www.BicycleTraveler.nl - November 2012
BicycleTraveler International Magazine on Bicycle Touring
French Alps
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Cass Gilbert
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www.BicycleTraveler.nl 1 MSR stovenovember - 2012 Ian -Hibbel Alaska
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Contents
BicycleTraveler Articles 06 28 34 39
Cycling The Dempster By Mike Boles Bicycling The Americas By Cass Gilbert Slow Boat To Borneo By Amaya Williams Ten Bicycle Touring Commandents By Charlie Baxter
Photography 11 22 40 42 44 46
A New Paint Job
By Yvonne & Valentijn van der Valk
Photo Story - French Alps By Kees Swart Image From The Road - Bolivia By Neil Pike Image From The Road - Tanzania By Dave Conroy Image From The Road - India By Paul Jeurissen Parting Shot -America By Paul Jeurissen
Equipment 18 20 21
Trip Gear
By Grace Johnson
Test Anjungilak Air Pillow
By Henrik Risager
Test MSR Pocket Rocket Stove
By Helen Lloyd
Interview 14
Ian Hibbell
By Ben Searle
Column 45
An Eco Friendly Bike Trip
Photo Left: Paul Jeurissen Cover Photo: Adam Coppola www.giveabike.com
By Edward Genochio
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From the editor
I
editor
Grace Johnson Disclaimer The articles published reflect the opinions of their respective authors and are not necessarily those of the editor. Contact info@bicycletraveler.nl Copyright Bicycle Traveler is copyright Grace Johnson. All material has been used with permission and is copyright original sources. 4
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Contributors Adam & Christy Coppola Amaya Williams & Eric Schambion Ben Searle Cass Gilbert Charlie Baxter Dave Conroy Edward Genochio Helen Lloyd Henrik Risager & Vicky Greaves Kees Swart & Corrie Marijnen Mike Boles Neil & Harriet Pike Nicholas & Andrew Henderson Paul Jeurissen Steve Wall Yvonne en Valentijn van der Valk
Photos: Paul Jeurissen
t’s been more than a year since the first issue of Bicycle Traveler went online and what a success it has been! My thanks go out to the readers – for your enthusiastic response, and the magazine contributors who have donated their inspiring stories and photos.
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Cycling the
Dempster By: Mike Boles
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he wilderness swallowed me for two weeks. Finally, in Dawson City, it spit out a sweaty, starving, smiling fool. What a ride! The Dempster Highway in Northern Canada was a gravel and mud slug fest, but with so many incredible moments along the way, I look back and feel only wonder.
Leaving Inuvik
It was a barren little town at the top of nowhere, and once it was behind me, Inuvik never looked so good. Ahead the road curled over the horizon like the end of a question. I mumbled a prayer over
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Photo: Steve Wall www.flickr.com/photos/stevewall
a thumping heart and started pedalling. My first day on the road. All around me was a different world. Flat bog and stunted spruce trees stretched on endlessly. There was no sound but my breathing and the constant whine of mosquitoes. They delighted in my water breaks, swarming my face and sucking me dry. I told myself I’d get used to it. It didn’t matter. I’d been waiting two years to ride the Dempster, maybe a lifetime for the feeling. Besides a few trucks and a lonely caribou, the road was mine. I was free.
Tough crowd
I spent the night behind a peeling, shuttered church in Fort MacPherson. The rest of the town was hardly more welcoming. Fair enough, I thought. Folks live that far north to avoid questions, not to answer them. Besides, I hadn’t come to ask. Walking the muddy street, I turned to find the words “I don’t love” scratched into a metal pole. At my feet a fake rose lay discarded and soggy. It was time to go. I put my bike on the road and headed south towards the Peel River. The ride was stunning – flat ground, sweet-smelling trees and enough sunshine to carry me through the day. By late afternoon I’d crossed the boiling water by ferry, and pedalled, grinning, to the peaks beyond.
