Successions

Dease Lake, Canada
Fort Nelson
Dawson Creek
Valemount
Canmore
Cochrane
Kamloops
Sechelt
Powell River
Qualicum Beach
Nanaimo

August 21, 2022
August 22
August 23
August 24
August 25
August 26
August 27
August 28
August 29
August 30-31
​September 1

Backdrop

Many of my neural circuits - dating back years, or even decades - had been reawakened over the previous weeks. But it was now time to expand my horizons. There were still some friends out there whom I had not seen in a very long time, and several family members whom I had never even met. My time, so far, had bolstered the roots of many distant memories. Now it was time to concentrate more on the branches.

The north beckoned.

The Coast Mountains

My general plan was to shoot north along the Cassiar Highway, a remote yet beauteous stretch of road that I had been up once before, 25 years ago, during a road-trip to Alaska. I did not ride motorcycles back then, and had travelled by pick-up truck. Yet I recalled the Cassiar as a stunning route, and I was eager to see it once more, this time on two wheels rather than four. The Cassiar runs alongside the Coast Mountains, a range that extends across British Columbia, the Yukon, and Alaska. Approximately 1,600 kilometers in length, the Coast Mountains began their formation about 130 million years ago, when the colossal Pacific Plate was slowly subducted underneath the equally enormous North American Plate, culminating in a long, north-south line of volcanic activity.

My swift time in Terrace had ignited an unyielding spark within me. I sped north on Cloud feeling more alive, and freer than any bird. The suzerains known as the Seven Sisters Peaks briefly revealed themselves from atop their colossal throne, observing me from afar. Yet the image was fleeting, like a scene from a memory, lasting mere seconds. A final farewell from the place to which I owe so much.

Following a stop at the lonely gas station in Kitwanga, I continued on to the Tsimshian village of Gitanyow. The Tsimshian are an indigenous people who have lived in the greater area around Prince Rupert and Terrace for over 5,000 years and, like the Nisga'a, are organized into four clans called Raven, Killer Whale, Wolf, and Eagle. Given that their traditional diet revolves around coastal sea-life, with a marked emphasis on salmon, the Tsimshian would have been in ketosis the vast majority of the time, which is our natural metabolic state. Gitanyow boasts many cedar totem poles, which variably depict clan status as well as the history, traditions, and legends of the Tsimshian people.

The Nass River fell behind me as I carried on up to Meziadin Junction. Chancing upon a hermetical old black bear on the road, I halted and turned off the ignition, watching him amble along the bizarrely paved section of his kingdom. Unfortunately, a camper van driving in the opposite direction failed to stop, such that the bear was forced to retreat back to the woods. By the time I arrived in Meziadin Junction, which seems little more than a work camp, the afternoon was drawing nigh. I fuelled up Cloud and held a debate within myself as to whether or not to take a terse detour west, to the town of Stewart. I had been down that road before, which I recalled as being somewhat magnificent. However, it would postpone my journey north by a couple of hours. My internal conflict lasted less than a minute, and I diverted west. I am glad that I did.

Highway 37A may well be the single most impressive ride in Canada. The road winds its way along the substrata of a series of craggy palisades, including notables such as Entrance Peak and Otter Mountain. There is something about the sinuous morphology of the Coast Mountains that I find distinctly appealing...their rugged contours conceal a core of haunting seclusion. Bear Glacier can also be found en route to Stewart, a seductive giant glacial mass that slithers down a valley carved by its own hand. This was the only time during the trip where I would say that my attention to the ride was excessively interrupted by the surrounding exquisite views. 

The highway ended in Stewart, a tiny town of 517 people nestled beneath the Alaskan panhandle. Due to the natural walls created by the nearby mountains, the Nisga'a originally referred to the area as Skam-A-Kounst, or "safe house." The first European prospectors and settlers arrived immediately prior to the year 1900, including the Stewart brothers, one of whom dubbed the town after his own name. Just over a decade later, Stewart held over 10,000 inhabitants due to its status as an important port for the booming gold and silver mining economy. Now, it mainly caters to tourism. 

I showed up in Stewart on a Sunday afternoon, and few outlets were open. Not even the gas station. So, there wasn't much for me to do, aside from pulling a mainer, before heading back to Meziadin Junction. I certainly didn't mind repeating the jaunt down Highway 37A, which was just as wondrous the second time around.

