One man's journey through the entirety of North America by bicycle, whose adventure includes backpacking and rock climbing in the National Parks and wilderness of both the United States and Canada. Enjoy the whimsical descriptions of the physical and emotional challenges of a five-month solo adventure from the sandy beaches of Florida, through the heart of the Rocky Mountain chain, and into the wilds of Alaska.
Excerpt:
What normally takes about 30 minutes takes me nearly two hours but I finally manage to wrestle the wet tarp, tent, lines, and poles over the uneven terrain and into a semblance of shelter. My brain and hands are rigid with cold and decisions seem to take as long as does any movement. It is a deliberate effort to move from one task to another and fight through the sluggishness and pain from the cold. The bags finally in and arranged to keep things dry in this leaking, inhospitable site, I must now undress outside without getting all the dry stuff wet. The bag and clothes must remain dry if I’m to recover so I shed the wet gear outside in the torrent, reach into the tent for the small hand towel in the small dry bag, and then comically towel off while simultaneously crawling into the tiny dry space created by the wet tent fabric. Now even colder, getting dressed is difficult but eventually I have most of my clothes on and I’m stuffed in the dry sleeping bag with my puffy jacket around my numb feet. It takes an hour for the shivers to subside enough that I can eat the food Karen had bagged for me. But now fed and with warmth returning to my torso, I sense the worst is over and fall asleep completely exhausted.
An hour or so later, I awake with a start. My mind still cannot grasp that the day’s frightening events are safely past. I am numb from trying to avoid thinking about the situation. At the moment, the tent and dry clothes and sleeping bag are a wonderful respite but the truth is that I’m still worried. In fact, I’m scared. It’s easily still 50K to Muskeg and then another 30K to Grand Cache and it seems appropriate to try to make one of those tomorrow but I’m dreading the effort it will take and wondering if my body and mind are strong enough to deal with the maelstrom two days in a row. I’m very tired and this often leads to intense emotional vulnerability. I start to cry. I miss my wife and just want to be curled up in bed next to her – safe, warm, and coddled. The sobbing deepens as my mind wonders, “Why did you ever think you could do this?! You fool!” Everything about the adventure now seems too hard by a lot and there is no rationalizing the failure that this situation highlights: a failure of toughness, resilience, preparation, and fortitude.
“You’re no adventurer. You made it this far out of dumb luck and when that runs out, you crumble.”
“You’re a fraud.”
Excerpt:
What normally takes about 30 minutes takes me nearly two hours but I finally manage to wrestle the wet tarp, tent, lines, and poles over the uneven terrain and into a semblance of shelter. My brain and hands are rigid with cold and decisions seem to take as long as does any movement. It is a deliberate effort to move from one task to another and fight through the sluggishness and pain from the cold. The bags finally in and arranged to keep things dry in this leaking, inhospitable site, I must now undress outside without getting all the dry stuff wet. The bag and clothes must remain dry if I’m to recover so I shed the wet gear outside in the torrent, reach into the tent for the small hand towel in the small dry bag, and then comically towel off while simultaneously crawling into the tiny dry space created by the wet tent fabric. Now even colder, getting dressed is difficult but eventually I have most of my clothes on and I’m stuffed in the dry sleeping bag with my puffy jacket around my numb feet. It takes an hour for the shivers to subside enough that I can eat the food Karen had bagged for me. But now fed and with warmth returning to my torso, I sense the worst is over and fall asleep completely exhausted.
An hour or so later, I awake with a start. My mind still cannot grasp that the day’s frightening events are safely past. I am numb from trying to avoid thinking about the situation. At the moment, the tent and dry clothes and sleeping bag are a wonderful respite but the truth is that I’m still worried. In fact, I’m scared. It’s easily still 50K to Muskeg and then another 30K to Grand Cache and it seems appropriate to try to make one of those tomorrow but I’m dreading the effort it will take and wondering if my body and mind are strong enough to deal with the maelstrom two days in a row. I’m very tired and this often leads to intense emotional vulnerability. I start to cry. I miss my wife and just want to be curled up in bed next to her – safe, warm, and coddled. The sobbing deepens as my mind wonders, “Why did you ever think you could do this?! You fool!” Everything about the adventure now seems too hard by a lot and there is no rationalizing the failure that this situation highlights: a failure of toughness, resilience, preparation, and fortitude.
“You’re no adventurer. You made it this far out of dumb luck and when that runs out, you crumble.”
“You’re a fraud.”
