Entering Whitehorse, Yukon territory, I swung off to the right, wheel scraping under seat, first petrol station within sight. Opposing bowser a bike heading south pulled in. Guitar strapped high above packs a plenty. I waved to the rider and pulled away, heading further into town.

After a week or two’s “bush repairs” to Mavis’s busted suspension and a quick oil change, the journey continued ever North onwards to Alaska, leaving Whitehorse all but a memory and a flash in my rear view mirrors. I’d met a German guy at the campground during my stay, who serendipitously was the same rider I’d passed at the petrol station when first coming into town. Oliver started his journey in Anchorage, Alaska en route for South America and recommended I travel along the “Top of the World Highway”, departing from the historic gold rush town of Dawson City, Canada. 200km’s + of unsealed, extremely isolated road lay before us heading West into the open plains and across the border to Alaska.

Riding into Dawson at sunset, we slowly crawled along the dirt streets, girt by wooden sidewalks, historic weatherboard buildings; a barbers shop, a church all passed us by. Pulling up in front of the old saloon, I backed Mavis up to the roads edge and kicked down the stand. The saloon doors burst open and a man in riding boots swaggered over the muddy street in my direction. “Nice bike ya got there, where you coming from?”. “Texas” I replied. A conversation followed as he proceeded to explain he’d gone on a ride from San Francisco to Reno on his sports bike, but just decided to keep riding north after reaching Reno. Dawson had this strange sense to it, that perhaps people had been passing through in search of something for a long time. I felt like I could have been here before in a previous life. After a long days ride into town, I’d have lashed my horse to the post out front and headed for the saloon bar.

Waking to grey skies and a fogging head, we headed down to the banks of the Yukon river. The day was still and the river glassy. I waited for the ferry to transport Mavis and I to the west bank. As if a beach assault, the steal boom fell to the ground, unleashing Mavis and I onto the gravel before us. Deep ruts and corrugation.

Finding our way through the country side, rising and falling. Passing no one, albeit a moments glimpse of two riders traveling in the opposite direction, presumably heading south for warmer weather. Hour after hour ticked over as we crept our way along that long empty road. Concentration firm, loaded up heavy, the loose gravel washed around Mavis’ front wheel, dragging it sideways, ever trying to pull us to the ground.

Climbing to the apex of yet another hill, we suddenly lost power. Being not more than half way, it seemed odd, and I quickly ruled out a lack of fuel in the tank. Engine. Dead. Stop. Suddenly our journey was halted. Isolated. I’d not known why at the the time, nor what made me think to get them, but I’d purchased a new set of spark plugs last thing before leaving Whitehorse. I jumped off the bike and started fumbling round the engine. In search of the usual suspects; a loose wire or a bad connection, I found nothing and changed tack. Using some vice grips, I slowly twisted each spark plug from its cylinder and replaced it with new. The old plugs appeared to have fouled and had caused the engine failure. Flicking over the bike, we once again had power and drive. The journey continued…

Arriving in Prince George after a chilly ride and a solo adventure out onto a glacier, Mavis parked out in the cold, we skimmed internet from a nearby coffee shop. Checking the financial particulars of the expedition and how close we were to being forced to call off Alaska and take up some shit job in Canada to get some funds. To my surprise, a late tax return had finally come through from back home and we were back in the black. The trip was on again and Alaska ever closer…

Heading West from Prince George we cruised our way along the Trans-Canada Hwy towards the turnoff north for route 37, Dease Lake Hwy. An unseasonal cold snap was howling in off the Pacific Ocean, blown inland south from the poles, producing some of the coldest head winds I’d ever experienced. The gloves from West Yellowstone barely kept my fingers nimble enough to pull back on the throttle or apply the brake. Was this what Alaska had in store for me? Was this guy from Australia so ill prepared that the trip would fail?

