Mount, Douglas.

Victoria, BC – Brighter than some of the faded leaves folded onto the ground, orange pumpkins lined Mount Douglas Parkway, their carved faces drooping more grotesquely at various stages of decay.

As we rose away from the road and into the forest, though, silence descended upon Mt. Douglas this morning.

We were surrounded by green lichen – a frilly dressing that enrobed the spires of looming fir. The forest floor was covered by dew-covered ferns, exposed root systems as designed by a Spirograph and pine needles that sutured the mud. Microscopic mushrooms, like seashells, clung to mossy bark. Beading holly welcomed the festive season, a little early.

All the while, our footfalls popped damp pinecones as if they had been tossed into a fire.

But we summited on the first sunny day I have had here, opening a spectacular panorama of the city.

Trailing the Juan de Fuca.

Victoria, BC – Empty, shiny shells shattered under our shoes, bejewelled, as we wandered around and over massive logs washed ashore like matchsticks on Botanical Beach this afternoon. The lumber was smooth, like softened leather.

The percussion of thunderous waves vaulting over submerged rocks created dissonance with the silence of the forest as we hiked part of the Juan de Fuca Maritime Trail. Ball kelp bobbed for cover, like mini speed bags, as soaring wings of water curled forward onto the smoothened shore with might. A ribbon of jagged peaks tinted the backdrop.

The crescendo: droplets expelled from the greater family, like glass tossed into the sky, only to rejoin the crushing pools below.

Such peace in the violence of nature.

Submitting to the Summit.

Victoria, BC – Seagulls rested, poised, as dying salmon struggled upstream to spawn.

Each breath brought another push, or another bite at an offending fish, as Chinook, Coho and Chum made the final push through the shallow waters at Coldstream, their bellies scraping against stones. Occasionally, there would be a great splash as a silver dart would summon the strength to sprint several feet, its tail slapping several others in the head. With its declining thrust, the current would reduce the salmon’s efforts by at least half and it would be dragged back to slower-moving pools.

It was often tough to watch these large fish, already picked-at and missing chunks of flesh, struggle so mightily. But Mother Nature’s resilience was also evidently on display – with no energy to push another foot farther, a salmon would lash out with sharp teeth at one trying to take its resting place. Survival of the fittest, children.

We were at the beginning of the trail to the top of Mt. Finlayson for the day’s hike. It rained and was relatively cool as we wove through steep treed sections and bouldered over waterfalls as we approached the summit. Some of the narrower, wet footholds with steep drops below reminded me that heights are not always my favourite thing.

We had a great view of grey when we reached the top of the two-kilometre climb, but as is so often the case, the hike was more about the journey with good friends than the destination. The sun decided to shine through the trees as we took the safer way down the mountain – an eight-kilometre stretch weaving past waterfalls, homes and fog-filled valleys.

At times, though, I felt I was moving as slowly as some of the salmon we had seen earlier.

Victoria, Victorious.

Victoria, BC – Five days, 4,436.8 kilometres, nine American states and two Canadian provinces later, we have arrived in British Columbia’s capital.

With the journey, I found new pleasure in Combos snacks and the west coast’s microbreweries’ winter beers. We saw far too many deer left on the sides of roads, but plenty more scampering about, with antelope, bison and big-horned sheep. The topography changed too many times to count. Mountains and oceans are happy places for me and I am in awe, still, at the Badlands of South Dakota. I continue to love Seattle, though the gorgeous weather lasted only until Washington, and rain greets me here, now.

But we have arrived. And Montana is finally behind us.

Vitals:

• Time: 13 hours (including ferry, waiting)
• Distance: 552.9 kilometres
• Weather: Rain, Cloud, Moderate
• States/Provinces: Washington, British Columbia
  
• Wildlife: None

Go West, Young Man.

Juan de Fuca Strait, BC – Driving through Washington this morning, the Earth yawned – its cavernous maw threatening to swallow us in an unexpected instant. Its breath hung in the canyon that opened below us, the glistening Columbia River flowing down its throat.

The air was crisp and fresh, and I stood in awe – mouth similarly agape. The world is so often capable of infinite beauty.

Continuing through the state, white-capped incisors bit the sky, the napes of hills blanketed in fall trees that resembled rust-tinted, upturned paint brushes. Weaving through the range’s curves, we encountered our first rain of the trip. Welcome to western Washington.

Arriving at Pike Place Market in the state’s capital, however, the bland palette of Montana was comp- ensated for with near- sensory overload from the bright colours of fresh vegetables and dried chillies, the pungent smell of herbs, confections and fish. Artisans created beauty from copper and leather, while neon signs winked as we passed.

A great lunch included fish tacos and Dungeness crab cakes. We climbed some of the country’s steepest streets, visited the first Starbucks and briefly saw the Space Needle.

Despite the persistent rain, everything seemed so fresh, so alive. However briefly, I rekindled my love affair with Seattle.

Open Letter to State of Montana.

Moses Lake, WA - Dear State of Montana.

You are such a tease. For hours, you taunt me with snow- capped mountains and scatter large pockets of deer and antelope throughout your vast lands. You have curves for miles. And miles.

And yet, you are 'Big Sky Country' precisely because you have nothing different to see on the ground. Sure, the topography sheds its skin from flat to mountainous, the land scarred by seismic shifts. But I can only take the browns, olive greens, grey and pale yellows of dry scrub for so many hours - even with high speed limits. I will concede, you have incredibly pretty moments, but then you beat me over the head with them, like the popular girl at the dance in grade 12. You then proceed to offer me hours of sameness.

And you, my comp- licated friend, are enormous. I have never seen so many hunting jackets. Or so few people (Montana has fewer than a million) in such a large space (America's fourth-largest state). Cows hang from cliffs and horses graze, seemingly without homes. Apart from that, there is nothingness.

I chide you because I love you in your own special way. The low fences point me into the horizon, leaving me with the anticipation of climbing the next hill and seeing something - anything, really. And being disappointed.

You have your charm and your beauty, but it gets swallowed in your never-ending hills of similarity.

Vitals:

• Time: 10 hours
• Distance: 698.7 kms
• Weather: Sun, Moderate, Cloud
• States: Montana (and more Montana), Idaho, Washington
  
• Wildlife: Deer, Antelope
  

Butte-iful.

Billings, MT - Despite a setback involving an illicit liaison between cars in Rapid City, SD this morning, the day continued to unfold as it otherwise should. Nobody was hurt and there was only minor damage.

We paid another visit to Wall Drug (a "76,000-square-foot wonderland of free attractions") and basked in the high kitsch factor, while resisting the urge to purchase something jackalope-related. Compared to the summer months, the town is relatively dead and many hotels and businesses in Wall have been shuttered as residents brace themselves for the cold of winter. It's entirely possible I saw a tumbleweed pirouette through town.

We then visited Mount Rushmore and peered up at large stone carvings of former Presidents. They won the staring contest every time.

Throughout Wyoming, yellow grasses swayed in the breeze like golden tresses set against flaxen camel humps. Matchstick electric poles stood delicately against the enormity of the backdrop: simultaneously enormous and miniaturized, as though part of a model.

As we continued in Montana, the scenery became tediously similar, yet subtly different - much in the way parents distinguish between their children. Passing through Lame Deer, MT, however, we laughed at its school, which is called: "Chief Dull Knife College." While I'm sure Chief Dull Knife was very likely an important man, there are too many jokes to be made about not being the sharpest knife in the drawer. Which have no doubt been made numerous times already.

Throughout Montana, however, we saw absolutely nothing. Nothing. It was dark before 5 p.m.

Vitals:

• Time: 12 hours
• Distance: 728.2 kilometres
• Weather: Sun, Moderate
• States: South Dakota, Wyoming, Montana
• Wildlife: Antelope, Deer, Grouse, Pheasant

Badlands, Badass.

Wall, SD - With the sun setting in a water colour of mauves and oranges, we wove through Badlands National Park this evening. It was like driving over the molars of giants. Or on the moon.

Though not my first time there, I had forgotten just how breathtaking its vistas are. Jagged rock, precipitous drops, a blue sky, hundreds of deer, bison and big horned sheep: what's not to love? This was truly one of my favourite road trip experiences of all.

In between, we visited the Corn Palace in Mitchell, which contains a basketball court (and hosted a Joan Jett concert recently, apparently) and is covered in folk art made from - you guessed it - corn. The design changes annually and was introduced as a response to Lewis & Clark's claim that nobody could make a living from the land here. It was first built in 1892.

South Dakota has been fun to drive through: flat, brown earth suddenly gives way to badlands and eccentric 'Wall Drug' signs pepper the landscape, lending it some colour.

Miles of sunflower crops stand, dried like disenfranchised youth out of a Tim Burton movie: once so full of colour, but now dark like running mascara, with heads bowed.

Vitals:

• Time: 12 hours
• Distance: 957 kilometres
  
• Weather: Sun, Moderate
• Provinces/States: Minnesota, South Dakota
• Wildlife: Pheasants, (hundreds of) Deer, Bison, Big-horned Sheep, Prairie Dog

Oh, Deer.

Winona, MN - Behind us, a seam split in the sky, allowing bare branches to take broad brush- strokes, tinting it peach. The break in darkness welcomed us to our drive to Victoria, British Columbia this morning.

Entering Michigan, we were confronted by a sign that advertised, "For all your deer processing needs." Really? Of course, this was soon followed by a woman driving an SUV, talking on her cellular phone with children in the back. And a large deer head sitting, hauntingly, in the passenger seat. I wish I was kidding. And that I wasn't haunted by memories of The Godfather.

We discovered that Wisconsin claims to be the birthplace of circuses. And carnies, one would suppose, though that's obviously less of a claim to fame. Crossing the Mississippi river, and into Minnesota, we were greeted by the beginnings of hills and sky of purple and pink wisps of cloud reminiscent of peacock feathers. Day one was thus complete.

Alas, we got no cheese in Wiscoooonsinnnn.

Vitals:

• Time: 11 hours
• Distance: 1,150 kilometres
• Weather: Sun, Moderate
• Provinces/States: Ontario, Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota
• Wildlife: Wild turkeys

The Road Home.

London, ON - While the sky had yet to blink, the road awoke to the bark of my engine at 6:40 this morning. Thirteen hours later, we would be home, the journey - and the adventure - complete.

Continuing the trend of the past few days, we basked in sun and warmth - at times, even heat - except during a stretch we knew would break when we emerged from a large pillow of fog that had settled into the valley around Killington, VT. Moving through the Green Mountains, we again enjoyed the curves and scenery, and particularly quaint towns like Woodstock, VT.