I returned to the Cassiar Highway, where nothing but scenery awaited in the form of a constant flow of forests, lakes, and mountains. Swarms of mosquitoes and flies littered my helmet's shield, which obscured my visibility to the point that I was forced to periodically halt so as to wash away their scattered remains. Cloud and I wandered across a desolate pantheon, with only an occasional vehicle passing by in the opposite lane for company. Beyond cleansing my helmet, I also tarried momentarily to gaze across the placid still waters of Mehan Lake, and later did the same at Morchua Lake.

Dease Lake revealed itself in the evening, a settlement with a population of 450 people, a rival for Stewart. The town is named after the vast lake that it borders, which itself was named in 1834 after Peter Warren Dease, a fur trader and Artic explorer. I am sure Dease Lake has its charms, but I didn't happen upon any. After a fairly hefty day of riding, I was more interested in getting a bit of shut-eye anyhow.

I fuelled up in the morning, being sure to add an extra 2 liters of gas to a container in case I ran out somewhere along the empty road. By my estimation, Cloud's maximum range was somewhere around 250 kilometers - given the remoteness of northern British Columbia and some big distances from one gas station to the next, I wanted to ensure that I didn't run out of fuel.

Despite the sun's radiance it was a cold morning, and my fingers froze up after an hour or so. It's easy to get cold on a motorcycle due to the drop in temperature that is associated with faster velocities, and since the road was ours, I opened Cloud up a bit. I barely noticed the frigid temperatures anyhow, given the mental demands of the ride. Indeed, a 2021 publication recently showed that motorcycle riding increases focus and heightens sensory monitoring. Riding also elevates levels of the hormone adrenaline while reducing cortisol, similar to light exercise, which leads to a decrease in stress. Yet another reason to stick to motorcycles, perhaps...as if I needed another.
​
As the morning slowly warmed up, the clouds coalesced into an illustrious tapestry, conjured into existence by an infinite wisdom and jovially painted across the heavens by an unseen hand, which provided a transient yet corporeal form to the wind as it danced in a hyperborean solace. Below, a cold and empty road. I pushed on as a sense of inexhaustible calmness pervaded my spirit, sweeping past Jade City, a settlement so miniscule it doesn't even have a gas station, and onwards, past the lucid waters of Boya Lake, before finally crossing the border to the Yukon.

I joined up with the Alaskan Highway and arced over to the east, towards Watson Lake, where I ordered my meal for the day at a rather excellent Chinese Restaurant, after which I embarked on a southernly course down into north-east British Columbia. I think I was in the Yukon for less than an hour.

My final campaign in the north consisted of an unexceptional flight down to Fort Nelson. Given the relatively flat and open terrain, I picked up the tempo, which made for some fairly decent time, though little else. We sped past a variety of outposts bearing the word "River" in their name - Coal River, Liard River, Toad River, and so on. The singular exception to the quotidian nature of my passage was provided by Stone Mountain Provincial Park, which is comprised of a spectacular collection of craggy mountain scenery. At the end of yet another graceful day, which added up to nearly 800 kilometers of riding, I paused outside of Fort Nelson to witness the sun as it hovered and sank below an arboreal skyline, a fitting conclusion to the last couple of days of riding, the most remote component of Cloud's journey.

Outside Terrace, heading north.

Totem poles at Gitanyow.

The Nass River.

Otter Mountain, on the road to Stewart.

Bear Glacier.

Town of Stewart.

Nothing but scenery on the Cassiar Highway.

Mehan Lake.

Dease Lake (the lake, not the town), still heading north.

Clouds painted across the heavens.

Wind, manifested.

Approach to Stone Mountain Provincial Park.

Sunset outside Fort Nelson.

The Rocky Mountains

Now that I had experienced the Coast Mountains, the general plan was to ride south-east to visit the the Rocky Mountains. Although I had driven across the Rockies many times before, I had never really devoted any serious length of time to surveying those famed peaks. The Rocky Mountain Range is approximately 4,800 kilometers long and started its formation roughly 80 million years ago, when a group of smaller tectonic plates began to slide underneath the North American plate. The subduction process has persisted ever since, although the additional erosion provided by a succession of glaciers has also contributed to the morphology of the Rockies.

