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.

The ferry ride to Sturdies Bay.

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.

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Spring in the Winter

On January 19, I woke up at 7am to find the campsite enshrouded in fog so thick I couldn’t see Burger’s or Yann’s tents in the distance. It was much too chilly to leave my tent, so after putting on a fleece jacket and activating a fresh pair of hand warmers to put inside my sleeping bag, I tightened the drawstring around the hood, leaving only my nose poking out. I stayed in my warm cocoon for another two hours before emerging from the tent to find that the fog had dissipated. The boys were up and around, boiling water on camp stoves for their coffee.

“Sleeping Beauty,” remarked Burger.

I’m glad he and Yann didn’t end up scraping my frozen corpse off the tent platform at Montague Harbour Provincial Park. I’d survived my first ever winter camping trip.

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I’d rather my hand smell like Mountain Dew.

…than rancid crab juice.

I’d found a claw on the beach and tucked it into my jacket, thinking it’d make a funny photo. It wasn’t funny: I was just high.

The smell didn’t hit me until I’d tossed the claw back on the beach. Usually, crab shells on the beach have been pecked clean by assorted scavengers, but not this one. Rotting crab juice spilled all over my hand with such permeance that rinsing it off with water from my sports bottle had little effect. And plunging my stinky meathooks into icy seawater seemed to lock in the smell.

I needed an artificial means of de-stinking, like alcohol from the spray sanitizer mounted inside the outhouse around our campsite. As soon as the alcohol evaporated, the crab juice was like, “Hello!”

How about wet wipes designed for de-shitting baby behinds? Not even that!

The hand lotion left my hands moisturized yet still fishy.

It wasn’t until the campfire got going that I was able to smoke my hands into oblivion. When I crawled into my tent that night, the only foul odor was that of my shoes tucked into the vestibule. At least that was from my own juices.

The second-biggest failure of this trip was the forgotten plan of stopping at a park somewhere along the Lochside Trail to see whether Burger and I remembered how to do “The Worm.” Stay posted!

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