I think at times in life, you have premonitions, or at least you see with clarity events that are about to unfold. Be this due to perception or something else. On this day, as I wound my way along the Dease Lake Hwy on Route 37 north to the Alcan Hwy, I had such an event, or at least, the feeling of having such an event. Traveling at 65m/h (105km/h) Mavis hummed and we cornered sharply into every bend and twist. Mavis and I were one, in-tune with one another and the road. Down to the left, behind a cement barricade at the foot of a steep drop, a river tossed and gurgled over rocks. Approaching a sweeping right hand bend, hillside obstructing the view of the road ahead, I looked up as far as I could see and caught a glimpse of something large, black and standing in the centre of the road. Instinctively my foot pressed firmly on the rear brake pedal and I pulled in the front lever. Mavis’ back wheel locked up as I stood to stabilize the fully loaded bike. She fish tailed furiously and made contact with the painted double white centre line. The rear tyre slipped and screeched; at this moment, the only moment of the trip, I felt I was about to fall and crash from Mavis at speed, skidding across the tarmac. The only hope that myself and the bike would be stopped by the cement barricade before ending up in the cascading river below. Of all places to have a motorcycle accident, route 37 in remote, very remote British Columbia… In a brief period of slooooow-dis-toooor-ted reality, I managed to avert an accident, bringing Mavis to a controlled, albite unconventional emergency stop. In front of us, as we stood stationary, shaking in the middle of the road, some 3m away, a large wild black bear. It looked us down for a moment, then turned and jumped the barricade and retreated to the rivers edge. I have a feeling, it too was shitting itself with the sight of Mavis and I hurtling towards it. The first wild bear I had ever seen, and the first near death/crash experience for the trip. That day, having not seen one bear the whole trip previous, I encountered a further seven black bears along that one stretch of road.

Passing the Teton Range and more notably the peak of Grand Teton, the pure majesty of the mountains threw me from Mavis (theoretically speaking). Such unanticipated natural grandeur bestowed a sense of humbleness to myself and the motorcycle on which I rode.

Onwards we rode to the sounds of thunder claps and flashing bolts of lightning striking the ground before us. Trying to capture this moment on film, I reached forward and pressed the shutter button atop the camera mounted to Mavis’ side. The rain soon followed which is to be expected following such dramatic weather as we entered what was thought to be the entrance to Yellowstone National Park. Ahead either side of the road, thick forest interspersed with shallow clearings, revealing glimpses of cascading rivers. Icy rapids tumbled one over another in a race against gravity. Snow capped peaks jutted out above the trees. A few more miles down and the road narrowed to where a small ranger hut stood. “Welcome to Yellowstone”. Unbeknown to me, the Grand Teton NP boundary extended further north before smashing into the great Yellowstone NP.

Light started to escape the day as a large illuminated sign read “Roadwork ahead. Expect long delays”. Further north and I soon pulled up the rear of a line of cars. Workman and plant equipment busied about on the road-surface. A small truck pulled in front of the lead car as I stretched my legs and jumped about. “Pilot car. Follow me” read the back of the work utility as its amber lights pulsated. Like a freight train exiting a siding yard, one-by-one the cars before Mavis pulled away as I hurried to replace my helmet and gloves and start up the bike. The pilot car picked up pace while the sealed road disappeared below, replaced by slick mud, loose gravel and potholes. Vision soon became impaired as the road relocated to my visor and the rest of my body, Mavis’ headlight and my mesh gloves. Unsuccessfully I tried to wipe the mud and grime free of view which was quickly replaced with more in it’s place. Frustrated yet happily bemused, I flipped the visor up and placed my left hand in front of my nose to protect my exposed face from the grime while my right worked the throttle and steering. No time to stop, nor slow down, the mud kept coming while my eyes blinked rapidly to stave off the foreign matter. Five odd miles later the sealed rode returned, the pilot car pealed away and the line of traffic resumed cruising speed. Covered head to toe in mud, I laughed, smiled and then hit myself for thinking riding without a front fender was oh so cool. Crossing a small bridge, I turned off and rode down to a rivers edge. I rinsed what I could free from my gear and splashed the cool water over my face. The helmet visor was completely ruined, small scratches and a light film obscured my view. With nothing else that could be done, I resumed my hunt for a campsite for the night further deep within Yellowstone National Park.

Unplanned yet on a mission to reach Alaska before the falling snow, we raced over the Rockies towards Utah. Rolling through the Rocky Mountain National Park, Mavis’ electrics started to play up. First the indicators, then the brake, then the front headlights. I stopped and fiddled around. Finding an alternate solution to the faulty headlight switch, I rewired the headlights direct to a 12V source that came on with the turn of the ignition key. The indicator fault was due to a loose connection and with a spray of WD-40 and some tape, came up trumps. The brake light just seemed not to work, but after much deliberation as to the problem, resumed functionality.

First night away from Denver in two weeks, I sat amongst wildflowers by a lakes shore high in Grand Mesa. Staring at the reflection of a full moon glistening on the smooth surface I delved deep into thought, searching for the motivation to submit myself to such an adventure as the one currently taking place. Having met such incredible people along the journey and seeing such magnificent places, the recurring questions I ask upon myself is why keep moving on? In pursuit of what? But within the questions lay the answers, as if one stays stationary and enjoys the surrounds and comforts of the familiar, the foreign is never found nor experienced. And without the exploration of the unexperienced and foreign, new sensations would not be obtained, nor felt and the power of the familiar would be lost. I throw a rock in the lake and watch as the ripples disperse outwards to the waters edge making a faint lapping sound on the rocky bank.

Waking the next morning to the sounds of a park ranger “knocking” on my tent fly. “Anyone home in there?” he asks. I roll over and pretend no one is. He persists and eventually I open the tent door. As I’d ‘forgotten’ to pay the required campsite fee, the gentlemen was just trying to obtain payment for the night. Fishing around in my wallet, I produced some scrunched bills and hand them his way. We spoke a little and he asked where I was heading. A look of horror glazed over his face as I told him I was on my way north to Alaska. “It’s a bit late in the season for that isn’t it? You’re going to freeze on that bike. You know where you should be heading?! Lake Apache in Arizona. I used to work down there. There are two sisters, the Schuster sisters. They own the marina, just tell them I sent you and I’m sure they’ll give you a job.” The heat of Arizona verse the cold of Alaska did have a considerable amount of appeal.

Browsing the map I contemplated the potential shift in direction. Fixing some breakfast thoughts bounced around my head like a rubber ball in a glass sphere. Should I stay close to Denver? Was Arizona a place for me? Would Mavis and I actually make it to Alaska? All valid questions, none of which I could answer satisfactorily at the time. I packed up camp and got back on the road.

Rolling down into Delta just south west of Grand Mesa, I found myself torn as where and what to do? Alaska was such a distant reality, obtainable only by self realization and inventive uses of limited resources. $300USD in the bank, a maxed out credit card and a thirsty motorcycle eager to go the distance. The sun was gleaming on that day as I came to an intersection. Head south back down to Arizona and call it quits for the winter, or turn north and brave the unknown and the unexplored. As these thoughts crossed my mind, to my right a Union Pacific freight trundled along, mustard yellow box cars trailing behind brushing past corn fields swaying in the light breeze. A maroon pickup truck overtook me on the left as a cattle dog in the tray, one blue eye, gazed into mine. A bumper sticker on the rear of the cabin window read “Think positive thoughts”. Alaska was my destination, and no matter how poignant the distractions I was to encounter along the road, Alaska was the goal, and nothing less would do!

With the recently publicized motivation found off the rear of the pickup truck, Mavis and I hurled along I-70 towards Moab, Utah. Not so much a direct link in the chain to Alaska, but a desired destination to explore. Arizona, Denver and all the alternative options were now a distant thought. Mentally drained with a sore bum to boot, we turned south off the interstate and headed towards Moab. Arches National Park was a priority visit after missing the opportunity to explore the rock formations on my way east from Las Vegas to Denver nearly a month earlier. Large red stained “flat top” formations encroached on the roadway as we neared the town. Within Arches National Park we rode, exhausted and lacking enthusiasm for it’s natural beauty. B-lining to the Delicate Arch, I parked the bike and walked over for a glimpse of the famed rock. The hype of the formation truly outweighed its splendor. “Snap” went the Canon and a frame was exposed. Getting back on the bike, I pulled the throttle back with force, Mavis roared and we sped off away from the park.