Cloud and I scooted southwards, towards Dawson Creek. The topography remained largely flat and uninspiring, and we made good time. I stopped infrequently, my only significant break being at a forgettable restaurant in Fort St John, before alighting at Dawson Creek. My sole recollection of Dawson Creek occurred at the hotel as I sipped on my morning coffee and struck up a conversation with a nice family consisting of Dillon, Jenny, and little Saena, who were moving from Alaska to Oregon. Saena utterly refused to give me a pass on pronouncing her name improperly, and corrected me several times until I got it right.

I carried on south. A huge, bizarre mist descended just outside Grande Prairie, which I initially mistook to be a gigantic nebula of smog, and the temperature plummeted such that I was forced to stop and heat up with a coffee. But the mist didn't last long, and it receded within the hour. Later that day, not far outside Grand Cache, I was glissading down the highway when, suddenly, a pick-up truck in the opposing lane made a hazardous pass, occupying my entire lane. Although I was in plain sight, it may be that he didn't see me - it happens on a motorcycle. Regardless, I had only a couple of seconds to quickly veer onto the shoulder of the highway as two large vehicles blasted down both lanes towards me. Had I not swerved, an unpleasant calamity would have likely ensued, but my heart didn't skip a beat, nor was I really bothered by it. Ultimately, any problems that occur while aboard a motorcycle are on the rider. Even if another vehicle makes the error, as happened in this case, the motorcyclist will be worse off afterwards - it is essential to maintain awareness combined with the willingness to act, no matter who is at fault. 

The Rocky Mountains declared themselves and I pulled into the town of Jasper. Initially founded in 1813, Jasper started out as a fur trade outpost, but it now holds close to 5,000 people and caters to a substantial number of tourists. I relaxed and had a coffee before pressing on. As I ignited Cloud, a guy in a car pulled up beside me, nodded, and said "Sweet ride man."

I took a detour west to scamper by Mount Robson, which at almost 4,000 meters is the tallest peak in the Canadian Rockies and the second-highest in British Columbia, surpassed only by Mount Waddington in the Coast Mountains. Apparently, Mount Robson is a rather difficult climb and only 10% of attempts to do so are successful. As evening approached, the monolithic shadows of a pyrolatrous sun clandestinely swooped down upon the majesty of the mountain, casting a spell upon the lands below. 

I stayed in Valemount for the night, a picturesque town that seems to lack substance, and returned along the previous day's route to ride by Robson once again. I briefly halted to appreciate the mirror in Moose Lake, and then resumed my journey south, where the silent and imposing guardians of Jasper National Park awaited.

August heat and considerable traffic made for a slow day, but nonetheless an enjoyable one. Cloud and I meandered along with the flow, wu-wei-like, patiently allowing the Rockies to reveal themselves at their own naturalistic pace, sentinels of a realm  unknown, watchers of the hordes crawling along below. The slanted contours of Clevis Peak were reminiscent of the upstanding plates that once adorned the backs of many a stegosaurus. Stutfield Glacier, which forms the tongue of the gargantuan Columbia Icefield, peered out, unconcerned, from behind a cimmerian forest. The forlorn, snow-swept vertex of Mount Athabasca stood before all, clothed in fire and ice. And mighty Crowfoot Glacier, a stupendous accumulation of glacial ice and snow, simply stood still, challenging time itself.

Perhaps as a result of their glacial origins, some Rocky Mountains take on a somewhat Euclidean geometery, approximating poorly-drawn triangles. It intrigues me that we learn so much about Euclidean geometry, which mainly exists in our own heads - the perfect circles, squares, triangles, and so on - yet we are taught nothing of the far more prevalent fractal geometry that shapes the mountains, trees, rivers, and clouds. Unlike Euclidean objects, fractals display a highly intricate, self-similar structure along multiple levels of scale. The most famous human-made fractal is probably the Mandelbrot Set, which can be magnified virtually indefinitely whilst showing a self-similar structure, regardless of scale. So too the mountains, which are special not only for their impressive size, but also for their fractal geometry.