Mountain views
The Richardson Mountains were in every territorial map I saw. But they were always in the distance – a dreamy accent on already beautiful vistas. It never occurred to me that the jagged masses
of rock would eventually need to be crossed. On a bike. The climbs were gut-busting. I rode all day, my tongue lolling the whole time. But the view from the top! Lush native grasses and freezing streams traced their way down the treeless slopes. The spot was so rugged, so unbelievably gorgeous that I half expected to see Marty Stouffer (narrator of the television show “Wild America”) running past with a Super 8. A few kilometres from the Yukon border I stopped to catch my breath and pretend I wasn’t starving. My head hung as a woman pulled up in her 4Runner and smiled through the open window. Karen invited me into the vehicle, out of the raging wind. She may not know me, she said, but she knew the road after cycling it in 2000. From nowhere she produced a pot, and voila, I was eating a supper made especially for me. Fresh salmon and buttered potatoes never tasted so good. I needed all the energy I could get. Across the border the wind became a
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gale. I bucked and skidded across the gravel trying to fight the gusts, but it was useless. I gave up, exhausted. That night I camped behind a Department of Highways truck parked off the road. It was the only thing in sight that could block the wind. The find was lucky. Thanks to that idle machine I slept like a baby.
Loud awakening
The thunder of the truck’s engine didn’t just wake me in the morning. It made my heart leap out of my mouth and me crash out of my tent. In my underwear I frantically waved to the driver, terrified the truck would run over my bike. He gave me the thumbs up once, twice, but still couldn’t seem to switch off the motor. The poor guy was laughing too hard.
Motivation
After the next day’s ride I was gassed. I cleared 76 km, all uphill, then collapsed into my sleeping bag. The climbs were cruel and it dawned on me for the first time that I might not be strong enough to finish the highway. No thought could have been uglier after so much anticipation. All the same, it snaked its way into my mind and wouldn’t leave. Near the Arctic Circle an RV pulled alongside me. A price tag dangled from the driver’s hat as he leaned out the window. Where was I going? Dawson. Where had I come from? Inuvik. The man snorted. “That’s 700 km. You’re an idiot!” I smiled politely and hoped he got a flat tire. I should have thanked him. I needed a kick in the ass. Maybe I just needed to prove someone wrong. I biked hard for the rest of the day and by nightfall rolled into Eagle Plains – the Dempster’s 8
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halfway point. The town had a hotel, a restaurant and 14 people. All were lovely. I ordered a gigantic bacon cheeseburger, onion rings, fries and bumbleberry pie with vanilla ice cream. On a rotary phone I called my folks to say I wasn’t dead, then I dragged myself to my tent where I blacked out until morning.
Bear country
I was about 20 km south of Eagle Plains when the sky opened up and turned the road to gravy. Pushing my gear uphill was nearly impossible, so I found a place in the bush and set up camp. It was the only spot I could find that wasn’t surrounded by paw prints and scat. Bear country. The mosquitoes were relentless that night, droning in my nose, my eyes, my ears. With practice I’d learned to snag them out of the air with two fingers, but if I was acting like a ninja, I certainly didn’t feel like one. Instead I spent most of the night with my sleeping bag pulled over me, imagining all the ways a grizzly might eat my head.
Playing chicken
Morning brought no bears, only a growling hunger of my own. I avoided the bugs by walking in circles as I devoured my breakfast. I hit the road feeling strong, attacking the countless ups and downs of the so-called plains. The day was uneventful until I spotted what looked like a caribou and two calves. The animals trotted down the road towards me. Fumbling for my camera, I slowly pedalled forward to close the gap. I stopped to snap a photo – they
didn’t. Alarm bells. I looked up and realized I was playing chicken with a moose. Momma was suitably unimpressed after catching my scent. She snorted and hammered the ground with her front hoof. Thick bush flanked the narrow road on all sides. There was nowhere to go but back. I slowly made my retreat, but my gear clicked and the cow freaked. Her head wagged to and fro, she charged a few steps then veered into an impossibly
Engineer Creek lay swollen from days of rain and the roads were miserable slime. I was stuck, but it gave me a chance to rest my legs and fatten up a bit. The steady stream of visitors made that easy. One fellow, a white-whisker gentleman, invited me into his camper where “the wife” patiently assembled salami and cheese sandwiches. We noshed and my hosts chatted about things I hope I never see: shotguns, cougars and the bastards
“I spent most of the night imagining all the ways a grizzly might eat my head.” small opening in the trees. Obediently the calves followed. My head reeled. I hadn’t breathed the whole time. I hit Ogilvie Ridge by midday and enjoyed the rare reprieve of a descent from Seven Mile Hill. Coiling around its base was a jaw-dropping array of sparkling creeks. Fish jumped from the water as I enjoyed my lunch, sunshine pouring down my shoulders. It was heaven, and I’d brought myself. The road to Engineer Creek was perfectly flat, just like home. I caught myself smirking. Around every bend I expected the terrain to change – the punch line to an awful tease. But this was my day. There wasn’t a hill for fifty km and I smashed the distance in well under two hours. My confidence soared. That night my fingers ran across my map, over places that once sounded like a dream. I knew my bike could take my anywhere.