Up Hwy 128 we blazed, along the Colorado river the road weaved and cornered. The 40 odd miles of the Hwy were amazing, with a spectacular 360degree Utah horizon view, something previously only seen and experienced in cartoons and images. The red cliffs leaned inward on the road and river as Mavis reached speeds of 100mph! Frustrated, but without reason, I slowly calmed and regained composure. Perhaps the feeling of the unknown and the formidable battle between want, necessity and desire to reach my set goals was taking its toll.

Racing against the sun and the seasons, Utah brushed past as we headed north along hwy 191 towards Jackson, Wyoming. The chosen route was a perfect riding road, plenty of corners and not much traffic. The Sun dipped below the horizon and Mavis’s skull lights flickered on the road ahead. Tailing a car in front with the notion if a deer or other large game animal were to wander onto the road, the car in front would take the brunt of the force leaving Mavis and I safe to continue on. “Open Range” cattle proved to be the more unpredictable obstacle, as the car in front and I encountered on numerous occasions. Thankfully with only close encounters.

Giving up on reaching Wyoming that evening, I choose to rest the night by a lake in northern Utah just off the main route. Eventually finding Starvation Lake State Park, we made our way in. Skipping the self paying fee box in the shadow of a lone street lamp, we bumped along the dirt road. Unable to find a campsite, due to the darkness of night, we circled around for some time. Turning off into what looked like a nice spot, Mavis’ rear tyre suddenly sank into the loose sand under wheel. I stuck both feet out to prop the bike up and shoved back on the throttle. Sand flew up and out the back, illuminated by the red running light. Gradually with an increased heart rate, we inched forward to harder ground, leaving a deep channel behind. Setting up the tent under yet another clear sky, I flipped back the tent fly and lay watching the stars above.

The following morning I woke to a beaming sun and a beautiful, crisp clear lake. Jumping straight in, I flapped about for a while before deciding to get on the road. Fixing a cup of green tea I packed up the tent and riding gear. In hurry to nowhere fast, we pulled into a petrol station to fill up. Mavis gulped up a few gallons of gasoline and I downed a fountain cola in a paper cup and a blueberry muffin. Within an hour, a sugar headache kicked in and my head throbbed and ached inside the confines of the helmet. Passing by the archaeologically rich fossil country in Utah’s north east corner, we crossed the border over into Wyoming.

Having filled up the petrol tank to the brim back in Utah, and knowing I could get close to 200miles on one full fill-up I did some calculations and figured I’d not need to refill until reaching Pinedale, Wyoming some 190-200miles north. Across the blustery Wyoming landscape we raced. 80mph and we still didn’t seem to be making ground. 90mph and things started to feel progressive and upwards into the triple digits Mavis pushed. A recently constructed new road surface provided the perfect proving ground for Mavis to challenge the land speed record. Caught up in the moment, it slipped my mind our fuel economy was burning away with every mile. Rain and thunder clouds brewed to the north west and a headwind picked up force. A road sign read “Pinedale 10miles”. Oh boy it was cutting it fine, but I knew we could do it. A little further down the road and Mavis lost power! “Oh fuck” I yelled to myself. Simultaneously I glimpsed up the hwy. A petrol station seemed to appear out of nowhere as we rolled off the road. Mavis gave a last puff of power and the engine cut out. With the momentum we already had, I effortlessly pushed the bike next to the pump. I jumped off and smiled. The feeling of running out of juice just as you turn into a petrol station is a great pleasure in life.

Wine fueled evenings chatting away drifted into day and the desire to never leave Denver and hang up the skull cap became ever so tantalizing. An email to my Vegas employer confirmed I was never in the wrong regarding damage to their vehicle and my paycheck was finally set free into my bank account. As described in my last post, the hold up in the Canyon had turned out in my eventual favor, and patients most definitely was the meal of the week.

With the new influx of funds pumping fuel back into the trip, I decided it was time to hit up REI outdoors flagship store (as was the original reason for coming to Denver) for some items I hadn’t had the funds to purchase earlier but were in desperate need of. A camp stove was the feature item on the short , humble list, after eating nothing but un-heated chili from a can and smoked oysters on bread rolls soaked in gasoline fumes up in Gunnison Canyon. I also scouted out the likes of a new tent complete with bug mesh after my face had became an ant freeway the weeks earlier. I decided to part ways with my old shelter before investing in something new and listed it in on Craigslist. Within a few hours I received an email from a potential buyer. They lived in Carbondale, just West of Aspen, in those ever so high Rocky Mountains. They inquired if I might ship the tent from Denver. I quickly replied and suggested I would be happy to personally deliver the tent instead, as I could do with a nice ride and I never did get to go through Aspen.

The following morning I awoke right on 8am, and started to get my shit together for playing postman. I frantically hustled about pushing my unpacked bag to the beneath the couch, grabbed my helmet, leather jacket and gloves. By this time the three girls were up and sitting on the front porch. I told them what I was up to, where I was headed and asked if anyone wanted to come. Ashley had priors with the Library where she worked, Jaimie had hot date but Erika snapped at the offer and quickly assumed her spot on the back on Mavis. First port of call was to find a helmet for my newly acquired passenger so off we rode. Walmart to Honda, not a sniff of a suitable helmet. Being Sunday didn’t help either, with all motorcycle shops closed. I kept suggesting “Family Dollar”(Kind of like “The Reject Shop” back home) as we rode around town (by law in Colorado, you don’t need a helmet), but Erika would not have a bar of it. Eventually we resorted to the source of all the fucking about and found a $25 helmet listed on craigslist. By the time we actually got everything together it was breaching the 4pm mark as the hour hand shot through five. I turned to Erika and glanced at the clear blue sky “It’s pretty late, it’s about a four hour ride one way. I’m still up for it if you are?”

Erika held on tight as Mavis roared forwards, I peeled back the throttle and the engine rumbled. We rose, wound, dodged and weaved our way high up towards Aspen. Spectacular views jutted out as sheer drops encroached the bitumen’s boundary. The ambient temperature dropped as we gained on our destination of Carbondale.

Eventually we made it to our most friendly buyers home as they warmly welcomed us in for hot tea and cookies. In no time at all it was time to snake our way back to Denver and return my precious cargo back to her room mates. Jumping on Mavis I flicked the ignition to notice no lights working on the speedo nor taco gauge. I stopped off at a petrol station to check the wire connections and fuses under an orange street lamp. It turned out to be the small globe that had blown, of which I had no spare. We carried on, in the dark of a star lit sky along I-70 East. Tailing other cars and trucks, I tried to judge the speed and stay with the flow of traffic. As we had left the house back in Denver early in the heat of day, we’d brought no warm riding gear, nor wet weather’s in case of encountered inclement weather along the road. My mesh gloves did little to stop the icy chill of the blasting cool of night. My fingers started to loose feeling but I persevered as we had to make it back to Denver that evening. Eventually I started to loose grip of the handle bars and I pulled off to the roads edge. I explained to Erika that I had no feeling in my fingers as I touched the back of my frozen hand to her warm cheek. A few more hand warming stops and I truly was getting to a point where I could no longer ride. I pulled off for petrol and we filled up. “Erika, can we stop for a while to warm a little?” I asked. We found a 24hr diner (it was now 1am and still an hour or two out from Denver).

We had a welcomed feed as I warmed my frozen extremities around my decaf coffee filled porcelain mug, the warmth permeating my bones like warm fudge dripped over soft serve ice cream. Steak and eggs was the meal of choice as I polished off my less than perfect cut. As we exited the diner, I suggested “Star jumps”. Erika just laughed “Do you mean, “Jumping Jacks”? ‘Star jumps’ seams like a more appropriate term, but I rolled along with the American terminology. We stood there in the foyer jumping about, nothing but cold to great us when the door swung open. As we left, Erika grabbed my arm. “Wait”, as she reached for the free local circulations in a stand by the front door. “Here, stuff this into your jacket, the newspaper will help insulate you a little”. We stood there, stuffing each others jackets until we both looked like Michelin men. The paper did help a bit, but the fingers quickly froze again. As we gained on Denver, a ferocious thunder storm blazed before us out toward the East. The night was clear, the stars twinkled and shot through the sky and a giant cloud of rose-pink and amber flashed away partially obscured by mountains either side of the road. We neared the Continental divide and the long tunnel which the road takes beneath the mountains above. I pulled off just before we entered to once more gain circulation to my fingers. Mavis struggled and came to a halt. I tried starting her back up again, but she didn’t even want to flick an eye on. I turned to Erika and lifted my visor. “I have no idea why she won’t start?!” I tried to think what could possibly be wrong this time, at this very moment in time? Why now? Why here to brake down? Just then, a service truck pulled up and man swaggered over. “What’s the problem here?” her asked, cigarette hanging from his mouth. “Just won’t start” I replied. “Ah, you’ve probably got a ‘vapor lock’ in the fuel line. Sometimes when you fill up your tank at a low altitude then climb to 11,500 feet, where you are now, the pressure in to tank turns the fuel to a gas and you get a lock in the fuel line”. It sounded like jargon to me, as I thought about the cost of getting my bike fixed for “Vapor Lock” and the tow charges. “Try unscrewing the gas cap and let the pressure out. Then give her a go” the man said as he butted out his ember of a cigarette in the loose gravel beside the road. To my relief, and I’m sure Erika’s, Mavis started straight back up. Her eyes perked and shone light on the road. We waved to the man and continued our decent into Denver.

By the time we reached the city limits the storm must have just passed moments prior as the road was still wet from the thunderstorms downpour. Fender-less we glided along with a constant stream of road wash blasting up into my face. Eventually we made it back to the house, a hundred odd richer, a hell of a lot colder, but an amazing days ride with a full spectrum of experiences shared between Erika and I. After all, what better way to introduce a girl to Mavis and the joys of road riding than through a thunder and lighting storm. We spent the rest of the night huddled in front of Erika’s aptly named, “Mr Heater” who stood nobly and brought warmth back to our souls as we sipped on vodka tonics. Mavis definitely has a way with storms, be it bringing you straight into the eye of one or narrowly avoiding them. One things for sure, this old Hell bike knows how to put on a light show.

After being isolated in the canyon for a week, the site of so many houses, a city skyline and endless miles of intertwining freeway systems momentarily made me consider turning back to my home away from home. The thought was swiftly blown away as we neared the city center.

Despite being ‘trapped’ near Gunnison being somewhat of a trying personal experience, the delay unknowingly had perfectly aligned with my first Couch Surfing host. Bethany was a shift nurse and had just been given a schedule with the following five days off free. She warmly welcomed me into her third story attic apartment complete with guest room! That evening a friend of Bethany’s came by and we all headed out to a local bar for a drink. As we walked downtown a short distance away, I heard a pay phone ringing on the side of the street. Naturally, out of curiosity I answered. ‘Hello there. Who’s this?” inquired a husky females voice. “Who’s this?” I slung right back at her. (After all, they’d rung me). “This is Janice, what are you doing tonight?” “Just heading out for a few drinks with some mates” I replied. “Want to have a good time?” she said. I hung up the phone and continued onto the bar.

The following week was spent hanging out with Bethany and her friends, going to summer jazz concerts in the park, hiking in the rockies and a day trip to Fort Collins where we explored the micro breweries the town is becoming infamous for. On our boozy return to Denver, we made a detour through a farmers corn field, got chased by a dog and ran amongst an entire field of Sunflowers as the sun set behind the silhouette of the Rocky Mountains.