After a great breakfast with pancakes, whipped butter and homemade maple syrup at Sugar & Spice in Mendon, VT (artificial syrup, extra!), we made our way toward New York state on Highway 2. Arriving at Saratoga Springs, the casual riding ended and we hit the Interstate to make our way home more quickly. I cannot remember the last time I crossed the border at the Rainbow Bridge, but I marvelled at what an inviting panorama it presented to those coming into Canada - a great view of Niagara Falls, the mist rising into a cloudless sky.

And a few hours later, with a high-five - which had become our symbol of fraternity at the beginning and end of each leg of the trip - we were home, having covered a total of 4,778.7 kilometres. My windshield resembled a Jackson Pollock, the remains of intrepid insects who decided to box. And lost.

We, however, had made it.

Vitals:

• Time: 12 hours, 58 minutes
  Distance: 886.3 kilometres
  
• Weather: Sun, Warm
• States/Provinces: New Hampshire, Vermont, New York, Ontario
• Wildlife: None

Knuckles, White Like Mountains.

Lebanon, NH – The border guard at St. Stephens, NB, held my passport up, looked at it, then me, and said, smiling: "There's a striking resemblance." He added: "You riding with the guy behind you?" "He's my father; you'll notice a striking resemblance there, too," I replied. He chuckled in a way you don't usually see at larger border crossings in Ontario.

We had been on the road for a couple hours, traveling south in New Brunswick past some spectacular views of the Bay of Fundy, and had just stopped for breakfast. Our return home will include secondary roads through the United States until we get within striking distance of home.

From a bumper sticker pro- claiming "10 Out of 10 Terrorists Prefer Obama for President" to two guys sitting on a lawn covered in crossbows, long swords and other weapons for sale, it was obvious we were somewhere different. A lawn sign proclaimed "The Obamanure is Getting High" beside another with the old standby: "If you can't stand behind our troops, feel free to stand in front of them." I resisted the urge to comment on the irony that, as Commander-in-Chief, Obama is the head of troops for whom they were seeking support.

The winding roads, like veins, brought me energy as I challenged the switchbacks that wend through the White Mountains in New Hampshire and Vermont. Centuries ago, shoulders of rock shrugged, forming the magnificent hills we rode through today.

In their immensity, they remained indifferent.

Vitals:

• Time: 11 hours, 32 minutes
• Distance: 708.7 kilometres
• Weather: Sun, Warm
• Provinces/States: New Brunswick, Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont
• Wildlife: None

Strait to PEI.

St. John, NB – The fog hung like lace and not yet a minute out the driveway, I already wanted to take a photo of it hanging over a church in New Ross. Bundled against the cold, I resisted the urge.

It was still there by the time we reached the Shubenacadie River, which is fed by the Bay of Fundy, and somewhere you can raft on the tidal bore. It burned off during our walk from the parking lot, though.

Winding through the trees and past fog-covered lakes, the temperature dipped as low as four, and climbed as high as nine. My father reminded my aunt, uncle and me that his bike was equipped with heated grips and seats. For the hundredth time. We groaned. Then shivered. He grinned.

My nose welcomed the scent of a thousand Christ- mases as we passed through pine forests on our way to the ferry that would carry us across the Northumberland Strait to PEI. While we did not spend long exploring the province, I found it surprisingly underwhelming. I imagine my impression would have been different had we ventured more places and visited some of the beaches. It didn't help that I lost everyone in Charlottetown.

Crossing Confederation Bridge – the longest in the world over water that freezes – took all of eleven minutes, and so began our leisurely return home. We bid adieu to my aunt and uncle on the New Brunswick side and made tracks toward St. John. Still no moose.

Tired, we descended upon the largest city in New Brunswick – and oldest incorporated city in the country – during Exhibition time. Naturally. The dearth of rooms led us to cross town and end up at Hotel Courtenay Bay. Not so recommended, but it was a (dusty) bed on which to rest my weary head. Yes, that rhymes. I'm tired.

Vitals:

• Time: 12 hours, 12 minutes
• Distance: 619.1 kilometres
• Weather: Sun, Warm, Fog, Cold
• Provinces: Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, New Brunswick
• Wildlife: None

Turning the Tide.

New Ross, NS – Tail lights jigged like fireflies as we returned from an evening watching the sun set over Peggy's Cove, the full moon like another motorcycle's large headlight guiding us through the darkness of the forest.

Peggy's Cove is somewhere I always seem to go when I am here; for whatever the reason, it holds a special allure for me. It could be the beauty. As the sun danced across the curves of waves, the water shimmered like a woman in sapphire sequins – and large fountains alerted us to the presence of a pod of humpback whales swimming by, occasionally cresting the surface. What's not to like? It was a pretty cool way to spend an evening.

Given last night's events, we had a bit of a late start this morning, but enjoyed a gorgeous, sunny day by riding to the Look-off, Wolfville, Minas Basin – home to the world's highest tides, at more than 50 feet – Cape Blomidon and Hall's Harbour. In other words, it was a day of Bay of Fundy.

With the tide out, many fishing boats laid like whales, beached in red mud. I resisted the urge to use it on my skin – that's hardly the 'tough biker' thing to do.

I cannot stress how fun it is to ride the roads out here. Of course, time with family and the fact each of these spins ended with a lobster roll leaves very little to complain about.

