She got to mainland Alaska at the end of the summer and cycled across the same highways that I’m familiar with, making the local news as she passed through the Anchorage area. I laughed when she ranted about the Caribou Creek Gorge. I’ve been over that canyon three times, and it’s an absolute bastard to cycle over.

In the Yukon, she met Iohan Georgiev, a nomadic cyclist who I’ve followed online for two years. He had just got out of Alaska on an epic expedition to Argentina and caught up with her on the Alcan Highway at minute 44 of this video. This was the first time I had heard of her story. I was amazed at the scale of her trip, and followed her online ever since. But little did I know at the time the hell that she went through to get there.

They parted ways at the Haines Junction. Iohan went south to the ocean and Sarah continued east. She had to get to the east coast by next spring, and fought her way across the plains of Canada with her fiancée Lucy, in 30 below weather to make it in time.

Back at home it was Christmas Day at the farm. My mom was fixing a turkey dinner and Christmas music echoed throughout the house. I sat in my old room, reading Sarah’s memory of her ride through the states. She got to the Appalachians of Pennsylvania just in time for the spring thaw.

At last, she reached the pier at Cape Cod, reuniting with Happy Socks for the final voyage home. That summer, I followed her story as she tweeted her location and status report each day. The open sea was wildly unpredictable, but to her, she said it is where she truly feels content. I can understand that. To the outdoor traveler, there are places in the world where we honestly feel more connected than anywhere in our normal lives. To me, the mountain country of the great north is where I am truly at peace. And to others, it is the open ocean. Though immeasurable and likely dangerous, we want more than anything to be back out there.

Dare to Do is an inspiring tale of human potential. It is a personable, honest story of human kindness, friendship, courage, heartbreak, and adventure. It is evident in her pages that Sarah’s quest is just as much of a journey inward as it is a traveler’s tale. And until I get the chance to do it myself, I will have to see the world vicariously through her words. I encourage you to do the same. Read her book. Be inspired. Get out there and explore.

http://www.sarahouten.com
http://www.cackletv.com/shop/usa/dvds/kayaking-the-aleutians-dvd.html

I enjoyed it all but twenty minutes and turned northward out of the pass. The climb to get up there yesterday was utterly backbreaking, and the descent down the other side was nothing short of sheer terror. Amazing places like this come at a cost, and I knew that all too well. At a 12% downhill grade, I plunged into the canyon, only able to slow down just enough to keep from speeding out of control. With thin tires, cable brakes, and loaded cargo, this felt like suicide. I watched for the river and forest to join with the road to the left, and for this horror to be over. After ten minutes – what felt like much longer – it finally was. The river met the road and I coasted the rest of the way out with ease.

Over the day, the road gradually leveled out, and the mountains became smaller and more distant as I raced against darkening clouds for Jasper, the final destination of the ride, for food, shelter, rest, bragging rights. But it was much better to be on gravity’s side out here. I had been cycling uphill for three days straight, and this was the first day with almost no climbing whatsoever.

Around 2:00, a car slowed down and stopped in front of me. A lady got out and waved me down. “Hey, did you happen to lose a sleeping bag? I found this along the road,” she said, getting out a blue Marmot bag.

“No, mine is in my cargo, but thanks.” She drove on, looking for its owner. I went on, feeling encouraged once again that good people like her are out here. She didn’t have to care about me, that bag, or whoever it belongs to, but she cared about all of it. With that kind of karma, she can have it for all I care. The clouds ahead were getting darker, and I needed to hurry. By then, I was feeling pretty ragged and worn out.

Later, I mounted my GoPro camera onto my tripod, which was strapped to the pannier rack, to get some reverse shots of the road behind. When I stopped to take the camera off, I realized that I didn’t fasten it very well, and it was one pothole away from coming lose and tumbling onto the road – all of my footage along with it – to be lost and forgotten forever. That could have been an expensive mistake. Like the Screaming Trees said, I nearly lost you, GoPro.

I finally made it to Jasper around 4:00, where I had to climb one last big hill along the mountain to my hostel. I was done with this, I thought, got off my bike, and walked it up for two miles, just as the summer rain hit the mountains.

There were a lot of international backpackers at the hostel, either on roadtrips or by the Via Rail train. Other people like me were passing through on outdoor adventures. A young lady Kaitlyn was a forest ranger from a provincial park somewhere north, who between shifts, likes to drive into the mountains to go rock climbing, and then just sleep at hostels or in her car. She noticed me locking my bike and carrying my gear in, and wanted to know what I was doing. We talked a bit about our adventures.

