Everything is broken

Photo of inside the cabinet of our home heating  and hot water system. The pump was making growling / grinding noises suggestive of a failing bearing. I replaced the pump ($250.00) and all is quiet again. The minimum charge to have this done by a “pro” would be $700.00. And having to be here whenever that would happen.

I’m a fixer.

In 1984, I decided to study medicine.  I was 19 years old at the time and hadn’t ever considered this profession. I was determined to study engineering: I had a (deferred) scholarship at U of M (Michigan) and my interest at the time related to the concept of design flaws and the conclusion that everything breaks. Are things designed for function, cost efficiency, ease of maintenance or repair? Optimizing design through engineering was what I thought I’d be doing.

 I enjoyed fixing things through gaining an understanding of what the root of the problem was, and I maintain that interest to this day. In high school and immediately after graduation, I had been working part time and summer jobs for a heating contractor which gave me comfort and confidence in dealing with mechanical things.

Being a fixer of things now branches out necessarily to countless household tasks, or to working on the sailboat, or maintaining motorcycles with or without Zen, fixing dishwashers, washing machines, stoves, home heating systems, and all the other things that need such attention. This is a helpful skill to have when appliance repair people seem to be difficult to get, and cost a mint when you get them. So I like to fix things. And my future, back at the tender age of 18, seemed to be in engineering.

But in 1984, I had an experience that would alter the course of my life: a friend had gone to Norway (he landed in a a small place just north of Trondheim) and he was working in this village of Jøssåsen Landsby, near Hommelvik, with people who in todays terminology would be called “developmentally delayed”. People with significant autism, or Down’s Syndrome, or other genetic / developmental differences that made independent living impossible for them. To my simple way of seeing it, they were “broken”, had flaws in their psyche, had physical, emotional, mental debilities that made them different and vulnerable and, often, difficult to deal with. One couldn’t reason with them. Yet, despite their challenges, if not because of them, they brought a unique vision to the world. If you paid attention to them, they weren’t “broken”, but rather give clues to where I  was broken, where humanity, society, the world was broken. Each, in their unique way, shed a ray of light into the recesses of our world and thereby provided a way to see things better. 

People, I realized, are far more interesting and complicated and challenging and ultimately worthwhile than the machines people had devised to help us in the world. Figuring out people was for me a much higher calling; helping people to live with, accept, understand, and thereby potentially “fix”, each in their own way, the flaws that they had brought with them or acquired along the way way what I really wanted to do. So I decided I’d study medicine.

It’s now 40 years later and following my schooling I’ve enjoyed the past 30 years of working various elements of my chosen profession. I don’t think I actually “fixed” anybody but possibly helped guide them to a place where they were able to fix themselves.

However, especially the past 13 years came at a cost to me, and I was due for a change. So here it is! 

My retirement is an opportunity to reflect and also consider if I have any capacity to contribute in a positive way. Writing this blog has helped to obtain some clarity. 

Also, as evidenced by my motorcycle work, I still like fixing things. Today, I replaced the floor of our camping trailer that had become cracked and scuffed and grimy and now looks MUCH better.

So not quite everything is broken  I’ve fixed a few things . .

A Marathon on the water

Sailing from the marina where the boat spends the winter, to my home on the shore of Lake Superior, takes a day. I might have done it in as few as five hours, once. But seven hours is more typical and sometimes it’s been nine or ten hours. On Friday I gathered a group of likely suspects and we undertook to sail out.

The distance is 22.5 nautical miles, or 42 Km, or 26 statute miles: a marathon!  The first challenge when leaving the dock on Mission Island, on the middle branch of the Kaministiquia River, is the lack of water depth.

Over the past few years coming out the channel, I’ve touched bottom with the keel routinely. Fortunately it’s just a sandy bottom and I’m going slowly, so I have sustained no damage, but I fear that one of these times I’ll be totally stuck.  The city claims that dredging this channel is the responsibility of the coast guard (so I understand, anyway) and the coast guard says it’s up to the city; the marina advises that they don’t have permission to do the dredging so the consequence is that the channel is slowly filling up. 

We came to a gentle stop in the channel, directly between the channel markers which feels very unfair. Oh well, I’ve been here before. Getting unstuck is a combination of luck and determination. We were only subjected to immobility for a few fraught minutes until the engine was able to free us, dragging the keel through the mucky bottom. There were no ominous creaks or groans of structural issues, fortunately! 