Vitals:

• Distance: 385.8 kilometres
• Weather: Sun, Warm
• Province: Nova Scotia
  
• Wildlife: Pod of Humpback Whales
  

An Off-Day, Spent With Family.

New Ross, NS – Still feeling the effects of having had the wind slap my face on the way out, today was essentially an off-day from the bike, though we did get out for a quick tour around familial landmarks and to Chester Basin.

With my uncle, we stitched together the dashed lines of winding roads through the trees, and the cloudy morning eventually gave way to a sunny afternoon. These roads are some of the most fun I've had riding.

Instead of riding, we had a fabulous evening of mussels, bugs (lobster, in local parlance), frivolity and family. There may have even been a cold beverage. Or two. And a great, great time.

Vitals:

• Distance: 94.2 kilometres
• Weather: Cloud, Sun, Warm
• Province: Nova Scotia
  
• Wildlife: None
  

Home at the Cross.

New Ross, NS – The day awoke to ghosts of conifers bristling against the morning chill as we prepared for the long day of riding ahead.

Yesterday’s rain lingered and the temperature dipped as we climbed north in Québec – an average of 11 degrees is particularly cold on a motorcycle, especially when it’s wet. Set into a valley outside Lévi, an Ultramar refinery was lit up like a Christmas tree, with large balls of light covering each surface. It was incongruous with the natural setting surrounding it.

Even the mountains were wrapped in scarves of fog, but we started to become moderately warmer as we descended from Rivière-du-Loup, which was the northernmost point on our trip.

My highway peg fell off immediately after crossing into New Brunswick and I had to hike back down the highway to retrieve it. Naturally, an 18-wheeler had run over it. As I reattached my crippled peg in the visitors’ centre parking lot, a young couple from Ontario came up and asked if we needed some tools. “Mechanic?” my father asked. “Tire guy,” came the reply, accompanied by the right-sized ratchet. By this point, I had discovered the importance of being able to shift sitting positions while riding long distances.

Even New Brunswick refused to welcome us with blue sky, except for a 10-minute stretch lined by moose fences in the Appalachian mountains. In fact, it rained all the way to Fredericton before simply shrouding us in grey. Still, the scenery was like a Bob Ross painting on PBS. Only real.

I was nearly run over by a pickup truck pulling a trailer whose driver decided the left lane at a toll booth would be faster. It would have been, except I was there and had to remind him so with an angry blast of my horn. All in all, the drivers haven’t been bad, though.

As my gas gauge started blinking, chiding me for letting it get too low on a stretch of road that did not have much around, we took an impromptu side trip into Florenceville. On the plus side, we got to ride through a covered bridge – four times. Turns out the roads we were on were remote enough the GPS could not pick them up.

All day long, the road unfurled before me like film: each scene similar, but altered slightly and saved in memory for posterity. A girl took our photo as she passed, people gave us thumbs-up and other bikers waved from across the highway. It was pretty cool.

We had started to disbelieve in the existence of the sun, yet it was beginning to set beautifully as we crossed into Nova Scotia. We had expected to be hit by the remains of tropical storm Danny as we arrived, but, while 1,000 mm had fallen earlier in the day, it was clear this evening.

The end of the ride was particularly tough as we wove through the trees, knackered and so close to our destination. This area is the Balsam fir Christmas tree capital of the world and the winding and hilly roads were as dark as I wanted my eyes to be. It was my first legitimate 1,000-kilometre ride day.

At 7:30, we finally pulled up to Cottage at the Cross, which is managed by my aunt and uncle and is next to their house – and my father’s childhood home.

“Welcome home, boys,” my aunt said. Considering my dad grew up here in a house his father built, it was particularly fitting.

Vitals:

• Time: 13 hours, 41 minutes
• Distance: 1,094.9 kilometres
• Weather: Cold, Rain, Cloudy, Sun
• Provinces: Québec, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia
  
• Wildlife: None (Where, oh where are you, moose?)

The Wet Road to Québec.

Saint-Nicholas, QC – With a blat from the engine, we were off. It was 5:34 a.m., cold, wet and foggy. It was also a sign of things to come.

Already, the mist created a clear, beaded feather on my windscreen and a shiver set into my knuckles. Not once, though, did I think about scrapping the plan.

My father pulled out of the driveway behind me, having decided to ride part way – or so I thought. It was not until past Whitby, sitting in a Tim Horton’s, that he mentioned “By now, you’ve figured out I’m coming all the way, right?” I hadn’t, but welcomed the companionship. As much as riding can be a very individual experience, you remain part of a greater community.

The storm was particularly strong in Napanee and the only slight reprieve we had the whole day was between Kingston and Cornwall. With low visibility, I did not have the opportunity to see much: the sky was washed out, seemingly covered in giant scoops of paste. My windscreen had become a grey kaleidoscope of shifting, hypnotic droplets. Apart from the fossilized skeleton of the Canadian shield as you approach Ottawa, it's not like Highway 401 is the most visually stimulating of roads at the best of times.

Having had some difficulty finding a room north of Québec City, we’ve stopped at Hotel Golf Stastny, a large yellow house nestled in the trees, run by former Québec Nordiques great Marian Stastny. It’s a nice place, but I would have been happy anywhere that had a bed and a hot shower I could stand in for an hour in an attempt to finally warm up.

It was a day filled with the smell of rain, the feel of rain, the look of rain. It was my first time riding through Toronto. And Montréal. It was also the longest ride of my life.