“Hey, are you hungry? I have some extra food in my car, and I know you’ve been out riding all day.”
“Oh I’m okay,” I told her. “I’ve been eating out of the vending machine. I was thinking of getting a meal sometime tomorrow when I get into town.”
“Well if you want, I’ve got some pasta in my car that you can eat,” she offered. Again, with all the good karma out here. Seriously, this is good people. My rule is that I don’t go looking for it, but I don’t turn away road magic when people offer it. We sat in the hostel lounge while I ate her food and traded stories with her and the other people at the table. I had been out busting ass for four straight days, and this was the first chance I had to clean up and relax.

My train out of town wasn’t due until mid-afternoon the next day, so that gave me time that morning to check out the Jasper Skytram, a gondola on the edge of town that carries visitors to the top of Whistler’s Peak. From there, you can hike the trail system and see a complete 360 degree panorama of the Canadian Rockies, including six mountain ranges, numerous lakes and rivers, and the town of Jasper, 3,600 feet below.

My hostel was a short walk away from it, so that morning I went up there and got on the first lift of the day. Trees glided by silently below as the gondola smoothly made its ascent up the mountainside. A young fellow was our tour guide for the next seven minutes. He gave us a short history of the town, the gondola, and some facts about the region’s flora and fauna, none of which I can remember.

The panorama at the summit was fantastic. And unlike other mountains in the range, Whistler’s Peak is fairly rounded at the summit, making for an easy hike around its trail system. I spent a good hour hiking around and taking pictures. Smoke from forest fires obstructed the far off mountains, so I had to focus on closer subjects. In this case, they were rocks.

The tram swiftly descended back down the mountain to the lower station, where I walked back to my hostel, got all of my shit, and coasted my bike down to the town.

Soon, I was heading west on a Via Rail train, traveling into wildfire smoke, passing Pyramid Falls, Mt. Robson, the Valley of a Thousand Peaks, the remote town of Kamloops, and nightfall. I was one night out from Vancouver, a cityscape on the edge of the wild.

This story concludes in British Columbia.

I made it to Banff around noon and stopped to eat. It is a big tourist village that offers just about every outdoor sport you can think of. It looms under the giant massif of Cascade Mountain, creating a popular vantage point for tourists and photographers. Today was the 4th of July, and they welcomed Americans.

Castle Mountain, the most prominent peak of the day, came into view ten miles later as I traveled uphill against wind and gravity, with the rush of Bow River to my right. It was fresh with swift meltwater, and flowed southward, eventually going all the way back to Calgary. A man in a canoe went by. I pedaled on, happy to have the shade of light overcast. Any clouds would do in this heat.

I went on for a while to the continuous roar of highway traffic. After a couple hours, I reached the town of Lake Louise after a steady, hard pace on long uphill sections. I could have turned on a small side trip westward up a huge hill to see the iconic lake and vista that gives this place its name. Screw that, it’s getting late. From there, the Trans Canadian Highway turned west towards Vancouver, and the parkway went northward towards Bow Pass. I was glad to be away from all of the heavy traffic and loud eighteen wheelers. All was quiet on the road. The climb didn’t stop. It doubled in grade and went right into cold headwind.

The sun lowered behind the rugged peaks along the British Columbia border, and the golden Bow River snaked along the valley below amidst a darkening forest. Cold air blew from the high mountains ahead. I continued along the eastern ridge as the temperature quickly started dropping.

I made it to my hostel in the early evening, hours behind schedule but not really counting. The hostel, a series of rustic solar powered cabins, was the first of its kind that I’ve ever seen. I slept well along the rush of Mosquito Creek, not wasting any time getting any needed rest that I could. Another big day lay ahead.

My phone alarm went off at 4:30am and I set out at an hour later. The blue glow of daybreak illuminated the forest. A backpacker walked by me and towards the mountains, apparently also trying to get a head start. Soon, I was back on the road and climbing towards the summit of the pass. Clouds covered the tops of the mountains, and didn’t seem far off from this elevation. I began to notice the glassy dark blue claws of glaciers coming out between the mountains to the left. At times, the morning sun broke through the clouds, illuminating parts of the scenery. Other times, sheets of cold rain would seem to come out of nowhere. This was a volatile and dynamic place, where ultimately, the mountains decide how the day will be.