My backup plan was to call the owner of the marina to tow me out if I was seriously stuck, but we had a few other tricks to try, like swing out the boom and sit on the end of it to tilt the boat over to raise the keel a bit. However briefly, being stuck isn’t really much fun and I was very happy to be freed.  

Once out beyond the final channel markers we got the sails up and sailed into a gloomy, hazy, smoky bay. There was a light onshore breeze. Evidently the forest fires burning a few hundred kms to the north are directly impacting our air quality. We didn’t feel too badly lighting a cigar.

Then there was an unexpected favourable breeze, and we trimmed the sails and shortly were out in the main part of the lake, with the motor off and the sun breaking through some gaps in the clouds and smoke. The breeze was perfect for clearing up the smoke on the lake although it never fully disappeared. 

Later, as the wind abated, we were able to jump off the boat and swim around and climb back aboard. The water was warmer than we anticipated. 

The lake provides so many beautiful vistas.

We celebrated our safe arrival. I think this was the 22nd time for me to take the drip.

Reading vs writing

No line on the horizon

I’ve always enjoyed reading and this is a shared interest in our family; my wife reads at every opportunity and both of our offspring are voracious readers. 

Reading lets us travel to foreign places without the physical effort or cost, it engages our imagination and connects us with others including our fellow readers. It can allow us to expand our understanding of the world, build empathy, understanding, and tolerance.

Reading has been described as a “gift to the writer”, because without readers, what is the point of writing? I get the idea that writing can be self-informing as well, but it’s clear to me that the whole thing is an exchange. 

I recently finished “We, The Drowned” by Carsten Jensen, a novel set on an island in Denmark, or covering the whole world’s oceans, extending from the 1840’s to the 1940’s, so several wars and lots of change, numerous interesting characters, and a great voice as a narrator.  I don’t want to give anything further away, but it’s a wonderful book.

What an imagination an author must have, to populate an entire world! He (the author) manages to tie the whole thing together so effortlessly seeming, I’m in awe of his skill. If I can rarely write as interesting a character or a glimpse of one, I’m beyond pleased.

One of my favourite authors is Jim Harrison, who writes in such a poetic style that I find myself rereading sentences because he manages to surprise me and bring about an insight, sideways, of the characters that populate his works. Another author I can’t get enough of is Cormac McCarthy, again because his way with words and phrasing leaves me amazed.  

One reason for learning German for me was to read in the original language the works of famous authors, from Kafka to Goethe, Mann to Rilke. Not to mention the philosophers! In this pursuit, I was successful. 

I was less successful in Russian studies although I did take two years of Russian at university. I had thought I’d be reading Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy and Pushkin but that did not happen. It would take me a lot of time and effort now to get back into language studies. 

Of French and Spanish I have only the most rudimentary capability: I can order a meal (usually, but not always successfully: as for one tiny example the time, which my children still laugh about, when, rather than asking for a spoon (cuillère) for them to get their ice creams out of tall glasses in a restaurant in Lyon, I ordered a (échelle) ladder!) or rent a car or book a room or buy a train ticket.  Or order two beers, please, and where is the bathroom?

So literature in its original language I can read only in English or German, sadly. I wonder what Carsten Jensen is like to read in the original Danish?

Writing gives me the chance to take my many teeming thoughts and set them briefly outside my head. And then to go back and revise the way of expressing them, for some imagined reader. 

In my last thirteen years of my professional career, I did a lot of writing: reports, mostly, on how a person came to their often tragic end.  Often I’d edit reports on behalf of the original investigator; and I probably took way too much time at this to the detriment of other elements of my work.

I would also need to issue legal rulings on applications or motions or objections at inquests where I was presiding, and I enjoyed the process of transforming my thoughts of the legal merits of one argument over another into legible prose. I had the benefit of counsel who could point out flaws in my legal reasoning and this insight would keep me out of hot water. 

In the first entries into this blog, up to my unfortunate crash and subsequent return home, I had the external circumstances of the voyage itself to drive the story. Similarly, when writing a legal ruling or a report on somebody’s death for their family, the facts are given, they are the facts at hand or are presented to me in the coroners report and police report and autopsy report and toxicology report and I merely need to string them together. 

Now that I’m delving more into memories and observations and thoughts and the need to use my imagination, this is a lot harder for me. 

But I’m seeing a value to the time I’m putting into this, and I thank you, dear (imaginary) reader, for giving me the opportunity!

The longest day of the year

I appreciate symmetry. I like ritual. I enjoy the concept that some things recur in a predictable fashion. 