Aside from seeing the Rocky Mountains, I had another objective in Canmore, which is a reasonably large Albertan town of about 16,000 people. One of my best friends back in university, Tim Johnson, had resided there for over 20 years, and it had been at least that long since we had caught up. Back in the 1990s, Tim was probably the most chilled-out, easyging guy I knew...nothing ever seemed to ruffle his feathers, aside from bad music. We met up in a cafe and glossed over 20 years in about 2 hours - which is not really possible, of course. Still, it was nice to see that he was pretty much the same guy I remembered, and quite satisfied with his career as a protector of the wildlife residing within and around the Rockies. Hopefully, it won't be 20 years before we catch up again.

​Canmore was a good place to linger, but I couldn't stay too long, for I had yet another objective, one that lay further east and had been unknown to me until relatively recently...yet had existed for longer than I had lived.

Entering the Rocky Mountains.

Shadows of sun over Mount Robson.

Mirror in Moose Lake.

Guardians of Jasper National Park.

The stegosaurus-like contours of Clevis Peak.

Stutfield Glacier, peering out from behind a cimmerian forest.

Mount Athabasca, clothed in fire and ice.

Mighty Crowfoot Glacier.

In nature, Euclidean geometry is the exception, not the rule.

Tim and I catch up in Canmore...over 20 years later.

Full Circle

Several years ago, I discovered that I had an older sister. For some strange reason, I do not quite recall when, or even how, I came by this information. Perhaps it was locked away in some remote corner of my brain, where it lay, smoldering, waiting for the appropriate time to be actioned upon. We had made contact a couple of months beforehand and, fortunately, she was as keen to meet up as I was. Bhari lives in Cochrane, Alberta, with her husband John, her three sons Jake, Joe, and Jack, and her daughter Jamie.

I left the Rockies and headed over to Cochrane. Aside from the meeting ahead, it was an otherwise ordinary day, and it was accompanied by an even more ordinary ride, which was comprised of a straight line along a flat highway. Cochrane soon showed itself. As I worked my way towards Bhari's home, it occurred to me that, perhaps, this was a sort of monumental event. Yet I felt no trepidation, recognized no unease. Mostly just a calm sense of inevitability tinged with excitement. After all, it's not every day that one gets to meet a sister one never knew existed.

When I met Bhari, I instantaneously recognized that we were family. She is easygoing and natural, and it was a real pleasure to meet John and all four of her children, each of whom took the time to come over to the house and say hello. They were all intelligent, personable, and sincere. John and Bhari cooked up a marvelous dinner, and later put me up for the night. We spoke until late in the evening, and then again the following morning. Bhari showed me old photos and relayed memories of times gone by, most of which were completely new to me. When I was growing up, I had sometimes thought it would have been nice to have a sister. And now I did. Such is life - we cannot rewrite the past, but the present and future remain open. Who knows what the wind will bring?

After saying goodbye I raced west, back to the sea. A light rain developed, which soon became heavier and conspired with the chilly weather to force me to make a series of warm-up stops in Canmore, Lake Louise, Golden, and Revelstoke. I pushed through the damp chill, chasing the sun, and I mused that perhaps life is not so much about discovering or finding value, but about shaping and creating it. And then another impossible dream came to me, one that awaited me back in New Zealand in the form of a cancer trial, and I thought, "The dream is still alive."

Sunny breaks emerged and I came across the city of Kamloops, which had a parched and barren feel to it, but I liked it enough to stay the night and well into the following morning before riding out to Highway 99. This roadway ventures past Lillooet, Whistler, and Squamish, and turned out to be one of the premier rides of the journey. Vehicles were scant, the highway itself consisting of a juxtaposed multitude of boisterous, up-and-down serpentine curves, which were clearly designed to generate maximal fun. By the time I rolled into Squamish, the traffic had intensified, but the advent of a double-laned highway allowed me to maintain a high velocity for the remainder of the cruise to Vancouver. I had come full circle, not just in Cloud's journey, but in a number of other, more fundamental ways.

With only a handful of days remaining, I made an effort to meet up with as many people as I could in a thoughtful and meaningful manner. I visited Pat and Janice first, where my Aunt Barb also was waiting to see me. I've always appreciated her quick wit and sense of humour. It was lovely to see her again after so many years. Over the next few days I was lucky to spend more time with my brothers and their families - Pat, Janice, Cameron, Josie, Tim, Ren, Freya, Simon, Roanna, and Averie. Yet I was not quite full circle yet...more family and friends remained, none of whom I had seen for several years or more.