Generous travellers
The next day I awoke in a mud puddle.
who installed their RV’s plumbing. They were adorable. Later a mother and son pulled up to share a picnic lunch. I slipped away as they started to unpack, but they insisted I sit down to share the feast. I felt like a caveman – unshaven, wildeyed and damned if I could ever remember food looking so wonderful. Smoked salmon, avocados, grapes, chocolate, white wine. They chuckled at my milewide grin and we settled into a conversation about our lives, theirs in Vancouver and mine on the Prairies. Soon the soft purple of the midnight sun appeared, and with it a rumpled oil rigger from Alberta. We shared a smoke and I spent the rest of the night looking out at the rain, in love with everything and nothing in particular.
Biking on clouds
By morning the rain had eased enough to allow my final push to Tombstone Park. It took two summits and 123 km, but I made november 2012 - www.BicycleTraveler.nl 9
it by evening. The views from the peaks stirred something inside me. I felt amazed, lucky, humbled to be in the midst of such creation. Perfect moments. The descent from North Fork Pass was blistering and I came within a whisper of 66 km/h as I blew past a campground. I didn’t care – it felt as though I was biking on clouds and I wanted to enjoy every single second. The climb back to the park was merely a bliss tax.
Shelter from the rain
I was a day away from Dawson City. Civilization. Rain began falling as I set out but I ignored it. If I couldn’t outrun the weather, I’d at least tolerate it. Or so I thought. I look back now and laugh at my foolishness. I had no clue how sharply the mercury dips in the North. I didn’t even have a rain jacket. In less than an hour I was drenched and shivering so violently I thought I’d throw up. For a few minutes I took refuge under the trees, but when I looked down there was a soggy dead mouse gaping back at me. I rose from my haunches and decided to go anywhere else. Riding on, I eventually came upon an old hunting shack. Nobody was around and I was frozen. I’m not proud of it, but I eased my way inside after a few minutes of lock picking - the fruits of a misguided youth. The building had an old wood stove that I used to warm my clothes, my pride. The effects of the heat were immediate and soon I was ready to go. That’s when the cabin owner arrived with a someone’sbeen-eating-my-porridge look on his face. I bounded outside to introduce myself. Eyes low, I explained I was young, dumb 10
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and very sorry. The man looked me over and said he believed it. I must have looked like a stray dog. Gently William invited me back inside and offered to let me stay the night if the weather didn’t improve. It didn’t. I slept under the faded watch of a Virgin Mary painting and the warm flicker of a spruce fire.