In terms of the change of seasons, my favourite day of the year is December 21. This is because on that day, I know that the daily amount of sunlight will start increasing, only a little bit at a time at first, and then much more rapidly by the time we get to the spring equinox, March 21, another happy day for me.

Of course, in this part of the world December 21 is when it only really starts to get cold. So, perhaps, confusingly, as the days get longer, and the nights get shorter, the temperatures continue to get colder, at least for a while.

One might think that June 21 would be my least favourite day. The days are starting to get shorter already! But that’s not the case for me, I like summer and heat and being on the water and this continues for a couple of months after the summer solstice. 

The only day that I don’t have any particular affinity for us the fall equinox, Sept 21. I know that I’m retreating inwardly in the autumn to acknowledge the dominance of darkness that encroaches upon us. Maybe I’m able to have greater clarity of thought in the winter, but I need to make efforts to get out; this season is dominated by hunting and hiking, awaiting snow that will allow skiing season to begin. 

Now that I’m (semi) retired, the weather and change of seasons, and what I can do outdoors, will be more important than ever for me.

Being active in the great outdoors has always been a big part of my strategy for coping with life. Now, six weeks since my last day of work, I’m able to pursue that goal with greater zeal. 

I’m writing this as I sit on the deck outside, on the shore of Lake Superior, listening to the Song Sparrows, Cedar Waxwings, Magnolia Warblers, Black Capped Chickadees, Red Winged Blackbirds, Loons, Seagulls, Eagles, and I even get to see the odd Pelican.  (Information regarding which bird song I’m hearing is helpfully gleaned through the aid of the “Merlin” app.)

I’ll be going out on a boat shortly.

Barbecue

Happy Father’s Day, fellow fathers!!

So on Sunday, as is possibly customary for many of my compatriots, I often take on my role as barbecue guy. Pretty traditional, I know. “Sure! Do the big showy part of the meal, ignore the salads and vegetables and potatoes, the drudgery!” Not that I don’t participate in the cooking duties otherwise, sometimes with great results and other times, the verdict is termed brightly “it’s good!” But I’m not fooled. 

But with BBQ I’m seldom wrong. Often it involves an impressive piece of meat. 

Big prime rib roast, anyone? (Please note that this wasn’t the meal I cooked for Father’s Day but for a bigger gathering at our house at Canada Day a few years ago)

Cheeseburgers in paradise. . .

Umm, ribs, I think!?!

I can make pies too:

Blueberry

 

Pizza

Apple pies, too. That’s my favourite. Although no photo of one, strangely! I’ve made so many! The trees are in our yard so it’s extreme local food, the 50-foot diet.

I’m case you were wondering, I don’t make the pies on the barbecue.

Anyway, this Father’s Day there was a leg of lamb on the Barbie.  Easy, actually, since it was sous vide (7 hours at 133 degrees) and then 15 minutes on the grill. There were seven of us for dinner: semi-extended family and with son bringing his girlfriend. I can see that everything else on the table is honestly more work than the barbecue but because I embrace that duty willingly, I’m given a pass otherwise. Well, and I did do the dishes / cleanup the kitchen. 

After being asked. 

Other adventures du jour included 1 - mowing the lawn, 2 - putting the dock into the lake, with some friends and my son to assist, 3 - smoothing out the driveway (with Bobcat tractor) 4 - switching out the bucket for the backhoe on the Bobcat (this was for putting in the dock, although the Bobcat’s usual job is wintertime snow blowing). These tasks took up the day. Hey, it can’t all be fun & games!

Bobcat on snow blowing duty. Last winter’s fun?

Division of labour in a domestic household has been studied, discussed, argued about, measured, economically evaluated, but we still so often find ourselves in stereotypically gender-defined roles. Does my baking pies, making a polenta dish, rolling pizza dough, cleaning the kitchen, making the bed in the morning, compensate or balance the other work that I seem to avoid? I suspect that one is defined, in a political/domestic sense, by the domestic duties one takes on. (For me: home repair, chopping wood, changing tires, arranging for home insurance, car insurance, banking, mortgage, investments.) I rarely go shopping and don’t do laundry. But if the washer or dryer stops working, I fix them. I don’t know where to begin on the topic of emotional labour. There is zero emotional labour involved in replacing a pump on a home heating boiler. 

I do remember putting the kids to bed a lot, but I now I wonder what they recall? Have I vacuumed enough? Did I remember enough peoples’ birthdays? Sending cards of condolences? 

