other thing I was looking most forward to) are not. She says the Great Coast Road is very dangerous as well, with no shoulders and steep cliffs to fall off of. We won't be cycling that when we get to Melbourne either - we'll look for some other bike paths or safer roads and maybe try to get a vehicle for driving the Great Coast Road and have a look.

For now, we're staying in Swansea for a couple days, then taking the bus back to Hobart for one night. Hobart has some great parks and pathways to explore. We'll then take the bus up to Devonport for a day and a half and hopefully find some more great places to explore and cycle before taking the ferry over to Melbourne where we'll meet up with Brent's nieces. It's great to have options (and a VERY patient partner).

The Queen of the Long Weekend Meets the King of the Long-Term Adventure

2011-03-04T05:55:00.000-08:00

I have always been a fan of traveling light. Keeping it simple. I like to be able to carry all my crap by myself in one trip. Backpacking is great. Car-camping with a tent, also great. Car-camping in Jumbo - Brent’s old camper van - superb. As far as I can remember, I’ve always been this way. I remember even, as a child, watching my mom pack in and out all the crap to the motorhome that we needed to go on our family camping trips, knowing that most of the crap she was packing was for the sake of her two children, and I remember thinking, gee, that doesn’t make me want very badly to have children. Look at all that crap you have to pack around.

I’ve also been the queen of the long-weekend get-away. I don’t recall ever taking more than ten days off for a vacation. The idea of a longer vacation is romantically appealing, but on my own, I’ve never made it happen. I’ve preferred the shorter get-aways that fit easily into my life and schedule, without disrupting things too much. Five days in New Orleans... road trip to Seattle... a week in Arizona. Brent, of course, is the king of the long-term adventure which can be savoured… like taking a half a year off to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro and then ride his bicycle across the country with Doug Bird.

Tonight, Brent and I are leaving for Australia, taking our bicycles and our panniers full of all the crap we’ll need for an entire month. The cycle touring part itself – Brent, me, our bicycles, and our panniers full of all the crap – will be an awesome adventure. What is less enjoyable (for me) is packing all that crap to the airport, making sure it gets on the airplane, making sure it makes all of its connecting flights and makes it (hopefully in the same number of pieces it left in) to its (our) final destination. Thank goodness Brent has done most of the work. He broke down our bicycles and put them in cardboard bicycle boxes, including assessing and mitigating weaknesses in the packing. He figured out how to pack and get the panniers and other crap all the way to Hobart (Tasmania) – our first stop - including all the rules for the airlines. He researched the allowed dimensions for luggage, and we’ve packed all that crap into moving boxes which will be discarded on the far end, to be (hopefully) replaced with boxes that we will find in Sydney for packing all the crap back… including the bicycles.

This vacation is, indeed, a departure for the light-traveling queen of the long weekend. Wish me luck as I savour the adventure!

Whiz Easy Fail – pStyle Rules

2010-11-12T14:10:00.000-08:00

After complaining to some friends about my chronic challenges urinating successfully with the Whiz Easy, Judy the Bear Whisperer recommended trying the pStyle from Krista’s Cups. She was training herself – starting with the shower (why didn’t I think of that!?) – and was having success so far.

Could it be that simple? Could it be that it’s not ME at fault, but it’s actually a gear problem? Let’s find out, shall we? Of course, I ordered the purple one.

I know better this time (yes, yes I can learn) – no first time in the pub for me. Into the bathroom. Kick the rug out of the way. Replacement clothing is a short walk down the hallway, so optimistically I pull the pants (etc) only far enough down as necessary to get the device in place. The pStyle looks like it will require considerably less exposure than the Whiz Easy – that looks promising!

Device in place, I stand. I relax. I relax some more. I push a little. I squeeze out a few drops. Hmmmmmm… this isn’t going as planned, and my bladder is still uncomfortably full. Toss the device aside and assume the traditional “sitting” position to finish the job – I’d only managed about a 25% elimination.

Second try, device in place, I stand. I relax. I relax some more. I push a little. I squeeze out a few drops. I consider that perhaps I have the device placed a little too firmly against something and am blocking off production, so I back the pressure off slightly. Aha – slightly more success. Back the pressure off even more. Absolutely zero leakage, and 100% elimination. Stellar.

I consider that I may now know what it feels like for a man with an enlarged prostate. Poor suckers – that must be really torturous. Too bad it’s not as simple as just backing off on their own pStyle.

I have a couple more slow starts, but I soon learn to back off on the pressure and after several successes with no failures, it is time to go camping. Brent and I head out on a Friday night to Pigeon Lake near Edmonton for the weekend. It’s a perfect opportunity to try out the pStyle “in the real world” (but still not quite the backcountry).

