The resurrection of summer.

The expiration of summer on September 1st turned out to be a false alarm. I had Labour Day off like most people, but because I work Sundays, it didn’t translate into four consecutive days off work. To my luck, a planned power outage at my workplace closed the bike shop on Wednesday. That turn of events gave me the four-day break I’d almost been cheated out of.

Last week, I removed the cargo cages from my fork and swapped out the SPD pedals for flats. I reversed my decision on Tuesday afternoon, intending to head out to one of the Gulf Islands for my second ever solo overnighter.

Actually, I first asked Alexa, who’d recently become quasi self-employed, if she was interested in joining me for a last-minute adventure. As it turned out, she and Daniel had also made the last-minute decision to head to one of the Gulf Islands for some two-wheeled adventuring and had no desire for a third wheel. Fair. Only, it meant I had to rule Pender Island out as a possibility because even if I went on my own, our paths would definitely cross. To avoid this awkwardness, I chose Galiano Island.

I’d already done two cycling trips on Galiano Island, including that foggy January overnighter where I ended up pitching my tent in the darkness. The island is a long, skinny strip of land; the first provincial campground, Montague Harbour, is located 1/3rds of the way up the island from the Sturdies Bay ferry terminal. The other campground, Dionisio Point, is at the far tip of the island and is supposedly accessible only by boat.

I knew Yann and Burger had managed to get there by bike several times, and a colleague, Rory, was just there last weekend. To get there by bike merely requires some light trespassing. “There is a gate that blocks off the road. Just go around it,” instructed Burger.

Honestly, I got nervous when I went around that gate. My anxious temperament doesn’t mix well with my thirst for adventure. I’m usually able to override my paranoia by recalling past experiences in which nothing really went wrong. Still, a few scenarios played out in my mind as I went around that gate: What if the property owner starts yelling at me and decides to bust out the ol’ musket? Can I out-ride a pack of bitey dogs?

The only evidence of animals on that 3km stretch of forbidden road was piles of horse turd. I also encountered the words SLOW DOWN BIKES spray-painted on the pavement, suggesting that bikes were not in fact forbidden. Further evidence that the campground was bike-tolerant was on the map posted in the park, showing routes labelled “cycling trail”.

At any rate, I’d already made it there. I couldn’t un-ride the private road, and I certainly wouldn’t be able to head back home without re-trespassing. In the words of Stephen King, “Done bun can’t be undone.”

Unlike my first solo overnighter at Ruckle Park, which was full of campers, I was truly alone here. As a human, anyway. There were a colony of seals blubbering around on one of the skerries within Parry Lagoon. You’ll need to really zoom in on this picture to see them:

Seals, too, need some alone time:

Tubby (above) kept me company along with hundreds of disease-riddled murderous sailors in my current book:

My primary plan was to plonk in my camp chair and devour this book. I ended up spending more time wandering along the Raymond V. Smith Interpretive and Porlier Pass trails. Along with that harem of finned fat blobs, I also spotted breaching sea lions, scurrying sandpipers, soaring eagles, mediocre great blue herons, and a bevy of unidentified birds because, despite being over the age of 40, I’m not much of a birder.

The big batch of miso butternut squash soup I made last week to celebrate the arrival of fall had been conveniently portioned into resealable bags and laid flat in the freezer. The frozen slab of soup doubled as a freezer pack, keeping my other food cold. My camp chair was primarily used as a spot to devour my soup.

The summery weather faded along with the daylight. I was in my tent reading by 8pm. My peaceful slumber was set by the image of infighting castaways, which had whittled from 100+ men to about 30.

As the sun also rises later, I slept in until 8am. Garmin registered 9 hours and 40 minutes of sleep and described my REM sleep as “refreshing,” which I don’t disagree with.

For breakfast, I boiled water I’d pumped from the well and emptied three packets of instant oatmeal into my trekking pot. I grinned as I dumped a small handful of raisins in my big batch of Quaker’s, remembering Yann’s Martin Prince-esque tip on how to liven up instant oatmeal. I needed all that fuel plus a protein bar AND an energy drink to get me and my gear over all the hills leading to Sturdies Harbour.

I only had to travel 86km (62 by bike) to immerse myself in this beauty:

None of the Gulf Islands are flat. To get to Dionisio Point, I had to tackle the doozy of a hill along Vineyard Way, which was almost a kilometre of climbing at an average gradient of 11%. I have yet to encounter a hill of that proportion on any of the Gulf Islands. Of course, packing was a bit of a hassle, and unpacking even more so.

Worth it.