Anyway, the leg of lamb was delicious. Four ingredients: salt, pepper, rosemary, garlic. We had a nice Rosé to go with it. And there were potatoes and salads and veggies and a lovely dessert (not one of my pies). 

Being a dad

Happy Father’s Day. 

Every time I think about the blessing of having kids, I feel a bit overwhelmed. 

I get it. The world is falling apart. The sky is full of smoke, there’s a battle between the “woke“ and that “anti-woke“, gender is fluid (maybe it’s always been?) the biggest war in our generation is going on, and I thought I was just here to have a little bit of fun! Why would anyone bring children into this mess?

It seems that my daughter was two years old when this was made, twenty years ago!! 

Children are our hopes and aspirations, we imbue them with our own missed chances, they will fix what we could not, and there is no greater joy for me than seeing them progress in the world.

I am so grateful  to have been able to witness my kids growing up. This is how I phrased it to my (ex) colleagues in response to a Father’s Day message this morning: 😀

Wait, this is supposed to be about Saturday!  I’m losing track of time (they say that is what happens after you retire), Every day is a Tuesday. Or a Saturday. 

On Saturday there was the “Ride for Dad” a fundraising (for prostate cancer) fun motorbike ride. I went with the father of my son’s girlfriend, we had a great day touring around the area surrounding Thunder Bay. He on his big Harley and me on my favourite bike, Rocinante!

Ok, this ride was actually without all the added touring crap (the pic above was from a tour I did around Lake Superior a few years ago). 

Yesterday was a nice day except for the parts when it decided to rain. Actually, even those parts were nice.

But how does being a dad reconcile with taking you life in your hands, riding a donor-cycle?

Hmm.

I don’t know, actually. Do we maybe set an example for our children, by confronting danger? (I don’t think that’s it. Sounds more like rationalization.) 

I suspect it is more like, I’m driven to do things that make me feel alive, even if that carries a real threat of dying. Ironic, isn’t it?  

So we went riding, and collected “cards” for the poker run.  We each ended up with a pair of tens and didn’t win anything with that hand.

Afterwards, I went by the sailboat, which I hope to see launched this week — we will see, maybe so. There was 2 inches of water in the bilge (again). Where did it come from? I cleaned it out. (Again.)

Anyway, not much in this post has much to do with being a dad except I’m so proud of both my kids! I hope they read this but I know, now that the big adventure is over, I’m down to a very select audience.

Including you!  Thank you . . 😀

Sailing

“Other Adventures” may well including sailing the high seas . . or in this case, Lake Superior. 

For the past 25 years, we’ve lived on the shore of this Great Lake and shortly after moving in to the house, we bought a sailboat. Now before you get all “yacht-y”, it’s a Grampian 26, a slow and old fibreglass boat from 1972 that I got inexpensively, and it has five features that I absolutely wanted:

1: standing headroom in the cabin

2: inboard diesel engine

3: rolling furler jib (foresail)

4: autopilot

5: spinnaker  

This boat’s primary purpose has been, over the past two decades, to sail me, and whatever willing accomplice I can scrape up, from the marina where she over-winters, to my mooring ball in the bay in front of my home. And back in the fall.

I usually also get out 3-4 times over the summer for a day sail around the bay, or sail to a nearby island for a picknick.

One neighbour, somewhat unkindly, has referred to the boat as “The bauble in the bay.”

 But I’m happy to have the boat there as a reminder of our connection to the water, and the day-long sail out to the mooring in the spring, and back to the winter storage in the fall, are enough for me even if that’s all I do. 

In that whole time, only once did I not bring it out, that was the year we were having major renovations gone to the house, in 2008.

Today was spent getting the boat, named “Fire and Water” ready for launch.  “Getting ready for launch” means pumping all of the collected rainwater /  snowmelt out of the bilge, trying to clean up the boat in general, putting in the batteries, re-setting the boom (the mast stays up) and just general messing about. 

Re-coiling lines, hooking up the solar panel, seeing what no longer works (we’re down to starter motor still working and autopilot: after the last lightning strike, all the other electronics, like depthfinder, knotmeter, radios, lights, wind direction and speed indicator, etc are all fried and no longer work).

That’s ok.

So that was today - working on the boat. I’ll share some photos from my next visit to “Fire and Water” and share some more stories about her. 

On Saturday, I’ll be motorbiking in the “Ride for Dad,” a prostate cancer fundraiser Father’s Day motorcycle rally of sorts in Thunder Bay.

Perhaps I’ll get done photos of that event.