Reaching Dawson
By six in the morning I was gone, on the road and under the first blue skies in days. The only thing left to do was finish. I sailed through the Dempster’s final 50 km and found the Dawson City junction before lunch. I don’t know what I felt. Pride, relief maybe. But there was a pall, a heaviness I couldn’t shake. I’d left to find my way home. Instead I fell for the road. It was the only place I could be myself, rootless and restless. There was no going back. Dawson City kept me for a few days. I hiked the woods and cooled myself in the Yukon River. From the top of the Midnight Dome, the venerable hill standing watch over the town, I spotted the Top of the World Highway. It twisted ever higher, west to Alaska. I had to bike it. The next morning I left, not really sure where I was going. After two years and 40,000 km, I still don’t know. But that’s another story. BT Mike writes; “Every single day on the road is a gift, a precious flash of something sublime, and if I had any goal at all, it was only to experience that beauty firsthand.” http://mikeonbike.wordpress.com
A New Paint Job
Photos: Yvonne en Valentijn van der valk
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W
hile pedaling the Karakoram Yvonne and Valentijn decided to have their bicycles painted just like a colorful Pakistan truck. They write; “Everyday should be a party and the bikes will remind us of that. So we found an artist in Rawalpindi who did a wonderful job of it. But judge yourself...� BT Yvonne and Valentijn van der Valk cycled from the Netherlands to Thailand in aid of Right to Play. You can read their trip reports at: www.fietsenmetballen.nl november 2012 - www.BicycleTraveler.nl 13
Interview
Ian Hibell
Ben Searle interviews his idol Ian Hibell to find out why he undertook such long and difficult bicycle journeys. Photos: Nicholas and Andrew Henderson
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s a teenager I had Ian Hibell to thank for inspiration and the realisation of what was possible with a bike. I still have the memory of his machine, once displayed in John’s Bikes in Bath – an Argos tourer with an immensely solid, built-in pannier rack, built-in mud scrapers operated by gear levers, and a large machete strapped on the back. Rubber snakes and spiders adorned the bike, which was still encrusted with Amazonian mud... Now in his Devon home, it was hard to imagine that the welcoming bantamlike man serving me tea, softly spoken
and gentle, was my idol. The only clues to the adventurer were the quietly fading postcards.
Future dreams
Ian’s taste for adventure began early. “When I was four, I would escape out of the garden in my pedal car. The police would often have to bring me back from the other end of town. My parents tried to improve the fencing but I still got out.” After National Service, Ian went on a CTC tour of Iceland. “We spoke of our dreams for the future and what we really wanted to do in life. I knew then that I would probably be the only one to realise them.” “It was almost a standing joke that I would get back home from my annual leave a week late. My employers made me an offer – a year’s leave. It wasn’t enough for my projected two - year world tour. I didn’t want a lifetime’s work in some job with a gold watch after 40 years. I upped and left.”
Crossing the swamp
Ian ready to hit the road. 14
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Ian was gone ten years. Whilst in New Zealand he came up with the idea of riding the Americas end-to-end – from Tierra del Fuego to Circle City in Alaska. As yet no one had penetrated through the
Atrato Swamp, adjoining the Darien Gap dividing the North and South American continents. “We carried 85lb backpacks, allowing us 26 days to hack our way through, at 2km a day. If we weren’t more than half way in that time, we would return. Dragging our bikes, we were often up to our chests in the swamp, but the thought of what lay behind was scarier than what we thought lay ahead. We knew we were playing with fire, and very nearly perished.” “We arrived at Traversia in a dreadful state, like people coming out of an aircraft crash - our trousers just holding on, split down both seams, jungle boots in pieces, a nest of carbuncles on our backs, blotched skin and trench foot, and I had a deep septic machete wound.” (Click here to view the YouTube video of the crossing and here to listen to Ian describing how the crossing came about.)
Empty and lonesome
Just at this point they met a British Army expedition led by Major John BlashfordSnell, coming the other way replete with Range Rovers and boats. “We had taken the direct route across the virtually bottomless swamp. Later Blashford-Snell admitted they had sailed around it, using rivers – members of his party said the cyclist’s achievements made them feel like cheats. “A Canadian TV company were filming the army. We were included in the Canadian film, and edited out of the British one, while Blashford-Snell was honoured by the Queen.” Ian was not bitter about this, but felt a tinge of injustice – his achievements being realised on his own shoe-
string budget, without taxpayer funding. Ian spoke of the pointless feeling his travels could lead to, despite some welcome publicity and offers of hospitality as he travelled northwards. Approaching northern Alaska the journey became very empty and lonesome – he really wanted to see his folks again. “The winter was coming, and I was worried the final passes would be snowed over. I was on auto pilot, thinking “time to camp”, but then having no recollection until I was settled down in the tent.” “I was mentally planning for more cycling but there was nothing to plan for. Arriving in Circle City was the ultimate anticlimax. I felt no elation at all – it meant nothing to me.”
