After Great Falls, I rode to Salt Lake City. I wanted to visit Arches National Park. There is a dirt road that cuts across it. I thought I would have a great time (with my newly improved riding skills) and take great pictures.

At SLC, I chose a hotel only a mile away from the Triumph shop. An oil change was due. The hotel entrance worked like a one-way road. The vehicle at the front of the line was, I believe, making a delivery at the hotel. I parked behind it to check in. A couple of vehicle parked behind me as they checked in. All very standard stuff.

Instead of pulling forward, the vehicle ahead of me decided to go backwards, trying to catch a sort of side exit. (The vehicle was at the front of the line, and it could have simply driven forward and taken the normal exit without having to wait for anyone.) The driver backed into my motorcycle, twisting the front end and nearly taking out the kickstand.

As I was checking in, a hotel guest walked in and informed me that someone had backed into my bike. The bike was not drivable. Emotionally, I was crushed.

The driver admitted fault. He said he saw my bike behind him, yet he got distracted and, well, things just happen. He shared his insurance information, and I started the lovely process of dealing with an insurance claim.

The next morning, I slowly rode to the dealership. I had to hold the handlebars in a crooked position so the bike would go straight. I was told that getting a damage estimate would take 3 to 5 days. (It was a Friday. The shop closes on Sundays and Mondays, so the earliest I would receive an estimate would be Tuesday.) Moreover, the insurance adjuster won’t call me for a couple of business days, and I can’t approve the repairs without him inspecting the bike first. So, I rented a car, drove to a few stores and purchased the biggest duffel bags I could find, took everything off the bike (including the rackless bag system), headed to the airport, and flew home.

I feel like I left something undone—like I left the iron on at home and can’t stop thinking about it. I am also not certain how I will retrieve the motorcycle. I may need to fly back to SLC and ride it home.

This is not how I wanted to end things. However, all things considered, it has been a wonderful trip. I really appreciate everyone who has been been reading and leaving comments. I feel like a bunch of friends were with me on the journey.

God bless y’all.

Every time. Every single time. My adventures always end up on a tow truck, a U-Haul, or a trailer. I try to avoid it. I religiously keep up with all recommended maintenance. But is there anything that says Canadian adventure more clearly than getting towed at a Tim Hortons? I can’t complain. All is well that ends well.

My chain continued to disintegrate on my roughly 20-hour ride from Whitehorse to Edmonton—the first place I could truly fix the problem. I had to adjust the tension a couple of times. (By the way, I went from never having done it to F1 pit-crew speeds.)

When I was about 175 miles from Edmonton, I adjusted the chain yet again, but it started to make a terrible noise. I called a friend for some advice, and we decided it was unsafe. Maybe I could make it. Maybe I would get really hurt. So I called a tow truck.

I waited a few hours at a parking lot in The Middle of Nowhere, Alberta. Finally, a young man showed up with the truck you see in the picture. We loaded the bike and got going. The drive to Edmonton took well over three hours. However, we had great conversation on the way. We discussed politics, religion, everything. Yup, all the no-no topics. I mostly listened. I love hearing the perspective of someone local.

He also shared the most fascinating story about finding Jesus. After his wife left him, he felt God (although he was not a believer) guiding him to hike the Appalachian Trail. He was already in his late twenties, and it all seemed insane. Providentially, he was able to go. He turned his emotional pain into physical pain (his words, not mine), and found believers along the way that guided him to Christ. It was an incredible tale. (I skipped over most details because I do not think it is my story to tell—at least not online.) It made the tow ride worth it.

I was dropped off at a hotel just 3 km from the motorcycle shop. I felt confident I could ride at least that far. The hotel was in the g.h.e.t.t.o. I feared for my motorcycle, but it was 2 AM and all I wanted was to crawl into that probably-bed-bug-infested bed.

As I walked towards the hotel entrance, a disheveled woman smoking a cigarette looked at me and said, “You are handsome.” I was surprised, probably blushed a little, coyly smiled, and walked in the hotel with a little extra pep in my step.

Oh yeah, she was definitely a hooker. But I didn’t immediately realize that. And, I’ll take my wins wherever I can find them. When I saw my face in the mirror later that night, I smiled at my handsome self.