After my “Yay I’m Camping” beer, it is growing quite dark and I’m ready to give the pStyle its maiden outdoor voyage. I contemplate the wisdom (or lack thereof) of trying it out, in the dark, with a beer in me. Ha! What could possibly go wrong… right? I wander away from our camping companions and the light of our fire and stumble around in some light brush trying to find a decent amount of privacy.

Finally I find a suitable spot (a time in the summer with leaves on the trees may have been more conducive) and pull out my new gear. Being a little paranoid, I start out a little too firm on the pressure, but I soon relax, back off the pressure, and have my first-ever, completely successful standing pee in the woods.

I am now completely converted and I will bring the pStyle with me whenever I am recreating outdoors. The major benefit, I find, is that, as advertised, you can “squeegee” any excess drops off of yourself, completely eliminating the need to carry t.p. along (or live with the consequences of NOT having t.p. for the pop-and-squat).

Return of the Whiz Easy

2010-10-16T10:51:00.000-07:00

Don’t anyone say I can’t learn, or be taught. After leaving it to sulk in the top corner of my gear closet for close to a year, I retrieved the Whiz Easy with intentions of trying again with the cursed thing. Brent and I are planning on cycling in Australia in March, and perhaps it would be a handy thing to have along… maybe for other trips too.

I set it on the back of the toilet, in all its purple glory, where it glowered at me for a week or so. Baby steps. Whiz Easy and I will take baby steps.

Remembering the hard-learned lessons from my earlier attempts, I first tried again with the bathroom rug, and my clothing, safely stashed out of harm’s way. As before, my body really resisted “release” in a standing position, but once I got it going, the attempt was a tremendous success. If you can really count “all urine finding its way into the toilet” as a tremendous success at age 43.

I think that my biggest challenge is going to be getting over that bodily resistance to peeing while standing, and the way to get beyond that is just practice, practice, practice.

So, practice I do, and although my body is getting more cooperative, the most frustrating thing so far is that I can’t achieve consistency. Most times, peeing through my purple friend is a success. Occasionally, and for no reason that I can ascertain, things go horribly awry with the Whiz Easy leaking from the back, making an embarrassing mess of my clothing (which I’ve graduated, now, to leaving in place). I make mental notes each time to be careful and make sure the device is in the exact right place, and pressed with a sufficient amount of pressure against my body. Still, I can’t seem to get it consistently right.

My goal, which I think is quite reasonable (and sane), is to achieve 100% consistent success… in the bathroom at home… before venturing on to using it in places where it matters – a whole LOT more – that the procedure be a success. I think kicking my pants (etc) to the corner, while out in the woods, is a lot less feasible.

I have to wonder, though... what's so different about me compared to my friends, several of whom have reported immediate and glorious success with this, and that similar device, She Wee? I'm a little cheesed that I seem to be the only one who requires remedial pee training.

Whiz Easy

2009-11-12T12:24:00.001-08:00

I bought one of those devices intended to allow women to pee more easily in the bush (ie. facilitating our ability to pee standing up). I had a few hiking friends write to say that they’d used a similar product and thought it was great. It only took a few days for it to arrive after I ordered it, and I couldn’t wait to check the thing out.

Alas, it was a busy day, and the device languished in my car as my boyfriend, Brent, and I went for breakfast, drove from Calgary to my dad’s summer place near Red Lodge, stopped at my sister’s place in Red Deer, finally landing in Edmonton where we had dinner plans with my mom. I can’t wait any longer – I bring my new "hiking gear" into the pub and finally pull it out of the packaging. It’s purple. We joke about that. We discuss its features as advertised, and Brent sticks it on the end of his nose (noting that he wouldn’t do that once it’s been used… thanks for that). Brent speculates that because the device is quite firm it will be difficult for me to use it to write my name in the snow. He of little faith.

After a pint-and-a-half, I excuse myself to use the washroom, and Mom and Brent both look at me, then look back to the device – both of them incredulous that I was leaving it behind. The gauntlet thrown, I grab the device (in its discrete packaging) and take it with me.

In the stall, I put the toilet seat up. Why not, right? I unzip and try to figure out exactly how far down I have to pull my pants to get the device into place, the obvious goal being to displace them as little as possible. It becomes clear that I’m not going to get the device snugly into place unless my pants are pulled at least to the bottom of my buttocks. Already I’m thinking, how on earth is this preferable to squatting in the woods? It takes some effort to convince my body to open up in a standing position – the training to not pee in our pants runs very deep. Finally, I get a trickle started, but oh my, what is that… the device is leaking from the back. My underwear takes most of the damage, but there is also a small trickle running down my leg. I realize how foolish, deeply foolish, it was to try this in public with only one set of clothing. I give up for the time, fearing further damage.

I return to the table with the device back in its discrete packaging (and my underwear riding shotgun). Mom and Brent try not to laugh when I share the inauspicious results. They simply agree that perhaps more practice is in order.

Later on, back at Brent’s, and with a bit of the pint-and-a-half left, I try again. This time, in the privacy of Brent’s bathroom, I take my pants right off and, pessimistically, push his bathroom rug out of harm’s way. This time, with the device firmly centered right in the middle of things, I successfully pee standing up.

Will I now be trying this in the bush? The answer lies somewhere between "when pigs fly" and " not on your bloody life". I’m not even sure if I’d try to use it for protection from the dirtier outhouses. By the time you’ve exposed yourself enough to position the device appropriately, your hiking pants are accumulating all manner of "dear lord no" on them. For the foreseeable future, I will stick with the reliable "Pop and Squat" manoever in the woods.

Surviving... NAY! Enjoying the Golden Triangle!

2009-11-12T12:23:00.002-08:00

The Golden Triangle, or the "GT" for those "in the know" is a 3-day, 317km cycle trip in the Rocky Mountains. This May, I almost did the Golden Triangle. Actually, what I did was more like the musical instrument triangle like they have in symphonies and grade 9 band: a triangle with one section missing from it.

A few months earlier, my boyfriend, Brent, suggested that we do the Golden Triangle. My response, naturally, was, "hmmm… perhaps I should buy a bicycle and learn how to ride it". I am a hiker, not a cyclist, but I was willing to give Brent’s vile activity a chance since he seemed to like it so much (he SO owes me cross-country skiing!). As the date drew nearer and the weekends of lip service piled up, I started to get nervous about preparing for the trip, so in February I bought my first bicycle and on March 16th, I actually took the bike outside and rode for a whopping 18km. The next several weeks involved intensive training in which I fell over with my feet clipped in, rode distance, rode up hills, rode fast, rode on highways, rode when it was cold, rode when it was warm (depending on your definition of "warm"), rode the day after snow shoeing, and rode the day after riding.

Since Brent lives in Edmonton and is a member of the Edmonton Bicycle and Touring Club (EBTC), we went with them instead of the Elbow Valley Cycle Club (EVCC) from Calgary. It had nothing to do with staying in hotels instead of tenting, and it had nothing to do with consistent reports from the experienced GT set that the EBTC direction (counter-clockwise) is easier than the EVCC direction (clockwise). Honest.

On Day 1 I felt ready! I had trained my you-know-what off and felt strong and confident. Skies were blue and the mountains were glorious. Being no dummy, I promptly made friends with Al, the support and snack van driver. We headed west from Castle Junction toward Golden, taking the Bow Valley Parkway, which is a very pleasant ride. Pulling in to Lake Louise 27km later, I raced to the snack van and grabbed a slice of orange, which turned out to be the best thing I’d ever eaten in my life! Next, I grabbed a homemade cookie, and lo, it was the best thing I’d ever eaten in my life! After the brief refuel stop, we got back on the road and continued to Golden. All 109km of it in one day, including climbing Kicking Horse Pass. Woo-hoo’ing down the other side of Kicking Horse Pass to Field I thanked goodness that I would not be faced with climbing that on the third day like our friends in the EVCC. The rest of the day was pretty much all downhill, including one steep sketchy stretch of chewed up shoulder not conducive to cycling at high speeds. Thankfully the drivers seemed generally happy and relaxed and we arrived in Golden unscathed.

Day 2, traveling from Golden to Radium, is on a smaller highway with far fewer transport trucks to scare the you-know-what out of you. Every advantage comes with a disadvantage, though, and the trade-off was the road condition: the shoulder was in poor shape and the road was a slow-going pebbly surface. We knew we would be crossing paths with the EVCC group and kept our eyes open to greet our friends. Amazingly, we spotted all of them in the 300+ EVCC riders that day.

Day 3 is the scary one: lots of climbing and an inauspicious weather forecast. I almost couldn’t sit back down on the bike seat in the morning, and as I tried to pedal out of the hotel parking lot, I wondered if I’d even make it as far as the base of Sinclair Pass. Somehow I got going, and when the incline came, I put on my "Grrr Face" and started climbing. Sinclair Pass out of Radium is a climb of 678m over 13.6km. I stopped to rest four times, but I had "mean" to spare and made it all the way! That morning, an experienced rider was warning everyone about the very last section – the Vermillion Pass descent. Brent had already told me about this– the shoulder is chewed up to the point that it is dangerous to try to cycle it and the recommendation is to take the lane on the highway and let the traffic wait behind you. I started to fret about that last section. I was almost out of "mean" by that point, "Grrr Face" nowhere to be seen, and was very tired and fatigued. Add to that the fact that, in spite of the training, I was still quite an inexperienced, green rider.