A ridiculous idea
An opportunity to speak at Yale University soon had Ian on an almost continuous lecture tour. “I didn’t make any money from it, except in the USA when they passed the hat around.” This, a public thirst for his travel writing, and a burgeoning reputation to uphold, soon had Ian planning his next mammoth tour. “I was desperate to be the first to complete both world end-to-ends. I wanted to ride from Norway’s Nord Cap to South Africa’s Cape Town.” Ian wanted to cross the Sahara as part of a team. He was chuffed that Beryl Burton had wanted to join them. “My companion put her off. I regret that I didn’t know this until several years later when I met her at the CTC centenary dinner, when we both got plaques for our services to cycling.” “In the end it was just the two of us and we fell out in an unseemly scrap at the desert’s edge – he didn’t like the way november 2012 - www.BicycleTraveler.nl 15
Ian’s Freddie Grubb touring bike.
I planned to do things. The consequence was I had no option but to try alone. It was a ridiculous idea, but apart from abandoning there was no other way out.” Ever determined, Ian wouldn’t be put off. “I was tremendously excited...that I might not pull it off. I had a heavy feeling in my stomach.” Relying on being given water by passing vehicles, Ian gasped through with hardly a drop to spare – the border point had been closed and the traffic dried up.
Run of luck
Scraping through from one adventure to another, Ian began to get superstitious. “I didn’t feel my run of luck could last – what had I done for the world? So I worked for the Spastics Society for a year, and then planned a sponsored tour that was to raise 10,000 pounds.” This, his last major tour crossing much of Africa, was to demoralise Ian. “I 16
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lost my heart for it. I was constantly beset by illness and mishap. In Zambia a nurse contacted my mother, to see what should be done with my body as I was expected to die. However I made a recovery in two weeks.” Rather like his hero, Tommy Simpson, Ian was not to be deterred. “It was crucial that I continued right away. I was warned by the British Embassy that the roads in Zaire would be impassable to trucks, but I took this advice with a pinch of salt. I can nearly always muddle through.”
Living his dreams
As we drank more tea, it seemed somehow that the flipside – the quiet contented home life – had made it all possible for Ian. Being deprived of home comforts only seemed to sharpen his appreciation for them. More recently he has begun to pick up his cycle touring threads. Pondering the death of Beryl Burton, Ian, now
65, feels his cycling days are running out and still has a rugged determination to see the remaining corners of the world. Why he ever made such perilous tours he can’t quite explain. “I wouldn’t want to jump out of an airplane or descend the Tourmalet like a TdF rider, yet they would never emulate me.” It comes out that Ian did really think he would die, but did it anyway. “I never stopped to analyse it. I guess my tours have made me scared and brought excitement in a way that I could accept.” Referring to the Darien Gap, Ian added, “I wouldn’t suggest anyone to do what we did. We were lucky, stupid. I just wanted a bit of schoolboy adventure... We knew we had to try it even though everyone else had failed, well, er, died. “ “Now as I ride past the bus stop the kids jeer at me – what’s that old fool doing on a racing bike, they think. Little do they know!” As our meeting drew to a close, Ian was mildly occupied by the thoughts of the following week, when he would be heading off to remote islands in the South Atlantic, and Antarctica – though this is one place where even he doesn’t expect to ride his bike.
As we part what emerges is an almost satisfied man who has lived his dreams, not dreamed his life. BT In 2008 Ian Hibell was tragically killed by a hit-and-run driver on the Athens - Salonika highway while training for yet another transcontinental journey, at the age of 74. Ian’s book “Into the Remote Places” co-written with Clinton Trowbridge is now out of print but used copies can be bought via internet. Ian states that Trowbridge embellished many of his stories and is a little embarrassed by the distortion of truth in places. