Over the great divide

We're through B.C. It's been eleven days since we left Vancouver, and we've cycled across one of the most physically challenging provinces of the country.

Ah, the mountains. So exciting, so dramatic, so unforgiving. A couple days ago, as I was grinding up yet another monstrous hill (only to reach the top, enjoy a brief downhill, and start up again), I became fully aware of where I was situated in space. To my right was a cliff, dropping prehaps 300m to the Colombia river, forming the base of the valley below. To my left was another cliff, this one looming straight up to a peak beyond my vision. A net-like wire contraption covered the rock surface to prevent tumbling shale from falling onto the road, and it was a good thing too, as I happened to witness a minor avalache during my ascent.

Such are the mountains. I have developed a love/hate relationship with their mysterious, powerful character: every climb I loathe, until I reach the top, when I realize that it was all worth it as I bask in the exhilaration of the downhill. But until yesterday, when we waved goodbye to B.C., the ups and downs didn't balance out. Since my last blog, our days have primarily been composed of ascents, as we got closer and closer to (literally) the highest point of our trip: the top of Kicking Horse Pass, the point where the streams either turn towards the Atlantic or the Pacific, and the border between B.C. and Alberta: the Continental Divide.

It was pretty anti-climatic, to tell you the truth. There was nothing to mark the great divide, to my dismay. Not even the passes did it for us - after so many horror stories of Rogers Pass, we were surprised to find a climb minor in comparison to others that receive no recognition. But as we rode past the sign that marked our entry into Alberta, I felt a kind of melancholy towards B.C. So sparsely-populated and full of wilderness, B.C. is a reminder of what Canada used to be, before humans came along, and what it can still be, if we remember what it means to live in harmony with nature.

Alberta is pretty cool, too, but just not the same. Almost instantly upon entering, you arrive in Lake Louise, a town built for tourists, and every town or city since than has seemed to be centered around the same thing. Nevertheless, we are still in wild country: already we have seen numerous mountain goat, elk, deer, and last night, a grizzly and two cubs, in frighteningly close proximity to our campsite.

After almost two weeks of riding, we have fallen into a daily rhythm that naturally carries us through our days. It goes like this: wake up, put away sleeping bags, pads, and tent; dress, eat, pack up bike. Ride for 5-8 hours, stopping periodically to eat, buy groceries, use toilet facilities. Begin to look for a campsite. Ride to get to campsite. Unpack, set up tent, eat. Cook if it's your night to do so, otherwise stretch, read, talk, wander. When dinner is ready, eat, drink tea, chat, read, go to bed. Get up, and do the same thing all over again.

It's the simplicity of our daily routine that I love the most. We spend all day, every day outside. I have a short, glove, t-shirt and sunglasses tan already, and they will only get darker as the summer goes on, a full body tattoo to prove our journey. As my legs get stronger, riding is getting easier. Hills are no longer the struggle they once were, and although I am still exhausted at the end of the day, I am always ready to get on the bike again in the morning, after sleep restores my energy...the deepest sleeps of my life.