My first stop was in Nanoose Bay to see Mike and Karen Kenyon, both of whom have been family friends for 25 years. Like my own father, Mike is a general internist. Karen works in residential real estate (in fact, she is the main business partner of my brother, Simon). Early in my medical training, during a time when I was uncertain about which road to take, Mike helped me by arranging a series of medical rotations in Canada. Although I decided to return to the southern hemisphere, the experience was a crucial one in shaping my current path. Beyond this fact, I have always enjoyed discussing medicine, philosophy, and life in general with Mike, and as we conversed in his home it was good to see that, many years later, I still did.

For my next visitation, I carried on south to Lake Cowichan in the interior of Vancouver Island to see a most excellent friend from my high school days, Mike Hewitt, or "Hewitt" as we all used to call him back then. Like Roland, I have known him for the vast majority of my life, and I hope to do so for many decades to come. Hewitt works in a variety of jobs, including his role as the sole custodian and supervisor of the Lake Cowichan water facility, which supplies all water for the nearby town. Mike is relentlessly considered in his approach to life. He played a significant role in inspiring my current trajectory, and I remain indebted.

Moving on, I also saw Bill and Jill Redpath at their home in Nanoose Bay. Bill is a retired general practicioner and one of the most open-minded, lateral-thinking people I know. Both he and Jill exude a cheerfully radiant demeanour which tends to rub off on anyone around them. I have always valued their advice and support over the years, even if it was just to obtain a different opinion. In his quintessentially self-effacing manner, Bill bade me farewell by presenting a gift of a sealed letter, inside of which he had written a succinct account of how to live a good life, which I read twice.

Last but not least, I met with my cousin Tara, an emphatically genuine and upbeat person with whom I find it effortless to relate regardless of how long it has been or what has transpired in the interim. Tara had a very significant health challenge several years ago, but held on remarkably when things could well have spiralled down a different path. At the time I was extremely impressed at how she adjusted and recovered. Still am. 

Towards the end of my time in Canada, Simon and I took our parents out to a local restaurant to celebrate their 48th wedding anniversary. I had not planned to coincide the end of my time with this event, but fate often plays a hand in such matters. It was an enjoyable evening. The following night, Simon and Roanna hosted us all again at their house in Nanaimo, and Simon surprised me with a most sincere and gracious toast, saying some things for which I shall remain forever grateful.

All in all, Cloud's journey covered roughly 6,080 kilometers and circumvented most of the province of British Columbia. On my final ferry ride from Nanaimo to Vancouver, I met a serious motorcycle enthusiast named Andy, who was both a physicist and mechanical engineer. Andy owned a collection of half a dozen motorcycles and knew more about the design and specs of the Suzuki SV 650 than I ever would. But he never knew the story of Cloud. As a dozen or so motorcyclists on the ferry waited for the ship to dock in Vancouver, one of them blasting Aerosmith's "Walk This Way" at full volume throughout the vehicle deck, I wished Andy a good ride, and he did so in turn. And it was - one of the best of rides. Yet time flies by at a blistering pace, and it was all over in the blink of an eye.

Several kilometers outside Qualicum Beach, nestled along the sedate shores of the Strait of Georgia, rests the house of my parents. It is a beautiful house, and it is named Spearfish. Poised between Spearfish and the sea, a solitary tree looks out over the ocean. An intrepid eagle resides in the tree - it flies and roams at will, gliding along with the breeze, dancing upon the levanter. Sometimes the eagle returns to the tree, but it lives and soars with the wind.

For that is its true home...this is Origin.

Bhari, John, and their sons - Jake, Joe, and Jack.

Meeting my sister Bhari.

Catching up with Aunt Barb.

Pat and Janice.

Tim and Ren.

Simon and Roanna.

Mike and Karen Kenyon.

Chilling with Hewitt.

Bill and Jill Redpath.

Great coffee with cousin Tara.

My folks, 48th wedding anniversary.

Cloud's last ride.

Eagle's tree at Spearfish.

Origin