The next morning, I slowly rode to a car wash and power washed my bike. (As an accountant, I do not want your shoe box of receipts. I can only assume that a mechanic similarly does not want to work on an oily, grimy, disgusting bike.) Then I slowly rode to the dealership.

The service department was cordial and professional. They installed a new chain while I secretly walked around the dealership pulling on every motorcycle’s chain. Now I have a great sense of proper tension. I may be an idiot, but I can learn from my mistakes.

With a new chain, it was a new me. I rode to Great Falls, Montana. I am back in the USA!

Now, I must decide on my way back. I can’t quite make up my mind.

Yesterday morning I arrived at the motorcycle shop in Whitehorse a few minutes before opening. Two older gentlemen were already there, also waiting for the shop to open. They were in their sixties or seventies. They had called ahead and ordered tires, and now only needed them mounted.

As soon as the place opened, we went inside. I stood behind them in line as they explained to the service tech that they had ordered the tires ahead of time but were not able to make their Friday appointment (it was now Monday).

The tech—without an ounce of warmth—looked at these two older guys and simply retorted, “We are full today. You missed your appointment.” After a little hesitation from the customers, the tech added, “You can take off your own wheels and we will mount the tires. There are center-stands out front.” One of the old men asked, “Do you have tools for us to use?” The tech answered, “No.”

Then it was my turn. Great.

I stepped forward and said, “I think you may have already answered my question.” The tech replied, “What’s the problem.” I began to explain, “After riding the Dempster Highway, my chain nearly came all the way loose. I think I fixed it, but I need someone to look it over.”

Ignoring the immediate problem I had raised, he looked at me and dryly asked, “When is the last time you oiled your chain?” “I did it when I left home,” I answered. He added, “You need to do it every 4,000 kilometers,” and continued to chastise me as if I were a 12-year-old child. F-bombs and everything. (In my defense, yes I did let it go for over 4,000 miles. But it had only been ten days! I simply didn’t think of it.)

After listening to how f-ing stupid I was (a tone-appropriate summary of what was said), I explained that I only needed him to look at the chain. If he could tell me whether it was too tight or too loose, I could take it from there. He at least consented to that.

The chain was too “f-ing tight.” Then he grabbed the chain and chastised me for the lack of grease on it. To add insult to injury, the tech walked over and touched the chain of one of the old men’s bikes, and continued to chastise the older man for the same reason. (Again, in my defense, the grease came off when I power-washed the bike just the day before! But I did not explain.)

So, what you see in the picture is all the customers fixing their own bikes out front. What would have happened if you didn’t know how? Presumably you would have had to make an appointment for a week later and booked yourself a lovely vacation in the Yukon.

But the story does not end there. Recall that the shop did not provide tools. I had purchased what I needed the day before, but the other customers had not. I adjusted my chain, lubed it, and fully loaded my bike. I was ready to go on a nearly 11-hour ride for the day, when one of the older gentlemen asked me if I had a certain tool he needed. I was not certain, but I was certain I would have to unload everything to check.

This was a spiritual moment. As I worked on my bike just minutes earlier, I thought to myself, “This is what a world with no pity looks like.” Sure, a bit melodramatic, but true nonetheless. Yet, when the older man asked me for help, my first instinct (even if I did not say it) was to decline. I had such a long ride ahead of me! I wanted to get going.

I instantly recognized the hypocrisy in me. Here I was throwing mental stones at someone for his lack of mercy, but my own heart did exactly that when given the opportunity. The Lord treated no sin more harshly than hypocrisy.

I unloaded everything to reach my tool box. I did not have what the man requested, but I had two other tools he needed. I realized they would require them for several hours. So, I gave the tools to them.

Then, they saw the large 1/2 inch drive I was carrying—the one I purchased the day before to work on my axle. I explained that I could not give that one away because I might need it to tension my chain later. Again, I checked my own hypocrisy. I gave them the tool and explained that I would ride to Canadian Tire and buy another. I asked if they needed any other tools. I bought those too, brought them back to them, and finally went on my merry way. I was confident they would go on their merry way soon too.

By the way, the point of the story is not my own good actions, if any. Mostly, I wanted to convey the desperation of the people there (by the end of the whole saga, three more older gentlemen were in the same situation), and warn future riders. If you go to the middle of nowhere, the “final frontier” in the North American Continent, be prepared to rely solely on yourself. No one is taking pity on you.