I was already covered in rain and was getting hungry. I had packed two bags of jerky, which I planned to use between food stops. The beef jerky was so tough to eat that it took twenty minutes just to chew through one piece. And the other bag had kimchi marinated pork, which I don’t know what I was thinking when I bought it – it tasted foul. I ate about as much of it as I could stand that morning, but ultimately chose to hold out until the next store. From the summit of the pass, I was about 10 miles of downhill away from the Saskatchewan River Crossing, which would probably have something.

It was a cold and shitty morning, but I finally hit the downhill section and coasted for a half an hour all the way to the river. From here, the highway reached a junction with a road going east out of the range. Still not entirely sure where to buy food, I crossed the river and kept going. Typically, highway junctions in the middle of nowhere like this one do have a place to eat. Like a gas station or roadhouse, or.. a freaking breakfast buffet? Out here??? Dude. DUDE! I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. A FREAKING BREAKFAST BUFFET!!! On a cold and wet morning, no less. It was like a cycling oasis. I rode up to the building as the smell of bacon coming from the kitchen reached my watering eyes.

I had four plates of eggs and meat, making up for thousands of lost calories. It was so awesome. I went on to tell the server how awesome it was, because I wanted her to understand how I feel. And I knew I needed it to power up for Sunwapta Pass, the ballbuster climb of the trip. I came back outside to my bike as a number of sightseeing tour buses were parked in the big lot in front of the building. This was apparently one of the main stops.

Several people wanted to know where I was headed, which I’m used to, then an Asian family wanted to get their picture with me. To them, I figured, a dude like me busting my ass out here – and really this entire place – was a completely new thing for them. Hell, I’m American and a lot of this seems new. I was fed, encouraged, mostly dry, and the sun was finally out. Let’s do this.

It started as an easy climb, following a braided and mostly flat floodplain along the Alexandra River. After ten miles, the road turned away from the river and went up to the base of the pass, getting worse with each pedal stroke. The mountains closed in and I was cycling up the canyon. Up ahead, I could see the monstrosity of the climb in clear view. Sunwapta Pass. A hard as shit climb. This was going to hurt.

The road quickly went to an 8% grade as I geared down and made a slow pace. I was moving just enough to comfortably pedal into the angle without falling sideways. I was sweating it for a whole mile before the road went flat again and turned to a big loop to the left. Out of breath and surprised at the reprieve, I coasted slowly around the bend and gathered my thoughts for a moment.

I caught up with three road cyclists who were touring in carbon fiber featherweights. A lot of cyclists like them do supported tours in places like this and have somebody shuttle their gear ahead. I, however, don’t feel like spending the money or time for that and prefer to carry all of my shit with me. It means I’m slower going, which is the tradeoff for the independence. Here, obviously, they were having an easier time.

After the loop is the meat of the climb, which goes for almost two miles of 8-12%. It is one monster of a grade. I fought my way up a few hundred feet, took a break, climbed some more, stopped again. I think I stopped about six times. It only lessened the suffering by notch. It was terrible. But the overlook here was a good distraction.

After it curves around the ridge, the grade lessens to about 5% for a while, which is well under my threshold. I don’t really like it, but I can at least work with it. I was finally nearing the summit, where I turned to find a site at a nearby campground. It was mid-afternoon, but I was definitely done for the day.

One thing I’ve learned from mountain touring is that the work and payoff are usually directly related. The rewards are big, but they come with a brutal workout. It’s either awesome or it’s a beating, depending on which side of the coin you’re looking at. It turns out that the summit of Sunwapta Pass, which is right at the edge of the Columbia Icefield and the Athabasca Glacier, is the most amazing part of the entire highway.

I had a few beers with an older English lady and her partner at the campground, and she told me I should hike up the nearby Wilcox Pass Trail to see the surrounding mountains and glaciers from a high ridge.

I spent an hour scuffling up the wooded trail and into high clearing along the edge of the mountainside. At the trail’s end, a lone red park bench sits in view of the Columbia Icefield, the Athabasca Glacier, and numerous other majestic mountains and icefalls. As the sun descended to the west, I imagined the vast snowfield ahead in an ethereal orange alpenglow amidst ragged, darkening peaks. The sunlight parted as the world ahead turned into shades of blue, and the temperature started to plummet. I made my way back down the mountain and to the warmth of my tent. Fucking hell. This place is unreal.

Everything else was downhill from here. And that was fine by me.

Part 3: Descent to Jasper