My knuckles and knees are stiff from the cold, and I am utterly exhausted. But, in a perverse way, I loved today. Well, most of it.

The adventure is underway.
Vitals:

• Time: 14 hours
• Distance: 989.7 kilometres
• Weather: Rain, Cold
• Provinces: Ontario, Québec
  
• Wildlife: A wild turkey and Queen's University students

The Open Road Calls.

London, Ontario - Since buying a motor- cycle, and subs- equently seeing the movie One Week (which contains a pretty good Canadian soundtrack, I might add), I have been fidgety to set out on the road for a substantial bike trip.

Unleash the freedom of two wheels: take pictures in front of the "world's-largest" everything. Stop at every fifth Tim Horton's. Finally see a moose in the wild – from a distance. Pull up to a scruffy diner – try the meatloaf. Count the trees – and lose count, time and time again. Reminisce about how nice it was to have a map or a GPS beside me – then remember it's about the journey. Whine about having a sore rear end – and have nobody there to hear it. Eat seafood. Visit family.

Rinse, lather, repeat.

Pending developments with Hurricane Bill, which currently has the province in its sights, my headlight should be pointed toward Nova Scotia in a week's time. It's a drive I've done before by car, but will be the farthest I've gone by motorcycle. By a lot. It's a challenge I welcome, albeit with a healthy degree of trepidation. I may also ride the Cabot Trail, which comes highly recommended, and potentially return through Vermont – which, strangely, given the extent of my travel through the US, is the northernmost state I have yet to visit.

Vroom, vroom.

Sigh.

London, Ontario – 4,300 kms. One week. Five crab cake sand- wiches, one chicken fried steak and 17 mini cheddar corn muffins. Nine American states. Home.

Dribbling Down Tobacco Road.

Charleston, WV – The rains chased us into West Virginia’s mountains this evening. The rolling, green landscape is gorgeous, but would have been more so had I not had to worry about navigating the g-forces of continuous steep curves on slippery roads as brake lights blinked like an alarm clock.

Oddly enough, this is the only state in which we’ve witnessed a travel boom and had trouble finding reasonable accommodation – everywhere else, we have been told hotels are having troubles filling rooms. The mountains are pretty, but it’s still a little strange.

Even billboards have reflected the economic downturn, with a series of churches seeking to attract to their flocks by playing on depression arising from mounting debts and related troubles. Troublesomely, another cried out in large block letters: “Tell the recession where to go!” beside a six-pack of Miller High Life. That’s right, just drink your problems away. Seems logical.

We spent the day walking through the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill (Go ‘Heels!) and driving through Duke University in Durham. It may be that I work at a university, but I’m always intrigued to walk through other campuses – I love the feeling. We thoroughly enjoyed being at UNC and realized we could very easily imagine ourselves working there. Duke's campus was also stunning.

As a basketball fan – and one who appreciates one of the great rivalries in sport that exists between UNC and Duke, which are only 10 miles apart and regularly among the best college teams in the nation – this was a part of the trip I looked forward to. Unfortunately, the Smith Center was closed for renovations and I did not have time to visit Cameron Indoor Stadium, home to the Blue Devils and some of the nation’s craziest fans. I did, however, get to visit the Tar Heels’ basketball museum.

Combined with the size of sports complexes at our American counterparts, the fact the University has a large museum dedicated to one sport underlies the amount of time and money invested in the business of athletics in the United States – particularly compared to the system here. Given the heated rivalry, I had a good chuckle when I found a letter from Duke coach Mike Krzyzewski to a high school-aged Michael Jordan, expressing regret that Jordan had decided not to play in Raleigh.

Of course an item like this would end up in UNC’s museum – the Jordan kid would go on to a passable basketball career.

Vote for Pedro.

Aberdeen, NC – Passing each other like old acquaintances, the sun set with a tip of its cap to the fog that rose over crops of corn, cotton and tobacco as we drove along highway 501 in North Carolina this evening. Deer glanced casually at the road before continuing to pillage the farmer’s field.

It was my favourite part of the drive on our trip so far.

Earlier in the day, large colourful billboards broke up the endless green of pine trees for a couple hundred miles leading to the North-South Carolina border. Containing bad puns, offers for the biggest fireworks store in the world and a Mexican caricature named Pedro, the signs were rendered all the more hilarious by the giddiness of having sat in the car so long through storms and otherwise unchanging scenery.

The billboards for South of the Border, SC are remin- iscent of those that guide you through the barren landscape to Wall Drug in South Dakota, albeit with a distinct Mexican flavour. The latter, however, bears the slogan “Where the heck is Wall Drug?” South of the Border, advertising an amusement park, arcades, restaurants (“You never sausage a place”) and hotels makes you ask “What the heck is it?” Not to mention, “Is that what it’s really called?”

Finally running out of signs, we approached South of the Border and were greeted by enough neon per capita to make Nevada blush and a giant sombrero tower. Of course we were.

Somehow (and perhaps unfortunately), we didn’t stay.

The Beauty of History.

Charleston, SC – Right down to the Battery, the quiet of Charleston's historic district is punctuated only by the occasional sharp strike of horseshoes against the stone streets. These are, after all, just people's homes.

In the carriages that follow, tour guides provide historical anecdotes in a slow, welcoming drawl as effortlessly as if they are telling you about a family member while sitting on one of the city's many verandas, sipping a cool sweet tea. You get the sense even the horse would even be dignified in carrying-out its business.