I arrived at Fort Nelson. My chain is fine. I traveled the Alaska Highway (as opposed to the road I took on my way north). The Alaska Highway is amazing. All the twists and turns one can possibly want, going through forests, rivers, and gigantic alpine lakes. The best motorcycle road I have ridden during this whole trip. I also saw many bears, caribou, goats, and some porcupine looking thing. Again, amazing ride.

When I left Dawson City towards Whitehorse, the bike started acting strangely. When the RPMs exceeded 4,000 (which is not much for a motorcycle), the bike seemed to “fart” and lose power. (I know, I know, hardly a technical description. But it is experientially accurate.) At first I thought it was the gas. I always fill up with premium, but I had to use regular in Eagle Plains. I had a car that behaved this way if I didn’t put 93 in it.

I lowered my speed and mostly kept the issue from happening. After filling up twice with premium gas, I ruled out the fuel theory. My next theory was the air filter. Dempster Highway is extremely dusty, and the OEM air filter on the Triumph Scrambler is not great. I thought the bike was choking for lack of air.

I kept my speed low until I made it to Whitehorse, which is the big city around here. I headed to a self-service car wash. I figured I would wash the bike, which was disgusting, and then attempt to pull the air filter and clean it.

After the power wash, I started riding to dinner, and that’s when I realized my prior theories were definitely wrong. The dirt and mud must have deadened the sound, because without them, there was a loud and unmistakable clanking sound when I downshifted at the stoplight.

I immediately pulled into a gas station and encountered what you see in the picture. The chain was so loose, it looked kinked. Luckily, the sprockets still had teeth.

How did this happen? The hundreds of miles of rough dirt rode clearly adjusted things. However, remember that the Triumph dealership recently installed new tires for me. They obviously forgot to tighten a few things.

If you know me, you know I am not mechanically inclined. I called a good friend who is a great mechanic, sent him the picture above, and asked him to walk me through the process of tightening the chain. (I know. The fact that I don’t normally service my own chain brings shame upon my household. I have no excuse. I should be tarred and feathered.)

But knowledge was not the only challenge. Loosening that big nut on the rear axle requires a rather large tool (27 mm socket and a long 1/2 inch drive to achieve proper torque). I do not carry such a tool with me. (I also needed 13 and 12 mm wrenches.)

I googled the nearest Canadian Tire—a weird amalgam of Lowes, Academy, and Best Buy. It was a block away! I left the bike at the pump and ran to the store, quickly buying what I needed.

My friend walked me through the process of tightening the chain. It took me a while. Again, make fun of me. I deserve it. But the bike is operational!

I will take it to a motorcycle shop in the morning. I want them to look over my work. A loose chain can destroy the sprockets. A tight chain can snap and cut off your leg. So, I do not mind paying for some expert help.

But, like with my near-death experience, I cannot help but thank the Lord. Whitehorse is the only place within hundreds of miles where I could have resolved this issue somewhat easily. And, having a mechanic friend willing to sit on the phone for an hour is an equally great blessing.

Here’s to friends. I’ll prepare your taxes, you fix my bike.

After that very long 14-hour ride from Smithers to Whitehorse, I had another nearly 14-hour ride from Whitehorse to Eagle Plains. Eagle Plains was the “final boss” in my mind. The road turns to dirt in Dawson City. I am not a skilled rider, particularly on dirt. My bike is heavy and is fully loaded. I tried to pack light, but I knew it would be tricky (for me).

I had hyped up the challenge in my mind, so when I arrived at Dawson City I did not spend the night as most riders would do. I needed to rip the band-aid off. Instead, I rode until nearly midnight on that darn Dempster Highway. It took me forever—nearly 6 hours—to make it to Eagle Plains. But I made it. This was a major personal victory.

The other challenge regarding that same dirt road is that there is nothing between Dawson City and Eagle Plains, a stretch of about 400 km. Nothing. Motorcycles generally do not have the range to make it. So you need to carry extra gas. I did that, and it went well. (Actually, my bike made it there with 9 miles of range to spare without needing the extra gas. On the way back, I did need to top off my bike midway.)

The next morning I got up and headed towards Inuvik. I was exhausted. I had done nothing but ride for 10 days. On the dirt road, I had become very tense, and my shoulder was killing me. As I thought about the road ahead—two more days of dirt and cold, hoping for good weather, worrying about gas, and staying in crappy motels—I must admit the excitement had worn off.