As we continued, I became more concerned, especially since the friendly, relaxed drivers of Saturday had become impatient, intolerant demons shooting "out of my way" daggers from their glowing red eyes. Some of them even made a point of trying to run us off the road, and at the very least, scare the beejeebers out of us. I mentioned my concern to Brent and he said that if I was nervous about doing the last section I should give it a miss. As I started to come to terms with ending my ride early… sissying out, as it were, I also started to bonk. I had come to the end of my "mean" reserve, which had been the only thing keeping me going that day. After about five kilometers of watching me drag my sorry butt up the gradual climb characterizing the middle of the day, Brent said the sweetest words I’ve ever heard: "I won’t be disappointed if you want to stop after the lunch break".

After lunch, we got in the van and rode the rest of the way, helping Al with the remaining rest/snack stop. As a nasty headwind chose that time to rear its soul-sucking head, and as I saw the downhill side of Vermillion Pass, I quickly got over my disappointment at quitting early and was just happy for the other cyclists who made it down safely.

Let's Do the Golden Triangle

2009-11-12T12:23:00.001-08:00

"Hey, let's do the Golden Triangle next May!" Sounds like an innocent enough suggestion, right? Consider, though, that the suggestion is coming from my boyfriend who has not only ridden the Golden Triangle before, but has also ridden across the country, from Vancouver to St. John's, in the last two years.

I know all about the Golden Triangle. The three-day, 300+km road ride from Castle Junction to Radium to Golden and back to Castle Junction (premier event of the Elbow Valley Cycle Club). I have friends who have done it and loved it. I, on the other hand, have never ridden a road bike before. I have never ridden with clips. And, let's face it, I'm a bit of a sissy.

So, once the panic subsides, what do I do? Troop on down to Mountainbike City and get set up with a Kona Dew Deluxe. I have to get the clip pedals. I have weak lungs and strong legs - better take advantage of as much of the leg power as possible. Warren the Wonderful Sales Guy won't let me leave the store without practicing clipping in and out for a half hour. I buy a trainer. It is, after all, February, and I'm not quite ready to hit the snow-covered streets with my new toy (aka torture device). I set up the bike on the trainer in my living room and I practice "riding", and clipping in and out, every day, going as long as I can before boredom drives me elsewhere (usually about ten minutes).

The next milestone: ride the bike on the ground. With it actually MOVING (the bike, that is, not the ground). Due to Alberta’s unusually late spring, I have to cancel my first two planned rides due to sub-zero temperatures and a foot of snow on the ground. Finally on March 16th I get out with the Calgary Outdoor Club to do an "easy" after work ride. And the ride would have been easy if it weren’t -2C with enormous ice patches and half-frozen puddles on the path. One of the riders informs me that most people new to clips generally fall over in them an average of six times. I tell her that I’m going to beat the odds and then five minutes later fall over with my feet clipped to the bike.

I don’t quite make it all the way on that ride – I turn around near the end with another rider. We’re both having trouble shifting and braking because our bikes are freezing up. My shifter is completely encased in ice, with five inch icicles hanging from it. I am extremely proud and thankful to have survived the 20km that I did manage.

That weekend I get out for a pleasant 37km ride with the Calgary Outdoor Club. No clipped-in-falls, no ice-encased bicycle, and a fruit slushy at Angel’s afterwards. Maybe this cycling thing doesn’t completely bite after all.

The week of March 23rd I realize that the big event is looming with only six weeks of available training and conditioning left. In desperation, I insist on going out to ride regardless of conditions.

On March 28th I cycle 42km. On the highway. With actual cars on it. With temperatures stubbornly remaining below zero, my toes and heart freeze solid after about the first five kilometers. On March 29th I cycle 47km. On the highway, again. More cars. More frozen toes. That’s 89km over two days, and I am pumped! Now all I need is to be able to do… um… WAY more than that… and in the MOUNTAINS. Piece of cake!

Legendary Ed

2009-11-12T12:22:00.001-08:00

If you’re a member of the Calgary Outdoor Club (COC), and even if you’re not, you’ve likely heard of Legendary Ed, COC’s 6’4"-tall, 87-year-old lean mean hiking machine.

Ed can hike circles around many of us half his age (and often does), and his mind is just as fit as his body. When he’s not out on the trail (which is several times a week, year-round), he maintains his daughter’s Gastroparesis and Dysmotilities Association web site (www.digestivedistress.com) and is a Director and Webmaster for the Calgary Outdoor Club.

I first met Ed when he was a mere pup of 84. He showed up for a hike carpool and proceeded to tease me mercilessly because the COC web site didn’t allow him to select his proper age – he’d had to list himself as 64 when he registered. I’ve fixed the web site, but the teasing hasn’t stopped, although Ed has broadened his repertoir of teasing topics.