Palmetto- lined roads frame colourfully painted homes that boast the impressive gardens and ornate ironwork for which Charleston is known. Outside each, it seems, is a placard describing how the centuries-old edifice was once a market, then a school, a government building, a hotel and how it is now a single-family home. It's rare to find such untainted, uncommercialized beauty in today's cities.

In some ways, it is also hard to imagine this city absorbed the blows of the revolutionary war for three years and that the civil war started here. It is also the birthplace of the submarine.

What a gorgeous city, wrapped in a history text.

Nags Head to Charleston.

Charleston, SC – Signs warning of bears lined the road along Alligator river as we took a gorgeous drive south from North Carolina’s coast this morning. Alas, we didn’t see any, though the area is apparently one of the last remaining strongholds on the eastern seaboard for black bears.

Their hiding may have something to do with wearing a fur coat in this humidity.

Cutting inland toward South Carolina after making our way through Roanoke Island, we threaded through a series of long bridges – including a draw bridge that stood at full mast to let a pair of sailboats through – that stitch the many islands to the mainland.

We stopped in the former Swiss settlement of New Bern, NC, which is most notable for being the birthplace of Pepsi Cola. The unassuming pharmacy in which Caleb Bradham concocted the fizzy drink during the 1890s exists as a Pepsi shop today and even serves fountain pop.

Reaching South Carolina, we hoped to see some of the old plantation houses, but had our hopes dashed every time we saw the word ‘plantation’ on a sign – it seems the term is used for everything down here: golf courses, communities, shopping malls, hotels and gas stations. Nothing like embracing your history.

We also had our first stretch of poor weather tonight as we appr- oached Charles- ton. Severe storms are flexing their muscles along the coast north of here, but we experienced some torrential downpours along the way, including one that caused the temperature to drop 12 degrees in the span of just five minutes.

Making it into the city later in the evening after some 700 kilometres on the road, some locals recommended Jim ‘N Nick’s Bar-B-Q and we were very pleasantly surprised by the southern chain restaurant’s offerings. The little cheddar corn muffins they brought out are among the most delectable things ever. It also afforded me the opportunity to finally have some pulled pork on this trip after several days of seafood.

Both of those options, my friends, make me very, very, happy.

Been there Dune That.

Nags Head, NC – With a great gust from the puffed cheeks of a frowning sky, our plan to go hang gliding in Kitty Hawk – where the Wright brothers flew the first airplane – was blown from the air today.

We had registered to be towed up to 2,000 feet by a small airplane and to glide over the coast for fifteen minutes, but the winds were too strong and threatened to carry us out to sea. Better than safe than sorry, they say – after all, my name is hardly Icarus.

Instead, we went hiking in Jockey’s Ridge State Park, which is home to the tallest natural sand dune system on the eastern seaboard, varying from 80- to 100-feet high. With the sun beating down, we climbed (and climbed) and ran across the dunes as colourful kites snapped to attention in the sky overhead. It was a magnificent sight and, remarkably considering the parks back home, free to enter. Bonus.

With the heavy humidity, though, sand bound to sweat and I soon resembled a giant sheet of 60-grit sandpaper.

Despite not being a driving day, we still inadv- ertently ended up covering 500 kilometres in the car as we drove throughout the area and along the Cape Hatteras National Seashore to the Hatteras lighthouse, which is more than 100 years old and, in a major feat of engineering, was moved to a new location in 1999. At 208 feet, it is the tallest lighthouse on the eastern coast. What is it with us and ‘tallest' places today?

Throwing an ‘oldest’ to match, we had dinner at Sam & Omie’s in Nags Head, which opened in 1937 and is the oldest restaurant in the Outer Banks. We also had the best crab sandwich at Fat Boyz in town and spent some time down at the beach this evening.

on nature's marquee

The pelican dances
with the curled fists of waves –
fury vs. finesse,
the rising tide vs.
swoop and glide:

a vintage pugilist’s dream.

vii.29.9

Boogie-ing, But Not Bored.

Nags Head, NC – The mercury crept north to a thick 27 degrees even without help from the significant humidity. And the clock had only just struck 9 a.m.

With that notice plastered in sweat to our arms, we knew were in for some heat today, but it was nothing a dunk in the ocean boogie boarding at Nags Head couldn’t solve.

The day began with a drive through Virginia, where we stopped at the Calvin L. Adams Country Store, an eclectic little shop in an area where the first peanuts were grown in the United States. With antique cleavers, farm implements and cigarette labels lining cluttered walls, there was plenty to look at. And, to an outside observer, much of it seemed pretty random. Cardboard boxes of country cured ham (heads) rested by the front door, giving the air a spicy smell. Stuffed dear and bear heads stared back at us, their gaze frozen despite word bubbles taped below. Groceries, peanuts, baked goods and small boxes of seed cotton filled every nook and cranny.

We also chuckled at a couple signs along the way:

• A sign between Richmond and Norfolk, Virginia advertising a “Pork, Peanut and Pine Festival.”
• A gun store in Ivor, Virginia with a sign that said, “If size is an issue, get a bigger one. Get a .45.” (Got to love the right to bear arms.)
• A bumper sticker that said “Hunt WITH your kids, not for them,” in Windsor, Virginia. (Let’s hear it for family values.)
• Another bumper sticker with "Oh no no no" and a crude caricature of Barack Obama with an X through it. (Could it be we're in the south?)