As I had nearly arrived at Ft. McPherson, a thick mist rolled in. The temperature dropped to the 30s, light (but freezing) rain was coming down, and visibility was so poor that vehicles were traveling at 20 MPH with their hazards on.

I was cold. I was tired. I was miserable. At that point, the only reason to continue was to “earn the badge.” Don’t misunderstand me: I would have loved to dip my toes in the Artic Ocean. Anyone who has made it all the way, has my full admiration. But I had two options, turn back to Eagle Plains and wait for better weather (other riders I met told me they never encountered weather below 50), or just throw in the towel. I chose the latter.

It may seem like, “I was so close!” But close to what? I have challenged myself. I have ridden more and further than I ever have before—all solo. I traversed through all of British Columbia, the Yukon, and made it into the Artic Circle and the Territories! I am very happy with that. Would I like to say I made it to the Artic Ocean. Absolutely! But I am an adventurer for fun. I was not having fun at all. I want to go home.

I must add a positive note. On my way back to Dawson City, my dirt riding had improved dramatically. It seems like all one needs to get better at it is to do it for 16 continual hours, with no way out. Funny how that works. I was traveling at 50 to 65 MPH on that loose-gravel road. It felt amazing.

This post almost feels like the adventure is over, but I still have a 10 day ride back home!

For more pictures, see these two notes:

I didn’t post for a day because I needed to focus on riding. I was a little behind schedule, and I intended to remedy that. Yesterday I rode over 14 hours. I have never done that before. The road was great at times, not-so-great at other times. A fair amount of construction interrupted the flow. The scenery was beautiful, though.

Oddly, where I am seems quite familiar to me. I have been at the other end of the world several times, and one place is certainly reminiscent of the other. When you find yourself at these extreme latitudes, your body simply knows there is something “wrong.” The sun shines brightly, high in the sky. It is certainly a summer sun. So why isn’t it hot? Normally, the answer is altitude. But as you look around, you see that you are well below the tree line—in fact, you cannot see a tree line. So, what gives? Then, you must be near the North or near the South. I am not saying you make this analysis consciously, but you reach the conclusion nonetheless. I felt exactly like I feel when I am in the south of Chile.

The tales of wildlife are not exaggerated. I have come across three bears. Two of them were little, but one wasn’t. It was big enough to dispel any ridiculous man delusion that I could protect myself (without a gun or bear spray) against such a creature. I also encountered a very large elk (at least I think it was an elk) and a bald eagle, eating roadkill in the middle of the road. I was only a few feet away from it before it flew off. I will probably never have a chance to see a bald eagle from that close again.

But all is not fun and games. I nearly met my demise. I was riding on Highway 37—a two-lane, winding road, often with no markings, and certainly without “shoulders” or berms—when I took a blind corner. To my left was a drop off of some kind (as you drive north, a river or valley is generally to your left), and to my right was the rocky side of a tree-covered hill.

As I come out of the corner, two vehicles are facing me. A box truck is in its proper lane, and a car (I believe a Prius) is in my lane, attempting to pass. (This is a no passing zone, with blind corner after blind corner.) The car is immediately next to the truck, and only a few hundred yards from me. I am probably going 50 MPH, and so are they. I instantly know that even if the car driver slams on his breaks, he cannot get back in his lane before we collide. There is nowhere to go. The car cannot veer off the road. There is literally nowhere to go. To his right there is a box truck. To his left there is a rock wall.

Except for the help of the Lord Himself, that immediate realization saved my life. I did not hope for the car to do anything. I was certain it couldn’t. I slammed on both my front and back brakes. The bike wobbled, but the ABS did its job. Without thinking, I aimed for the only space available. I lane-splitted between both vehicles headed my way—meaning, I took the middle as I traveled 40 to 50 MPH one way, and two vehicles, each only a couple of feet from me, traveled the same speed in the opposite direction. It was Fast and the Furious nonsense.

It ruined the next couple hours of my ride. I had a pit in my stomach.

I thanked the Lord for keeping me safe. And that car driver should have been praising God as well. If I had done anything except for what I did, he would have killed me. If I had been in a car, we would have had a head-on collision, and he probably would have killed himself, his passengers, and myself.