Most of the first summer I knew Ed, I rarely saw him as he was usually registered for the moderate-paced hikes while I was relegated to my slowpoke hikes. I started to get to know him that winter, though, when he started snow shoeing with me. He came on one of the more challenging trips that I do – an unofficial route up the back side of Blueberry Hill in Kananaskis Country. On the way down, the slope was very steep and treacherous to try to descend with the snow shoes, so many of us were bumogganing down the hill. Ed was behind me. After one particularly speedy bumoggan section which required grabbing a tree half-way down to deflect/fling yourself through a 90-degree turn, Ed missed the turn, although he didn’t miss the tree. I looked back to see him, upside down and butt-backwards with one leg wrapped around the tree. My first thought was "oh, great… I’ve broken 84-year-old Ed" (this was before he’d earned his "Legendary" nickname).

Ed, of course, was ok, and those of us who hike regularly with him have come to realize that it’s just not a full day of hiking with Ed if he doesn’t have some kind of fall or accumulate some kind of boo-boo along the way. Maybe that’s got something to do with why I like him so much… he can make me look positively graceful in comparison. Over the past few years I have enjoyed many hiking adventures with Ed, including the West Coast Trail in 2007, and 140km of the East Coast Trail in Newfoundland in 2008. He is notorious for trying to choose a birthday hike that pushes his limits, but I always have to rein him in as his limits lie far beyond my own, and I wouldn’t want to miss out on the birthday cake (oy, the candles).

Legendary Ed is but one of the fantastically colorful characters you may meet out on a COC event, and contrary to popular assumption, he has not been a lifelong hiker (he took it up at around age 80). If you want a glimpse of what your future may hold (if you’re lucky), come on out for a hike with Ed, if you can get one of the coveted spots on the event. We slowpokes are grateful that he’s willing to slow himself down to hang out with us. We’re not sure why he does, but we’re not asking and Ed’s not telling. Maybe he enjoys the fantastically colorful characters he meets.

Yamnuska Scree Indulgence

2009-11-12T12:18:00.000-08:00

In the Calgary Outdoor Club, we do this thing that we call a "Yamnuska Scree Indulgence". We hike up the side of Mount Yamnuska, hike around the front of the cliff, and run down the scree, indulging in the fun without bothering to do the much more challenging scramble to the summit via the back side of the mountain with the scary cable section.

If you’ve never run scree, I highly recommend it. It is truly the most fun you can have with your gaiters on. All you need is a sturdy set of hiking boots, gaiters (to stop little rocks from creeping into your boots), a set of poles and an appropriate scree slope. An appropriate scree slope must be accessible (you can hike up to get on it), safe (not a rock slide, or other hazard), and consist of a deep layer of consistently-sized (bigger than a marble, smaller than a golf ball) rocks. You might say that I like my scree slopes like I like my men. I’m not sure, exactly, what that’s supposed to mean, but it sounded funny in my head. Our favorite is the slope on Mount Yamnuska, which you can see from Highway 1 west of the turn-off for the Kananaskis Highway 40. For our Yamnuska Scree Indulgences, we also take rock climbing helmets which we wear as we hike across the bottom of the cliff because of rock fall hazards.

In August 2004, I experienced my first-ever Yamnuska Scree Indulgence. There were twelve of us COC members on the trip, including a regular named Stuart, whom we’d nicknamed "Pooh" because he carries a little plastic Winnie-The-Pooh in his pack with him. On this trip, Pooh brought out two friends with him, both of whom were named "Leor". Now, without getting too sidetracked, I would just like to ask, WHO THE HECK KNOWS TWO GUYS NAMED LEOR!!?? Well, I guess, now I do. Anyway, Pooh brought two Leors with him, but no Tiggers, Roos or Piglets. The fog was so thick that day that we never did know for sure if we were on Mount Yamnuska, or in Wal Mart. The greeter in the blue vest did nothing to calm our fears about the latter. So, perhaps it was the fog, but I would have to say that the views from Yamnuska are slightly overrated. One hiker said it looked way better if you closed your eyes and remembered what it looked like last time you were up, but that didn't really help me at all.

We hiked up the somewhat boring (even more so when the views are obscured) east side of the mountain and then began the hike across in front of the cliff. This section of the hike is not suitable for acrophobes (oops, that’s me). There is a steep and slippery clay section that lies quietly waiting to smell fear on a hiker and then, when they’re partway across it tries to fling them into the abyss. Perhaps I’m exaggerating slightly, but it’s my story and I’ll tell it how I want. One hiker, more comfortable on that type of terrain, trooped across it as though it was his living room carpet, while a more patient soul waited with me, talked me through the terror, and used his own hiking boots to provide footstep "anchors" for me to make it across safely.