Today was spent um, reading a book and getting the mail?

 First, I’m reading a book!  So don’t bug me!

I’ve really been enjoying it but it’s long!  Like, 500 pages!

Ok, so otherwise, I reattached the luggage brackets to Betty Boop or whoever that bike is. No photos, however. 

I’m impressed at the fact that I could crash at 80 Kilometers per hour and sustain little damage personally and the bike is easy to fix as well.

And the read the book. My wife, meanwhile, was at a “Book Club” which I can only imagine how the better half’s complain about their husbands (actually this was an attempt at joking, I’m sure that we don’t even come up as a topic of conversation — as it should be). 

The book I’m reading is excellent. Highly recommended. 

I also had dinner and joined a friend at his sauna: his wife was also at book club. 

That’s it for Thursday, June 15, 2023. 

What does “the adventure goes on” actually mean?

I’m working on finding ways to imbue my existence with meaning and purpose. 

I caught this salmon this afternoon on Lake Superior with my friend Scott, who is also “sort of” retired, or at least taking a break from professional activities. The fish will be our dinner and the process of fishing satisfies some other hunger.

We’ve discussed the process of adjusting to whatever this new reality is, recognizing that while “Retirement” carries connotations of freedom, sunset walks on the beach, etc. the positives are a bit more fuzzy. Maybe that’s why all fairy tales end with “Happily ever after.” Appropriately vague.

It’s been suggested to me that I continue documenting this journey even when there’s no externally evident “journey.”  Journeys don’t have to move a person from one physical location to another — don’t metaphorical journeys deserve examinations as well?

“Okay,” I thought — I’m thinking about this, I’m writing it down, why not share?” People can look at it or look away, their participation is subject to their own free choice. Although it wasn’t entirely clear to me if the suggestion to continue to write was intended for publication or writing for its own sake, there is little additional effort to clicking “post”. 

Now, I’ve been thinking about the question, what does work provide, that is lost in retirement? For me it breaks down to three things that work provides:

1: Identity. For thirty years I’ve been identified and largely self-identified by the work I do. No longer.  What do I do? Is what I DID important? 

But what about who I am? I’m also a husband, and a father, and a son, and a brother, and a friend, and quite possibly, to some people, a frustrating dilemma!

2: Meaning, or purpose. This is related to identity, but different. How am I justifying my existence on this planet? What, of my various skills, is providing a positive contribution to humanity? Whose life am I enriching? 

When I was working, this was a given: my work provided the daily task with critical purpose. I don’t write this because I undervalue my current role in my family: on the contrary, that role is extremely important. But I guess it’s taken for granted and maybe it shouldn’t be.

3: Financial security. Ever since starting to earn money through my labour, I’ve saved.  Well, when I had borrowed money, I paid off debts (student loans, purchase of vehicle — and motorcycle of course — and shortly thereafter, a mortgage).  But even while paying off the mortgage, I always ensured that some of my earnings would go directly into an investment account. I am still receiving my salary, for the next few months, via foregone holiday and severance stipend, so I’m still investing and saving. I’m being paid as if I were still working. But in a few months, that all stops. Then, rather than building my accounts, I’ll be drawing them down.  The concept is scary.  Even though my calculations suggest I will have sufficient means, it feels like a leaky prospect, where eventually I’ll have nothing left. Then I’ll be eating cat food?

As all three of these work related factors are mitigated by continuing with “semi-retirement,” my plans include some professional projects on the horizon. Meanwhile, I will work to fill in my non-working time with activities that are meaningful to me, and learn to find a new identity that reflects the new roles I find, and clarify the financial elements of a lifestyle that can be sustained.  

Working with my hands provides some of the engagement I seek. So for example working on my motorbikes, even doing difficult tasks like mounting a tire on a wheel, isn’t boring for me but is satisfying to complete. Ironically, the harder the job, the greater the sense of accomplishment.   

Writing this blog over the past few weeks has provided a pleasurable outlet and an opportunity to reflect on some recent life experiences while sharing some of the considerations that got me here. 

So I think I’ll continue to write and if people are curious, or interested, or want to offer observations of their own, you will be welcome to do so. 

Likely some readers will lose interest through the lack of meaningful motorcycle madness, but that’s fine. This isn’t planned develop into philosophical treatise but who knows? What I expect that this will be is a public journal of self-indulgent reflections. So, please don’t feel obliged to read on!! Or do. . . Your choice. 