But I made it to the Yukon! I never thought I’d say that. The Yukon seemed like a mythical place, like Siberia or Cincinnati. We all know these places are not real. Someone has to put them on the map to keep up the ruse. But, I can confirm: at least the Yukon is real. And it is wild.

Yesterday (July 8, 2025) I got new tires in Lethbridge. I had ordered them weeks in advance, and the shop knew I would be stopping by. They were extremely gracious and put me in front of the line. However, the tire change took much longer than I expected. I was not able to leave Lethbridge until about 1 PM.

I quickly booked different accommodations from what I had planned. The lodge was more expensive than I wished, but there is not a lot to pick from around Banff and Jasper. The lodge was located as far along the road as I thought I could travel given my departure time. (I have been afraid that if I get off schedule, and I do not return to work on time, my bosses will demote me from the widget factory back to the widget mines—where they only serve cold porridge and, infinitely worse, coffee brewed from pre-ground beans.)

I rode fast and barely stopped. That is partly why the pictures I am posting are absolutely mediocre. Nevertheless, I am not sure I could have done much better even with more time. The road through the Canadian Rockies is obviously reminiscent of the Colorado Rockies—but it is massive. The roads in Colorado travel through narrow valleys, and often go up the side of the mountains. The road here seems to stay at the very feet of the mountains, so they tower before you. The valley itself is so large, it seems to swallow you whole. No picture would do it justice. Any one feature, like a turquoise lake, is beautiful and worthy of sharing, but the real beauty is in the grandeur of the entire scene. That, I cannot capture in a photo.

Here’s my travel advice. Banff is beautiful—no hot take there. But if you only make it to Banff, then you have missed the best part. The road up to Banff feels like a highway, mostly straight and fenced on both sides. It is the curated Disney version of the Canadian Rockies. Once you take the turn to Jasper, though, that’s when the adventure begins. You immediately lose phone signal. The road becomes narrower as it winds down a gigantic valley. The experience is emotional. It feels as if you are entering a vale so colossal, surely it has no end. And if it has an end, surely no man can know its bounds. You suspect you are entering a land from which you can never return, like Anodos walking into fairyland.

If I had to return home today, my motorcycle journey would have been quite worth it. If, like myself, you are addicted to motorcycles, the road from Banff to Jasper is the fix you are after. The sights, the smells, the perfectly maintained road—oh yeah, this drug hasn’t been cut with anything. Whatever I say about it is not enough. You must come snort this yourself.

I had not been to Canada in 25 years. I was too young to notice back then, but now I am old enough to realize this is definitely an elaborate prank. Canada looks just like Montana (no surprise there), but with monopoly money and every other word is misspelled. They post distances and speeds in kilometers. I bet they sell gas at the pump by the pint! Also, the variations in accents are wild—like, they didn’t even make sure all the actors could talk the same way. Nope, I am not falling for it.

But I guess I can enjoy it all the same. As one would expect, everyone has been inordinately nice and polite. Lovely place, lovely people. I am confident that will be the case throughout my travels. I love their Canadian spirit, too. My hotel is “proudly owned by Canadians,” the super store is “real Canadian,” and the flag is everywhere. There is something deeply comforting about people loving their community, even as an outsider.

On the downside, I had to fill out paperwork to buy bear mace! It was kept behind the counter at the gun store. I am probably in some sort of registry now.

I get new tires tomorrow. They are 50/50s (50% on road, 50% off road). Waiting for the shop to open also gave me a day off.

Tomorrow I hope to make it to Jasper National Park. I feel like that’s where the real adventure begins.

I camped at Badlands National Park. The spots are first-come, first-serve. The only amenities are two outhouses.

I set up my comically small tent, inflated a sleeping pad, rolled out a sleeping bag, and then chucked all my stuff in the tent (I was not concerned about bears). The result was what you see in the pictures: a motorcycle and a tiny tent that barely fit one guy. (Everyone else had multiple tents, coolers, chairs, or even travel trailers. I truly looked “ultralight.”)

For dinner, I had two tins of “fish.” I am using that term liberally. Technically, one tin was sardines and beans, and the other was oysters. Both delicious. It will leave you hungry, though; but, I didn’t have to cook.