As the week was nearing its end, and Bethany’s days-off soon to be no more, I made arrangements to be hosted by another Couch Surfer in town. On the day I originally planned to leave a huge thunderstorm blew over Denver (I’d like to think Mavis is beginning to become synonymous for thunderstorms). The storm was intense as the city authorities sounded the hurricane warning siren. I postponed my departure from Bethany’s by another day. After the clouds cleared and the rain trickled away I asked Bethany if she’d like to go for a ride around town on Mavis. We headed out and before long the day became dark with the night sky. Mavis did her best to shine light on our path, but her headlight suddenly shut off altogether (as she likes to do at the worst possible times. I pulled over to the side of the road to fix the loose connection. As I did this, a fellow motorcyclist stopped and lifted his goggles. “Do you know you’re riding with no tail lights?” he asked. “No” I replied as I looked to Mavis’ rear. A faint glimmer of red light was all that was visible. I cut the joy-ride short as we edged our way back to Bethany’s, trying to avoid the wrath of the Law. Come the morn, I packed my things in preparation for my eventual departure from the all to comfortable attic apartment.

Down on the street sat Mavis, with her fucked tail light and smirk on her skull. I set about trouble shooting the problem and soon enough I found the fault. I guess from all the off road riding in the rain, the mud, lose gravel, grime and general road-wash had made the small solder connection on the LED tail light weak which had actually corroded off. Instead of trying to solder it back on (as I figured if it happened once, it’ll happen again), I rang around to a few motorcycle shops in search of a replacement tail light housing unit. Not long until I found what I was looking for. A quick ride to the store and I set about trying to figure the wiring. Three wires coming from the bike, two wires from the new tail light. I spent a the good part of the afternoon blowing fuses trying to get the hook up right.

After testing my patients, and some help from Bethany, we eventually got got the connections right and I was ready to move on.

Originally I’d anticipated to still be waiting for my paycheck for a day or two, and as such, each morning I turned my phone on and rang in to phone banking. Each day was the same, as my balance of $10-20 odd dollars was read to me in a robotic voice. I’d hang up the phone and turn it off to conserve battery power. Still no definitive day was given as to when I’d be back on the road, as I sat about and read the remainder of the books I had brought along and tapped away on the keys of the typewriter.

The town of Gunnison was a 20mile return trip from my campsite, and in Mavis’ fuel tank was enough juice to get her and I about 70miles. As I scraped my folk against the bottom of the last can of smoked oysters (sounds fancy, looks like turd, tastes O.K.) I decided it was time to ride into town and re-provision. I gathered my quarters and dimes and managed to make a nice fist full of coins to the value of $4.00USD (my last monies).

Arriving in town, I headed for the supermarket. Grabbing a basket I browsed the isles looking for anything that seemed would give me enough energy for a day and came in under a single dollar. Within 10mins I had in my basket two cans of chilli=79cents each, a can of mixed veggies=also 79cents, an 89cent half a bakers dozen of seeded hamburger rolls and two ears of fresh corn=17each. Grand total $3.60 plus a little tax. Despite all the items being fairly normal, I still had a humbling sensation as I paid for my groceries with nothing but stacks of small coins. On the way back to camp I spotted a public library and stopped in to use the internet. I sent off a few anticipatory Couch Surfing requests for people in Denver and some emails including one to my ex employer.

Back at camp I wandered around, listening to tunes on my iPod and trying to figure out how the fuck I was going to get to Denver and out of the woods. That evening I received a call from my ex boss as yet another thunder storm threw sheets of wind and rain at me as I lay in my tent. He informed me the owner of the car I used to complete my driving duties had taken it to get a service and came out with a repair bill for $6,500 USD (the transmission had to be replaced). He asked what on earth I’d done to the car and asked for my side of the story. He heard me out and informed me that I would not be receiving my paycheck until he had sorted out how much I was to be deducted from my final pay. As there really wasn’t anything within my power to change the situation, I tried to explain my predicament and the fact that I had pre-paid close to $400 in fuel costs, which I was still waiting to be reimbursed for. I attempted to convey that the matter of the pay and car issues were separate to monies spent by me to fulfill my driving duties, of which was my small travel budget. “Please be patient” I received as a response.