 I might stop writing at any point, anyway. Also, I’m sure that there will be more adventures to come, in a traditional sense. I’ll try to write about them, too. 

The purpose of this all?

Just like you can do a root cause analysis, potentially finding the variable(s) that, if altered, might result in a different outcome; just like every effect has multiple different causes, depending upon how deeply you want to delve; so has this adventure, many purposes!

The first for me and most critical purpose has already been served. Planning for this trip provided me with great anticipatory pleasure.

When, in the course of my work, I sought and failed to find any deeper purpose to what I was doing, I could think that I would be stepping away from this all and would have time, then, to consider what my profession meant to me and to those whom I attempted to serve. A solo trip gives that space.

I was certainly not doing this trip to prove anything. And I was quite open with my family and close friends from the start: that I may, at any time, decide that this is not what I want to do but this is stupid idea of mine, not rooted in reality, and I might just turn around and go home. 

I could even sell the motorcycle and fly home. I could give it away. This motorcycle itself has served its purpose for me in getting me out of my stasis. 

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—————————————————-

The above note was drafted on the morning just before my crash. I was feeling gratitude at the experience so far, and looking at the longer term forecast of smoke in northern Alberta, thinking that I might be unable to continue. I was ok with that. As I sat and wrote that note, I was in Saskatchewan, which was a first for me, I was enjoying the birds singing in the beautiful morning sunshine, and I was striking my camp. I had shaken the fresh dew off the tent fly and had draped it over the bike to further dry off.

I made myself coffee and cooked what would turn out to be the only meal I prepared while camping on this trip: instant oatmeal with dried fruit.

A friendly fellow camper asked if I’d like a (second) cup of coffee and we chatted for a bit. Her name was Leona and she and her husband were spending the summer at the campground, having sold their house in town. They were contemplating their next move post retirement. He was working at the nearby potash mine for one final summer. She was interested in my journey and thought I really should speak with her husband and give him some ideas.

That morning, I was communicating via text with my daughter, who was in Thailand, having her own adventure after graduating from university. She and her boyfriend were looking towards their future and enjoying the opportunities that the present can grant. They had done some beautiful scuba dives that day, and were preparing for their return home after a month away.

I had connected with my son the evening before, talking about books that he thought I might like to read. (One from Paulo Bacigalupi.) 

And that morning my wife and I had connected as well, and it sounded like she had a full agenda while I was off exploring. My plan was to make it to Western Saskatchewan, possibly Battleford or beyond, on Friday afternoon.

———————————————————

My first thought, as I found myself lying in the dust next to the motorcycle on the gravel road north of Esterhazy was: “I’m not buying another fucking vest”.

The motorcycle was roaring loudly in my ears is it lay in the gravel next to me. I turned it off and it was suddenly very quiet, just the ticking of the cooling metal. The sun was bright, slightly obscured by the billowing dust I had stirred up. I felt warm and comfortable for the moment, and the safe cocoon of the airbag vest felt like an embrace. I could smell the sharp tang of exhaust and hot oil, again combined with the dust of the road. I did not feel afraid. Even as I went down at speed, I was not afraid of dying.

I did realize that at this point that although I’m not 100% sure, I’m probably still alive (happily so) and perhaps the world is trying to tell me something. My outward journey was over and it was now up to me to see how I could get back home again. I stood up and laughed with relief to observe no major injuries. Hoping the same could be said for my trusty steed. 

How had this happened? How had I found myself on a lonely highway in Saskatchewan tumbling in the dust? What was the root cause of this event? I had consulted my map just before leaving Esterhazy to see the best way to Yellowhead highway: was there a direct route? Yes, and trusty Google maps indicated Highway 837 would lead straight north to Highway 16, the Yellowhead Highway, where with a left turn, I would be on my way to Yorkton, Saskatchewan, heading towards Saskatoon and beyond! So I finished packing up and attaching all my gear to the motorcycle and headed off.

Oh, I thought as I turned onto highway 837, this “highway“ looked more like a gravel road! Well, I guess that’s what it’s like in Saskatchewan. The road didn’t look too bad, and I started off cautiously enough at first, but found it to be well packed with just a little roll of gravel between the tire tracks, with very little traffic, and I was cruising along at about 80 km an hour “minding my own business”. The few oncoming pickup trucks induced me to slow down and I had no trouble crossing the looser gravel to the next smooth hard packed part. I could expect about 30 Km of this. All was good.

Suddenly and without warning, I was in trouble.  I was no longer on hard packed gravel but was in 3 inches deep pebbles: freshly graded gravel. I was going way too fast for these conditions. And had the wrong tires on the bike to tackle gravel at all. 