Breakfast was great. I rehydrated some oatmeal and brewed fresh coffee. When I first showed a picture of everything I packed, I included a normal V60 in the image. But it didn’t fit! I was distraught. So, I found that “rollable” V60 you see in the pictures. Packs super small and makes coffee just as good. I also replaced my Hario paper filters for some thicker ones. (I strongly prefer thicker filters, which is why I normally brew a Chemex.)

So, everything went great. But, man am I old! Riding all day, to set up camp, eat dinner, get up, take down camp, make breakfast, and then ride all day, is no joke. If anything, it is sort of a medical exam. I tested positive for old age. I may adjust my trip accordingly.

If you want to see more pictures of the Badlands, check out the “Notes” section of my Substack. I took pictures with my Fuji XT-4. I am no professional, but I was happy with the images. They convey the mood I was feeling.

I am already in Wyoming. Maybe I will cross to Canada today. Maybe. It’s a long way.

I noticed the storm building to my left (South), quickly stopped on the side of the road and looked at the radar. I had a few minutes before it hit me. I picked up the pace (but in case anyone asks, I absolutely kept my speed within legal limits; any evidence to the contrary is probably fake), and I made it to the nearest town with time to look for shelter.

Valentine doesn't have much, but it is certainly better than getting rained on out on the road. I'm at a gas station/McDonald’s doing what any reasonable man would do: eating their eminently superior fries.

On the bright side, this is giving me time to write a quick post and thank a friend.

I have a meager collection of whiskey, but I have a friend with a world class collection. I'll let you guess how much it's worth, but whatever number you have in mind, double it, then double it again.

He is quite generous and has allowed me to taste some of the most exclusive whiskeys one can dream of. Last time I visited him, he sent me on my way with the neat little contraption you see in the picture. It's a softish case, that holds a glass, that holds a sample of whisky. He filled it with William Larue Weller, a $1,600 dollar bottle.

I was saving it for a special occasion. Last night I shared it with a good friend I had not seen in 8 years. (That's why you see a second glass.)

The whiskey was great. The moment was better. But the chance to appreciate another person's grace towards you, now that's the best.

Just like people feel awe at the stunning rice fields of Vietnam or the paradisaical Philippines islands, I am struck by the corn fields of Nebraska—the perfectly laid out, bright green plants breaking only for grain elevators and the occasional simple and unassuming church. You can feel the community as you drive by it on a perfectly flat and turn-free highway. It feels amazing.

The same goes for the cotton fields of West Texas, the endless grassy plains of Oklahoma, the solitary desertic grounds of New Mexico, the Alabama forests, and, of course, something like the California redwoods or Colorado Rockies.

I always feel like I am experiencing a dream, exploring an exotic land full of beauty, kind people, and perfectly designed travel amenities.

Omaha, by the way, does not disappoint. I had no expectations. I’ve never heard of anyone traveling here for some luxurious vacation. But they should. The city is beautiful, seamlessly blending the old with the new. If anything, it seems a little too bougie.

I am headed to the Badlands. Have a happy Fourth. We really do live in a dream. I am constantly grateful I was able to join this great nation.

Whenever I have to prepare a really sophisticated tax return—picture K-1s with information in box 11, foreign transactions galore , and activity in multiple states—I put it off for days. The whole while I can’t stop thinking and stressing about it. When I finally get started though, it ends up being kinda fun. I know I am not breaking any new ground, but the getting started is the hardest part. So I am glad to get it over with.

Today, I start in Northwest Arkansas (the land of Wal-Mart and Tyson), and I head to Omaha (the land of . . . corn?). I have to dress in my waterproof getup, because I have nowhere to carry it. I will be hot for the next few days, but I will be quite grateful later.

I have never been to Nebraska, and I can honestly say I am excited to visit.

I have been looking for campsites along Highway 37 in British Columbia. When I travel, I don’t make reservations—they stress me out. I also try to avoid videos and other information about the place. If some unspeakable danger awaits, I rather find out when I am there. Let’s face it, we wouldn’t have done half the things we have done in our lives if we knew how difficult they would be.

However, I have been trying to find campsites with showers. I also want to know how I check-in and pay for campsites. Apparently, many of them use an old form of currency called “cash.” And I think they mean that monopoly money people jokingly call dollars in Canada. Cute.

