In Cow Bay, Prince Rupert, southern British Columbia, Canada
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Cow Bay comouflage
October 7th, 2011Breakers Pub
October 7th, 2011
Breakers Pub in Cow Bay, Prince Rupert, southern British Columbia, Canada.
Pioneer Backpackers Inn
October 7th, 2011Pioneer Inn Hostel from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Ken finds his hostel in Prince Rupert, but has time to kill before it opens. The joys of a ferry that docks at five in the morning..
Drippy Prince Rupert
October 7th, 2011Drippy Prince Rupert from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Ken finally makes it back into Canada, the port of Prince Rupert in British Columbia… First impressions aren’t good..
Southbound from Haines
October 5th, 2011
Ferry made with at least twenty minutes to spare. I’d have arrived a bit earlier but had taken a short detour into downtown Haines to find a working ATM. Hadn’t encountered a single one during my travels in Canada. The few that did exist were either empty, offline or just refused my card. The only consolation being the wide acceptance of US dollars, but this had almost depleted my small stash.
I needed more cash otherwise I’d be surviving at sea on cold porridge. But the one ATM in Haines I could find had just be refilled and, the teller explained, wouldn’t be available for a while. Quickly explaining I’d a ferry to catch, could she dispense me funds from the till? She could, and she did, but with such a methodical slowness I could barely contain my frustrations. Glacial.
But now I was at last onboard. Trusty steed secured down on the car deck. Luggage stowed in the cabin. A sign in the shower asked passengers – and crew – to refrain from using the facilities in harbour. Just a small holding tank. Pondered this briefly, then decided the exertions of the previous couple of days justified an exception.
The ship would take me south along Alaska’s Inner Passage – or Inside, I could never quite remember – a relatively sheltered coastal route along fjords and amongst a multitude of islands. Strong tidal streams and treacherous waters. Forty hours or so and I’d be back into British Columbia, but now a thousand miles or so closer to Vancouver on Canada’s west coast. But it would still leave a further thousand to ride to reach the city, and the short hop over the border to Seattle.
A few stops en route. Juneau, Alaska’s capital. Petersburg, Wrangell and the charmingly named Ketchikan. Finally Prince Rupert in the early hours. Deep joy.
Roadhouse breakfast
October 5th, 2011
There are several reasons to stop at the Thirty Three Mile Roadhouse, a short distance along the Haines Road over the US border in Alaska. Their magnifient breakfasts are one. The other is Gabriela. Warm smile. Greeted me enthusiastically as I wandered into the small cafe.
An elderly chap sat in the corner. Baseball cap, tinted glasses. Couple of bikers, in their sixties, their heavy leathers showing little signs of wear. I took a window seat, contemplating the menu and sipping the hot coffee I’d been given. Which, I enquired, was the largest option? Explaining I’d not had an evening meal the previous day, and had already covered thirty or so miles by nine. I was hungry.
Order placed, I contemplated the road ahead. Thirty three miles to Haines. But then, I discovered from a road sign a little way back, a further five to the ferry port. Thirty eight. Average ten miles an hour if no headwind. Should be fairly flat. Call it four hours. Check in by two. Just after nine now. Needed to be back on the road before ten. Then focused riding.
Breakfast arrived. Hot cakes, bacon, mini-burgers, eggs, toast, hash browns. More coffee. And, yes, Gabriela explained, she could fill my flask for later. Did I want more to eat? I hesitated briefly. Extra toast would be good. Once underway they’d be no time for stopping if I was to make the sailing.
The day had at least started better than the previous had ended. Still a bit mystified as to who the men in the pick-ups were that had come close to stumbling on my camp. They’d not returned, or at least if they had, I’d not heard them. An innocent episode, or, so close to the border, a small fragment in a wider intelligence jigsaw? But I’d not been able to get the plates, even less a description of the individuals.
I’d risen at dawn, struck camp and headed for the border. Soon rising out of the thick mist. Discovering I’d spent the night a little short of a decent sized lake beneath the Three Guardsmen mastiff. A few brief climbs but mostly long, sweeping downhills. Soon back below the treeline.
Reassured by Canadian Customs that there was no requirement for an exit stamp in my passport, a further quarter of a mile to the US border post. Greeted by a friendly guard. Purpose of my visit he asked? Sat astride my trusty steed, I explained I was cycling around the world, North America my fourth continent. Cursory check of my documents and I was on my way. Time to find breakfast.
Three Guardsmen mastiff
October 4th, 2011Three Guardsmen from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Ken finally sights the Three Guardsmen mastiff before pressing on south towards the US border and the ferry south from Haines…
Strange events at Three Guardsmen
October 4th, 2011Pick-up I thought. One. Or was there a second? Then voices. Two, perhaps three, people. Close by. Out of the vehicles. Had they seen me? I wasn’t sure. I hoped not. And what exactly were they doing here? There was nothing – and nobody – for miles. Except for the US border, maybe twenty miles away. It didn’t look good.
I’d been asleep for a few hours. Woken by the engine noise nearby. At first worried they might inadvertently drive over my camp. I’d followed a rough track off the highway, found a secluded spot and pitched the tent amongst some bushes. Concealment as much as shelter from the wind. My bright red food bag was a short distance away, but well hidden.
Contemplating their motives, I’d found myself dwelling on the relative closeness of the border. Smugglers perhaps? Seemed plausible. And worrying. They’d hardly want witnesses. Considered my options. To hand I’d my bear spray, a field knife and my emergency satellite phone. Knew exactly where I was in case I needed to summon help.
But what to do? I was vulnerable in the tent. But, in the heavy mist, it seemed that, despite their close proximity, they’d not spotted me. Probably weren’t expecting to encounter anyone out here, and my green tent hard to spot. This at least gave me an edge. Surprise. If they stumbled on my deserted camp they’d have no idea who they were dealing with, or where I was.
I looked at my watch. The border would soon be closed so almost no chance of traffic along the nearby highway until the morning. Quietly collecting my warm clothing, waterproof jacket and bear kit, I edged cautiously out of the tent. Visibility was still just a few tens of yards. I was pleased. Confident I could evade detection until dawn, or until any help I might summon could arrive. Most likely from the Canadian Customs Post on the border.
Keeping low to avoid silhouetting, I circled round in a large arc to the north, sticking to the bush rather than tracks. Navigating using the compass on my watch. Planning to observe undetected, but, if spotted, not drawing anyone towards my camp. Soon the dim red glow of brake lights in the mist. Engine idling. I lay concealed amongst the various shrubs for a while. Watching. And they then were gone.
Concealed camping
October 4th, 2011
Concealed campsite, just off the Haines Road highway, close to the summit of the Three Guardsmen Pass. In Canada’s British Columbia.
Eerie night under canvas
October 4th, 2011Eerie night under canvas from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Ken stops a bit short for the night, camping at over three thousand feet, beneath the Three Guardsmen Mastiff.. Trying not to think about the "Sounds of the Baskervilles"
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