The gravel grabbed my front tire. With the front viciously slewing left and right and the weight of all my gear at the rear of the bike swinging me around I had no way of stopping the inevitable. “This is going to hurt,” I thought. 

Afterwards, Harvey, the grader operator said he saw me go down in a big cloud of dust and hoped that I was OK. 

“Thanks,” I said I didn’t ask him why there was no sign indicating that he was doing fresh grading on the road. What would have been the point of the question? I’m responsible for my own driving, after all. He helped me pick up the motorbike. In fact he picked up the motorbike on his own. With one arm. He was a big Saskatchewan farmer. He asked why I hadn’t taken the next highway to the west to reach my destination? Well, the map said this was a highway as well, I didn’t answer.

We looked the bike over but could see no major damage, but alignment issues from this impact might only show themselves with driving. So I set off cautiously, and all seemed to be well. Obviously driving in this loose gravel was no fun, but I kept it slow enough that I could maintain control. About 5 km later I got to the Yellowhead highway, but instead of turning left as my original plan had been (which I very briefly did contemplate doing), I turned right and headed towards home. 

I reached out to my friends in Kenora and told them  I could be expected sometime that evening if they still had space for me and they very graciously put me up (and fed me!) for my last night on the road. My right ankle was quite sore from the crash but fortunately protected from anything too serious by my heavy motorcycle boots. But lifting the bike up off the side stand became a challenge and I struggled with gearshifts due to the pain in my ankle. “It’s probably not broken”, I thought, hopefully. As it turns out, I did sprain my ankle but am able to walk on it so that’s a relief.

The drive back provided a lot of opportunity for further contemplation. I was thankful for the opportunity I’d had: this trip had been an adventure regardless of the outcome. By the time the trip was over, I would have ridden 2,400 km over the course of four days, and seen a lot. Plus of course, the additional mini adventure of The Search For Black Sturgron Lake described in an earlier report as a dry run).

I’ve been through northwestern Ontario and across the province of Manitoba and ventured into Saskatchewan. I’ve experienced rain and wind, warm sunny days, cold mornings, blue skies and clouds, the sun shining on my back, cool wind in my face, I talked to some interesting people and learned a bit more about myself. 

Riding back across Manitoba was tiring and challenging due to a very strong wind, and I was reminded of my friend who had tried this trip a year before and he literally got blown off the road by the wind. His adventure had ended earlier than planned as well. It required focus and concentration for me to remain in my lane and not be blasted off into the Prairie like some tumbleweed. 

I got to Kenora in time for a late dinner and slept a sleep of gratitude. The next morning, Saturday, June 10, I woke up early and after a quick breakfast, headed east. It was quite cold for the drive home and I had all of my warm stuff on and zipped up tightly. The hand heaters on the bike still worked and I was full of joy for that small blessing. I arrived home around 5 PM and had a nice soak in a hot tub and a swim in Lake Superior if you want to call a quick dip in and out of the cold water “swimming“.  

As I finalize this message it’s Sunday morning, and that particular adventure is over, but the adventure of life goes on! 

Thank you for reading.

Two words. .

I’m ok.

Someone prayed for me today

 . . . I don’t need to have folks praying for me, as far as I am aware. But it was a nice gesture anyway. And he had the courtesy to ask if I minded if he did so, first.

I think he worked here, at an enormous potash mine. Mosaic Potash (used for fertilizer) had a mountain of the stuff, all the more obvious from miles around because this part of Saskatchewan, anyway, is otherwise pretty flat.

I had stopped near the entrance of the mine to see if I could reach my destination without retracing my course for miles. It turned out I could, provided I didn’t mind driving on a little gravel! Ha!

Fred was the guy’s name and he stopped when he saw me possibly looking lost. Introduced himself as a fellow biker and was interested in my journey. He pointed me in the direction of this campground I am now in, and before setting off on my way he asked if I minded if he said a prayer for me. Not at all, I said and thanked him afterwards. I get the sense that this part of Saskatchewan is quite religious. Anyway, it was a very nice prayer. Hoping that God keeps me safe and shows me the beauty of the world and that I have a great adventure. I can’t really imagine how it would hurt. 

Couple of hours earlier, it felt more like the heavens had opened up to empty all of the rain in the world directly onto me. “Waterproof“ protective motorcycle gear is only a notion. Nothing is completely waterproof!

I think at that moment my only religious impulses were sacrilegious. 