But then I came across the advisories above. Canada needs better PR. Fire that social media guy immediately and hire Noah, the Gen Z kid. I mean, those advisories are actually informative. A grizzly bear is stalking the campsite! No, no. It needs to say, “You’ll Never Believe What is Hunting Down the Campers!” The click-baity title will, ironically, keep me from clicking on it, and then I can continue to live in blissful ignorance. Canada’s tourism industry could explode if they took my advice.

But really, though. For some reason, those advisories scared me just a little. To know that bears are a general threat is one thing; but, to know that grizzly bears (specifically grizzly bears) are invading a specific campsite made it seem entirely too real.

I have a feeling I won’t be sleeping very well.

The t-shirts are 88% merino wool, 12% nylon. The undies are 93% nylon, 7% spandex (ladies, don’t look!). Socks are 35% merino wool, 36% polyester, 27% nylon, 2% spandex. Pants are 75% nylon, 16% spandex, 16% polyester. The warm layers (both first and second layers, beanie included) are exclusively merino wool. The puffy jacket is 100% nylon, filled with 90% down, 10% waterfowl.

As a life-long hiker, I have a strong preference for wool and nylon. They stay dry and—most importantly—don’t get smelly. Polyester will stay dry as well, but its scent will make the trip lonelier than it needs to be. Cotton is great for the office, but in cold, rainy weather, it will kill you.

The coffee set up revolves around a v60. There is a small grinder, the v60, a “strainer” that helps with the pour, a cheap scale, a titanium kettle, and a double-wall titanium cup. I spent my Saturday afternoon dialing in the coffee that I am taking. (I have two bags. The second bag will stay sealed until the trip.)

The toiletries are nothing special, but they have been repackaged in minimalist ways. All a boy needs is body wash, shaving cream, sunscreen, and toothpaste. Don’t tell my employer!

I am taking canned fish and fruit bars for my meals. I intend to eat out whenever possible, but I will enjoy having breakfast or dinner at camp from time to time. The picture also includes the most delicious thing in the world: wafers. However, life is a cruel mistress. The wafers didn’t fit! I had to take them out! If I die eaten by a bear, this will be my one regret.

I haven’t posted pictures of my tent, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, and a handful of other items. But, everything I am taking—literally everything—including the panniers themselves, weighs 80 lbs. I could have packed 10 lbs lighter, but 80 is still about 200 lbs lighter than the average hot blonde I pick up at the bar.

I am ready for adventure!

I intend to record my motorcycle travels for family and friends to enjoy with me, and I also intend to pepper the site with ridiculous ideas. I enjoy writing. I don’t do it much because the world is in constant need of accounting, and I am in constant need of a paycheck. Nevertheless, unfulfilled loves burn even hotter, and this site may be an entertaining outlet.

If you read this site, I must provide a fair warning. I love whimsy. At least in spirit, I feel as if Lewis Carroll and G.K. Chesterton had a baby and raised him up to be equally versed in 2010 valley girl talk and 1920’s British English, and then allowed him to roam strange corners of the internet late at night. In Dungeons and Dragons terms, I am fully chaotic neutral.

I prefer a proper and rather closed style of punctuation, but you should expect quirky grammatical choices as well as purposefully uncultured diction and perhaps even incorrect orthography. And no, this is not an attempt to mask errors in my writing; I fully intend to weaponize the I’m-foreign card for those instances. (I also will have no time to edit my writing.)

I hope to write thoughts and observations that come to mind as I travel. Some will be serious, some utterly preposterous. I assume anyone reading can tell fact from fiction and, most importantly, has a sense of humor. Just know that if I say something by which you feel particularly scandalized, I probably didn’t mean that part, but if you feel like my commentary is specially profound and insightful, then I definitely meant that part.

Down the rabbit hole we go!

I started to plan an adventure to nowhere Canada—some town in the middle of Saskatchewan where the road ends. It seemed like a wild adventure. I thought about it for days. I started dreaming and planning. But then the question popped into my head: why stop there? Why not go farther? Why not go as far as possible? Is there a road that reached the Artic Ocean?

As it turns out, since 2017, there is! As far as I know, the Inuvik–Tuktoyaktuk Highway is the only way, and so it became “the plan.”

Maybe I will get there, maybe I won’t, but now that the thought is in my head, I am going to try.