After a fun drive through the Virginia country- side and along the North Carolina coast, we arrived in the Outer Banks and promptly found our great bed and breakfast, the Relax Inn, in Nags Head. Highly recommended. After an oyster po’ boy for lunch and a trip to the beach to boogie board and otherwise succumb to the crashing waves while large pelicans swooped in for a snack, the day was complete.

Not to mention a success and, at long last, an opportunity for a break.

Volant to Virginia.

Glen Allen, Virginia – Between brick homes with more history than my country, cicadas shrill like car alarms. The air is heavy, but breaks at dusk. Richmond, Virginia carries itself with an understated charm: a tall marble and brass statue of (Southern) civil war hero, General Robert E. Lee, looms over a central roundabout and the streets are lined by mature trees and magnificent colonial homes. Incongruously, a significant number are boarded up. Virginia Commonwealth University’s buildings branch out into the community’s narrow, streets and past a disproportionate number of tattoo shops.

It was a nice evening for a drive, particularly as the sun set across a vast sky, wispy and coloured like cotton candy.

We arrived in Virginia after 688 kilometres of driving through Pennsylvania’s gorgeous rolling hills, a brief jaunt into Maryland and a slow crawl through Washington D.C.’s traffic. Here, a crab cake sandwich awaited.

Earlier in the day, we visited the community of Volant, PA, which purports to be an Amish community, but really seemed only to be an attempt at commodifying the ‘other’ (how many true Amish products contain xanthan gum?). It was quaint, but seemingly manufactured, with kitschy crafts and manicured window boxes.

Under the Shoulders of Giants.

Meadville, PA - From London to Woodstock, tall shoulders of darkened clouds loomed menacingly in front of us, backlit by short, staccato flashes. But the sky shrugged as we turned south toward bluer horizons.

Headed to the Outer Banks in North Carolina - and possibly as far as Charleston, South Carolina and Savannah, Georgia - we took to the road this afternoon and put 427 kilometres under our tires, to just north of Pittsburgh.

Neglecting to check that the GPS was set for “fastest route,” rather than “shortest route,” Hamilton became our foil as we negotiated construction and the madness of Steeltown’s streets. Not the prettiest way to begin a journey.

Farther along, a series of rainbows arced over the trees that lined upstate New York’s rolling roads – prisms set against the charcoal-smudged canvas above. On the I90, the best sign of the day advertised “Fireworks and Karate Supplies.” Only in America.

Not until the last half hour did the rain catch us as fog seeped from the forests and a pink smear descended in the sky. At that, the tires stopped spinning for the day.

Fin.

London, Ontario, Canada – Mounds of snow rest on the side of the road, blackened like smokers’ teeth. The listless wet grass mopes in faded browns as the swollen river climbs the banks.

Where is all the green? The statuesque trees cloaked in bright leaves? The rolling fields of tea, shimmering in the sunlight? The lizards, scampering under rocks, covered in moss? Where is the mashaza?

Alas, this is not Rwanda. Back in Canada, spring is yawning, but not yet awake.

I returned yesterday afternoon and spent my first day home at the Ivey Eye Clinic. Examining the results of Sunday’s crash outside Kigali, the doctors shook their heads, marvelling in amazement at just how lucky I had been. “Unbelievable.” It turns out I have a 4.2 mm laceration on my cornea that went so deep it came within a micron (a thousandth of a millimetre) of penetrating my eye, leaving me blind on the right side forever. Lucky indeed.

The current prognosis is yet unknown, but there’s hope I’ll regain at least some of my vision while the eye heals over the next six months.

It may not be green, but at least I can see something. And I still have the cold rain to remind me of Kitabi.

Day 44: Lasting Memories.

Kigali, Rwanda – Kigali, Nairobi, Amsterdam, Detroit, London. As I sit in Kigali International Airport with my departure nearing, I am struck by what I am leaving behind.

I have munched on my last succulent brochette skewered on a fresh stick of green bamboo in Nyanza. I’m done driving through the towering hills of Nyungwe in darkness (while standing in the back of a flatbed truck as the cold air makes my knuckles chatter). I’ve said goodbye to Richard, Daniel and Jethro – and to great staff at KCCEM. For now.

I’ve seen my last tropical rainstorm that sends people scurrying for cover, like ants. I’ve cupped my way through my last shower from a basin and breathed my last waft of a field of eucalyptus. As we passed, it shimmered in the sun as though it were winking. I’ve felt my way through my last blackout and spied the last of the swaddled babies poking their heads out of the backs of their mothers’ kitenge.

The ‘tea girl’ has brought me my last morning tea in my office and the women at the canteen will no longer ‘forget’ to return my change. I’ve quaffed my last Primus. And Mutzig. I’m down to my last remaining bills of ‘mafaranga’ and will no longer feel the buzz of the clippers at the ‘saloon’. And certainly not at foreigner prices.

The last wide-eyed child has stared at me, pointing tentatively while calling me ‘muzungu’. Followed by ‘good morning madame’ or ‘agachupa!’ or ‘give me money’. I’ve watched my last banal programme on Africa Magic television and finished joking about ‘mashaza’ and ‘My Sandra’. At least until the emails begin.

No more will I be stuck behind petrol trucks that struggle to inch up each and every one of Rwanda’s thousand hills. No more Impala minibuses. The sharp cut of horns to alert children and bicycles weaving onto the road will no longer fill my ears. I’ve driven the road to Kigali one last time.