Arriving at the top of the scree slope, we peered out into the fog at the few feet of slope we could see, wondering what we would find once we began our run down. To run scree, you point yourself downward, and begin "running", leaning back slightly, digging in your heels, and letting your weight and the rocks under your feet work together as a team to form shelves or soft temporary stairs under you. It is a most thrilling and unusual feeling, and you can gain momentum to where you feel like you’d be completely out of control if it were not for the magical rocks of the slope cushioning and supporting each step. All too soon it is over, and you consider hiking back up to do it again until reality sets in and you consider the amount of work that would be involved in doing so. I have returned twice since for more Yamnuska Scree Indulgence, and am proud to say that I have learned to navigate the scary bit of slope all on my own, without crying or depending on others help me across. I just have to make sure I look straight ahead and keep moving.

Too Clumsy for This

2009-11-12T12:14:00.000-08:00

"Rhonda, you’re too clumsy to be doing this kind of thing."

"Yeah, Dad, I know."

"You need to start acting your age."

"Yeah, Dad, I know. What is my age again… 17?"

"No – 40!"

"Damn."

Perhaps my father is right… perhaps mountain biking is not the activity for me. I hope not, but I’ll let you be the judge.

Eight of us headed out for a quick mountain bike adventure at Jumpingpound Loop, west of Calgary in the Sibbald Flats area. I’m not much of a mountain biker. At the time I think I could still count on all my digits -- without taking my shoes off -- the number of times I’d been on a bicycle since I was 13 years old. And you know how they say, "It’s like riding a bike?" Well, riding a bike isn’t like riding a bike when you’ve barely done it in 25 years.

We all started out all riding together but it didn’t take long before the six guys decided Kelly and I were going to be left behind to form the "slow group". Before they left, my co-coordinator, gave me a challenge. Knowing that I was in competition with our pal Connie to see who could get the best scrapes and bruises, he jokingly added that he wanted to see blood on my legs by the end of the ride.

Jumpingpound Loop is a beginner/novice mountain bike trail. It is a short loop, shaped more like a figure eight than an actual "loop". The north section is a bit "technical" for a novice rider. I LOVE "technical". Navigating rocks, roots, turns… it’s all so much more interesting than boring old pavement. As I jostled and bumped my way along the trail, with its narrower track, steeper hills and sharper turns than I’d tackled before, I was having a great time, shrieking and laughing, my heart pounding, as Kelly patiently waited for me every few minutes.

Pedaling along the side of an easy hill, I slipped slightly off the trail onto the downhill slope… my ability to "colour between the lines" with a bike still needs some work. I toppled, slowly, off the side of the bike and went trippity-trippity-trip, down the hill, laughing as I went. There was a small tree to my left and which I grabbed to stop my momentum. I expected the bike to be lying above me on the hill in the grass. I felt something hit my right leg. I turned, and there was my right leg, wedged awkwardly in between the frame and handlebars of the bike. I grabbed hold of the bike and tried to pull my leg out, but as I pulled, I could feel resistance, and my leg stayed firmly wedged. I pulled again, thinking the bike was just caught on my pant leg, and then I could feel something poking out of my leg.

As it dawned on me that part of the bicycle had penetrated my leg and was now holding me to the bike, I called to Kelly for help. OK, so actually I freaked out and yelled incoherently to Kelly for help. Kelly, who’d proceeded on up the next hill to wait for me, came running back down. In revulsion, I grabbed the bike again, and pushed it forward to remove what turned out to be the ENTIRE brake lever from my right thigh.

Kelly didn’t want to leave me, but I insisted that it was more important that she go try to find the guys than to stay with me because I seemed to be, aside from a little impaled, doing all right.

Once Kelly left me I hobbled up to the top of the next little hill. When I got there I realized I had had the tremendous good fortune of having injured myself right at the intersection of the "loop" and that it was likely the guys would soon be crossing back through right by me. I mustered the courage, finally, to peel back my pant leg to see the open gash where the lever had penetrated, which you could look straight into and check out what cellulite looks like firsthand. There were flecks of what belongs on the inside of my leg now on the outside of my leg, and on my pant leg. It was fascinating in a horrific "I’m-sitting-out-on-a-biking-trail-with-a-large-open-wound" kind of way. I was pretty calm by the time the boys found me, and while my co-coordinator went to fetch his truck, a couple of the guys helped me walk out the short distance while the rest took photos of the scene and walked out my bike.

An important moral to this story: two people do not a "group" make. For safety, make sure you always have at least three people so that, if there’s an injury, one person can stay to provide care and first aid, and the other can go for help.