Fortunately, it was fairly warm. But when I stopped to look at the weather prediction for the area around Brandon, it looks like the rain wasn’t going to stop for a good 16 hours.

Tou can sense the weather when you are out in it. Rain coming. The temperature drops, you can feel the air pressure change, there’s a fresh scent, these are all things you perceive on a motorbike but a car cocoons and insulated you.

Meanwhile, across the border in Saskatchewan, the weather looks to be much nicer. So I carried on.

Earlier today, I passed through Portage La Prarie, where the Assiniboine river flows across a snooze. The current was impressive, but I guess it must flow north to the Arctic just like me.

The Assiniboine River Valley curved around again, and it was a beautiful surprise in the middle of the prairie.

But now I’ve arrived in Esterhazy, Saskatchewan. 

It’s comfortable in my tent, and satisfied after a dinner of Filipino Style Rice Noodles, courtesy of the nearby golf course restaurant run by a Filipino family, I’m listening to the birds go to bed — no longer the raucous melody of springtime for the songbirds of earlier!

 

Always see to the horses!  Nice and snugged away in my friendly (as in friend’s house in Kenora) B&B in a “strictly BMW garage”. 

So this is my notification that day one of my mini Odyssey was successful. 610 Kilometers from home to the border where I got my replacement windscreen and mirror and safety airbag vest, all needed due to my crash in the remote wilds of northwestern Ontario (if you didn’t read about that one, I think it’s on the June 1 or 2 updates). That experience was part of my “driving tough roads - a literal crash course”.

So I made it to Kenora where I met with a colleague who extremely graciously offered to put me up for the night — no tent required!

Today’ visit to Ryden’s, just across the border in Grand Portage Minnesota, where US packages can be picked up (and sent) was highlighted by the aforementioned resurrection of Bellicose Babe:

The trip included a bit of nearly everything: Sun, warmth, coolth, wind, some rain. But was overall a beautiful day for driving. 

Of course I ran out of gas because I “thought” I could make it to the gas station

Fortunately I had a backup plan: the fuel left over from my “Black Sturgeon Experience”

Funny, All streams flow north from this point on (the Atlantic / Arctic watershed) and me too!

Although I didn’t take a photograph, I encountered what appeared to be an accident near Dryden, where they were about 15 motorcycles on the side of the road. One of the riders appeared to be on the stretcher to be lifted into the ambulance that was there. It was a grim reminder that when things go bad on a motorcycle, they can go really bad. 

When riding many hours on a motorcycle, you have a lot of opportunity for exploring your thoughts. Just prior to encountering this crash, I was thinking about all the people I bring with me wherever I go, those who have passed on and exist only in memories now. 

My good friend Ludolph, who died in 1994. My father died the same year. A very old friend from high school, Greg, who I recently heard died several decades ago. Work colleagues: Tom, Mike, Peter, Jim. Sherry. My cousin, Andreas. All departed before their time. Perhaps I can honor them a little bit by remembering them. You have lots of time to think, riding for hours on a motorcycle.

There is a lot of exposed granite on the Trans-Canada Highway 11/17 between Thunder Bay and Kenora:

I’m about to leave Ontario. Tomorrow’s Goal: Brandon, Manitoba  

Ready to roll

Due to damage that I inflicted on Betty Blue, er, Babe, the Blue Ox, (?) I had to delay my departure by a few days. But I’m on the cusp of departure now!

Packed up and ready to go:

Today involved a trip to Canadian Tire where I purchased a valve tool to assist should I ever need to mount a tire onto a wheel again, and a patch kit for my inner tube should I inadvertently pop one.  Of course if the tire is severely lacerated by a sharp rock, fixing the inner tube won’t help a lot but I have to maintain some hope!

I sent the knobby tires by Canada Post to Dawson City where the NAPA guys will receive them and then change from road tires  to off-road tires when I get there - hopefully on Friday the 16th. Of course I could have saved a lot of money by sending them two weeks ago but time travel is not one of my talents. I could also save money by changing the tires myself but I’ve discussed this already, unnecessary self flagellation is also off the table.  

I’ve got some new parts at the border store in Grand Portage, Minnesota, which I will be picking up tomorrow morning . . . Windshield and mirror have arrived. 

It’s show time - a sunny morning in TBay.

But the sky is a bit yellow with smoke. Currently roads are open but there are still wildfires burning in the west. An auspicious start.   

From there, I will head towards Kenora for my first overnight. That will be my next update!