I’ve seen the last of the low-lying cloud hanging over the hills and taken the last picture from ‘the spot’ in Kitabi. I've seen promise for great things from KCCEM. I’ve witnessed the last Rwandan vista whose beauty surpasses the last. Last day, last look at homes perched seemingly impossibly on the edge of hills, last pair of clean boxers.

But this is just the beginning.

Day 43: Ode to Kitabi.

Kigali, Rwanda – With the amount of rain Kitabi gets, it was appropriate my eyes misted over at having to say goodbye to its rolling tea fields and looming backdrop of Nyungwe National Park yesterday morning. It has begun to feel like a second home, and I am remarkably at peace there.

Look closely and you’ll see that each of Rwanda’s ‘thousand hills’ is covered by slightly different vegetation, the result of human impact, different altitudes, mineral deposits, water absorbance, etc. From vast fields of banana palms swaying in the breeze to forests of coniferous trees, the country is painted with chlorophyll.

Unlike much of Rwanda, however, Kitabi is located in a poor region for agriculture. Its drier soil is fine for producing tea, peas and tubers like sweet potatoes, but tropical fruits are hard to locate. When we did not travel, food variety waned.

It makes me appreciate how hard it is for the predominantly poor residents of the area, most of whom are unable to travel to markets an hour or two away. Moreso, it makes me realize how lucky were are at home to simply go to any number of grocery stores and select anything we feel like having from around the world.

Kitabi: you are more to me
than rolling carpets of tea,
than a silent
forest of green.

You are somewhere I have grown
and grown to love,
somewhere that gave me breath
and took it away.

I am changed by your change,
and changed by your same,
and believe I came to love
my home away from home.

Day 42: Blood Diamonds.

Kigali, Rwanda – Like diamond pixie dust, shattered glass flew into the cab of the truck and I was left pulling a shard out of my right eye as blood began trickling down my face. I flattened myself against the front seats as a dump truck loaded with sand hurtled past with a baritone rumble.

Its brakes had failed.

Previously, a raging storm had felled a large tree across the road, forcing us to stop, beginning a long procession of vehicles behind us. We were first on the scene.

As young men hacked at the tree with machetes and an axe, a growing cry rose from vehicles behind us. Jethro and our driver Leonard managed to scramble out of the vehicle as I wondered what was happening. Climbing out of the back seat, I opened the door in time to take a face full of glass.

The tree laying across the road splintered into a billion toothpicks as it was hit by the truck, which flipped onto its side. If it hadn’t hit the tree, the cars on the other side would likely have been decimated. Amid cries and people rushing about, a number of locals came over to see that I was alright. The truck driver did not wear so much as a scratch.

Though I cannot currently see out of my right eye, the prognosis from Dr. Bategeximana at King Faisal Hospital in Kigali was that trauma from the impact will subside and that there was no damage to the cornea itself. Already, I see (literally) a bit of improvement.

(Update upon returning home: it turns out the glass came within 1/1000th of a milimetre from puncturing my eyeball and has actually made a 4.2 -milimetre incision in my cornea.)

Given that tomorrow marks 12 years since I was involved in this on my first night in New York City, I've decided I should no longer travel during the last week of February.

It could have been a lot worse. Ironically – and mercifully – I was the only one injured in the accident.

Could it be because I'm a muzungu? Or are forces conspiring to keep me from leaving?

Day 41: An All White Affair.

Cyangugu, Rwanda – Between the preacher’s rapid-fire Kinyar- wanda and the deafening din of driving rain against the church’s tin roof, I had little hope of understanding. But when the entire church turned in my direction with probing eyes, I knew something was up.

The bride was not the only one in white.

The preacher had said something to the effect of “We have a very well-attended wedding today – we even have a muzungu.” Having driven up a narrow hill being repaired by the community, it became obvious this village had not hosted many foreign visitors. It was said I was likely the first in Gihundwe Parish church.

Sitting to my left, Claude reached out and shook my hand, saying “Welcome to God’s church.” I learned then I was to acknowledge the congregation with a two-handed wave. To my right, children literally sat on top of each other on the edge of the pew opposite, trying to sit closer to the muzungu attending the wedding. The rest of the bench was empty.

I was honoured to join several colleagues from KCCEM for our colleague Laurent’s wedding today in Cyangugu. The new family had had their traditional wedding a couple weeks ago and now joined another couple being married in the church. I had never before seen two marriages conducted simultaneously.

In contrast with the overt joyousness of weddings in Canada, bride and groom were predominantly stoic during the ceremony. The young woman of the other couple even appeared frightened. Veils were lifted, but there was no kissing the bride. People clapped and said prayers, and hymns were sung. Vows and rings were exchanged and handycameramen manoeuvred around guests with a handheld spotlight. The same, yet different, and incredible.

Likewise, I found the reception fascinating and attempted to interpret the meanings of various ceremonial acts, which included a first meal and cutting of the cake (incongruously, as artificial snow was sprayed from a can). Again, the emcee made a point of sprinkling references to the muzungu in his monologue and looking in my direction with a big grin. A young child crawled off his mother’s lap and under the chairs, apparently disinterested with the occasion.

For me personally, it was an amazing cultural experience and I was deeply grateful for the invitation. I wish Laurent and his new bride the very best for their future together.