Heart Mountain Scramble

2009-11-12T12:06:00.000-08:00

In April 2007, at some friends’ urging, I tried my first-ever scramble -- an "easy" scramble to Heart Mountain near Canmore. A scramble is a steep hike, on and off-trail, not quite mountain climbing, but more than hiking. Our day’s destination was the top of a mountain distinguished by a heart-shape close to its peak (or perhaps that’s a different – female - body part, which my mom was savvy enough to suggest when I once indicated the heart to her).

With an experienced co-coordinator and several other Calgary Outdoor Club members in tow for my maiden scramble (many of them also being first-timers), I set out with too much hope and too little fear of what the day held for me. Everyone else on the trip had a lovely time and couldn’t wait to do more scrambling. That, however, was not my experience. Instead, let me tell you the true story of what happens when an acrophobe goes on a scramble.

You see, I have an intense fear of heights. I was assured by a few people who've done Heart that I would be OK on it... no serious climbing, no serious exposure. Apparently these people do not have a proper appreciation for just exactly how intense my fear of heights is (and, you may rightly say, I did not have the proper respect for it myself when I undertook this adventure). Of the 10-kilometre total distance I was scared out of my ever-lovin' mind for approximately four of those kilometres and clinging to the frayed ends of my comfort limits for another approximately two kilometres. I cried on Heart Mountain that day. I even hyperventilated a little. To everyone who has told me that I should at least try scrambling before I write it off as an activity, I have met your requirement and proved to myself, and six lucky companions, why I should not scramble.

Shortly after you start the Heart Mountain trail, a sign warns you that the rest of the route is a scrambler’s route and to be sure you’re prepared. Sure I was prepared with gear and knowledge. Emotionally, well, not so much. As the climbing got steeper and steeper, I knew I had passed my opportunity to sissy out when I lost my ability to look behind at what I had just climbed which looked remarkably abyss-like from where I was clinging to the rocks. Rumors of me attempting to smash my encouraging friend’s head with a rock at the summit may or may not hold nuggets of truth.

At least I had completed the hard part for an asthmatic like myself, the climbing. Alas, the worst was yet to come. Those who also have an extreme fear of heights will appreciate some of the odder symptoms of that phobia. In general, I am not able to get closer than eight feet to any kind of drop-off, and am not able to watch someone else get within eight feet of one without getting uncomfortable. If I do happen to get within the eight-foot limit, I get dizzy. My feet tingle. The world wobbles back and forth. I get butterflies in my stomach and have vivid visions of flinging myself over the edge. Incidentally, a friend who is also afraid of heights says it's her butt cheeks that tingle rather than her feet.

The route down included a fair amount of time spent walking down a narrow ridge (nowhere near my requisite 8 feet… on each side) snaking away into the distance ahead, made narrower, and more treacherous, by the remaining slippery snow patches on top. This is where the crying and hyperventillating occurred. The only thing that kept me going was an even stronger fear of staying up there.

Completing this scramble burns approximately 2,000 calories. I burned about another 4,000 just from sheer terror.

Little Bridget

2009-11-12T11:55:00.000-08:00

I have a new friend; her name is "Little Bridget". I’ve been taking her hiking with me a lot lately. I’m not really sure why she keeps insisting on coming, though. She doesn’t even seem to like it. She usually starts complaining about an hour into the hike and doesn’t shut up until well after it’s done.

"Little Bridget" is almost always around now. At first, I hardly even knew she was there. She kind of snuck up on me. I first noticed her hanging around about the time that I snow shoed with the Calgary Outdoor Club up the back side of Blueberry Hill. It was quite a remarkable and challenging trip, with steeps slopes and deep snow with an unfortunate rotten layer of old snow buried 2-3 feet beneath a bunch of wet heavy new snow. The conditions made our day very challenging, and also gave us the opportunity to experience first-hand how avalanches start and what it means to have a rotten layer of unstable snow underneath some heavier top layers. "Little Bridget" was pretty well behaved that day, but since then she’s become bolder.

I think "Little Bridget" might have issues. Have you heard of those people who are only happy when they’re being mistreated? I think "Little Bridget" might be like that. When I realized that she probably wasn’t going to go away on her own I decided that maybe I should try being nice to her, so I started paying her more attention, giving her nice long stretches and warming her with my heating pad. Funny thing, though, the nicer I am to her, the less she hangs around.

Sometimes I take "Little Bridget" down for a visit with Trent. Trent is my chiropractor and "Little Bridget" has kind of a love-hate relationship with him. I think it’s more "love", though, because as much as she complains during the visits, she’s pretty happy and quiet for a while after we go to see him.

"Little Bridget" didn’t actually have a name until I took her hiking in Arizona with my very good friend, Bridget (now known as "Big Bridget"). "Little Bridget" was so enthusiastic about hiking in Arizona – she wouldn’t leave me alone for a second. I’m pretty sure it was because she enjoyed Bridget’s company as much as I do, so I decided to honor my good friend Bridget by naming my new friend after her.