The weekend was quickly approaching as the week slowly passed by. On day four stuck in the canyon, I assessed what was before me. I had in my possession one can of chili, four small bread rolls and enough petrol to get into town once more, perhaps twice as a strain. Water was a plentiful, but sustenance was another story.

I continued to be patient with the pay, as I knew I wasn’t in the wrong. As it was now Thursday, I knew if I didn’t react to this predicament, I’d be without food by Sunday for sure. I paced about before sending a “mayday” tweet to my family. Within a few hours I received a call from my brother and another from my folks. “Yo, bro, what the fuck are you doing in a canyon?” my brother asked via the phone from his boat in Hawaii. I explained what was up and he said he could loan me some money to get back on the road. Also coming to the rescue, my parents agreed to wire me enough money to get me to Denver as a belated birthday gift.

With a sense of relief drifting my way, I poked about in Mavis’ side bags for some food to tie me over until the morning, when I could roll into Gunnison and collect the wire transfer and ride on to Denver. As I did this, I noticed another camper had arrived in the campground. Texas plates decorated their vehicle. I got chatting with the owner, Virgil. ‘Virg’ had just retired and was going on a little reconnaissance camping trip from Houston up to Colorado to check out some potential areas to move to. He invited me around to his campsite for a beer or two. Quickly life was on the ascent as I had gone from near ‘starvation’ and isolation, to sipping Corona’s and smoking Dominican cigars with good company. Virg cooked up a storm that night, serving delicious ‘Sloppy’ joes (of which, I had strangely been craving since Vegas). We sat around the campfire, fueled by wild sage talking about motorcycles and what Virg was now to do in his recently acquired spare time. I got the sense that Virg was somewhat lost, as he constantly pottered about, be it cleaning something, or looking for some elaborate camp light hidden amongst his new camping gear in the back of the car. All of which seemed to be a distraction from the realities of retirement. Eventually the fire died down and we retreated to our respective campsites.

The following morning, I was invited around for breakfast. We chatted some more, and Virg asked if I’d like to come for a drive to the nearby ski village of Crested Butte. As I was now in the comfort of knowing I could leave the canyon when I so desired, I took him up on the offer and said I planned to leave by mid afternoon, if it was possible to return by then. Off we drove up to the village. We wandered around, and stopped off for lunch, which Virg kindly shouted me. As we walked back to the car, we noticed the chairlifts were spinning and you could ride right up to the summit. I told Virg I once worked at a ski resort back in Australia. He replied that he’d never ridden on a chairlift. Here was a guy who served in Vietnam, in his 50’s, had recently been separated from his wife and had never experienced something I took somewhat for granted, riding a chairlift. I suggested we at least inquire as to the cost. Soon we had a pass and were riding up the mountain peak, some distance away. Up above the Aspen trees the chair quietly passed, stunning views of the surrounding valleys, mountain ranges and ski slopes covered in blooming wild flowers and grass’. We chatted about Virg’s old company which owned a number of on and offshore oil drilling operations. He explained the process of extracting the black gold from the bottom of the sea floor from floating off-shore drilling rigs. Amazing!

Getting back to the canyon after a quick stop off in Gunnison to collect the wire transfer, I packed up my campsite, paid the fee and said goodbye to Virg. I couldn’t help but hope Virg found his way, lost amongst an eternity of endless days, retired from the workforce, but with so much life still to live.

The feeling of freedom was once again returned to me as I refueled Mavis and hit the road. A small unexpected hick-up in the trip, but not a worthless stop all the same. Across the high Colorado prairies we raced trying to reach Denver by nightfall. A few successful Couch Surfing requests had secured a place to stay, as I anticipated to spend a few days in Denver before continuing North to Alaska.