If you haven’t guessed by now, "Little Bridget" is not actually a person. She is the discomfort in my piriformis muscle… in other words, a pain in my butt. Not that I’ve bothered going to a doctor about it or anything, but since I’m such a brilliant self-diagnoser, I’ve decided that I don’t have classic sciatica because I’m able to control it with stretching and heat. Piriformis Syndrome is a not-yet-widely-acknowledged condition in which the piriformis muscle compresses or irritates the sciatic nerve, resulting in pain, tingling and/or numbness in the buttock, and radiating down the leg.

One of the best things about "Little Bridget" is that by giving her a name, actually giving her the name of my pal, has somehow made her more tolerable. She has taken on a life and a character all her own and I’ve learned that as long as I don’t take her for granted she isn’t too hard to put up with. She is my companion, and something to talk about when I have nothing else to talk about. Ultimately, though, I do look forward to the day when she decides to finally move on. That "Little Bridget" can be a real badass.

Introduction

2009-11-11T10:49:00.000-08:00

My mom has called me “Grace” for as long as I can remember, and no, it’s not one of those nice nicknames. It’s one of the ironic ones. Despite taking dance classes since I was four years old, I still have more than my fair share of episodes of clumsiness and have always been more of a, shall we say, ‘bookish’ person than a natural athlete.

Which, I think you’ll agree, makes me an unlikely candidate to have been the founder of the wildly successful and popular Calgary Outdoor Club, which is now entering its sixth year with more than 4,000 members, over 100 volunteers, and averaging more than 150 events per month.

In the early 2000s, I had been lightly involved in the Atlanta Outdoor Club, which was started by a friend of mine, but truthfully, my main involvement was in programming their web site. I rarely participated in the activities up until just before I returned to Calgary after my brief time in Atlanta. As I settled back in to life in Calgary I realized that I missed the AOC, specifically some of the friends I’d made, and missed having an active social circle. I tried to find a club in Calgary that would fill that need in my life, but after a year and a half of searching (and complaining about not finding one), I finally bit the bullet and posted a new website for a “Calgary Outdoor Club” (a knock-off, of course, of the Atlanta club web site). Then I pressured a few of my friends to join my new club-of-one and posted a couple of easy events.

Hiking, though, never occurred to me. I was more interested in rollerblading, river tubing (which I’d enjoyed in Atlanta), and going to Race City Speedway (you can take the girl out of Red Deer, but you can’t take the Red Deer out of the girl). I was so naïve about the outdoor scene in Calgary that I had no idea that hiking was actually a ‘big thing’ here. The mountains were something I enjoyed, but like too many Calgarians, I enjoyed them through my windshield on my way to work or Vancouver. It was my friend, Bridget, who suggested offering a hike as an activity, and rather than risk being a stick-in-the-mud, I thought OK, I’ll try a hike.

I had no idea what a kilometre was or how many of them you could reasonably walk in an hour or a day. Was an eight-kilometre hike really challenging, or was it a sissy stroll? It sounded pretty hardcore to me.

My first hikes with the COC could be described as gong-show, what-not-to-do examples. The very first one, which included simply Bridget and I, was a May trip to Jumpingpound Loop west of Calgary in the Sibbald Flats area, with melting, boggy spring terrain and stream crossings for which we were ill-prepared. Does a hike with just you and your friend even constitute a club event? I don’t think so either, but there it is, still proudly standing on our May 2003 calendar.

The second club hike, to Grotto Canyon near Canmore, included another of my pre-club friends and (how exciting) another person who was one of the first legitimate club members. It turns out Grotto Canyon is not hikeable in spring. The trickling stream of summer was a raging torrent and as we tried, unsuccessfully, to find a passable route, I wondered why it had been recommended as an ‘easy’ hike.

The third hike, to a place called Fir Creek Point south of Black Diamond, rather than being an actual hike was more of a ‘wander’ -- up and down the parking lot, glancing wistfully across the raging river at the hiking trail on the other side and wondering how we were supposed to get over there. Finally we gave up and went to the bakery for coffee and Nanaimo bars in nearby Black Diamond instead.

Things slowly got better for me (and consequently, the COC) with hiking, but thank goodness we started getting a few more – ahem -- knowledgeable people to start coordinating some hikes. Not that the COC is a ‘hiking’ club. Thanks to the great volunteers we’ve accumulated, the club also offers scrambles, backpacking, mountain biking, canoeing, kayaking, rollerblading, snowshoeing, cross-country skiing… the list just goes on. But hiking is a COC staple, and amazingly it has become a passion for me as I go stumbling around the Rockies.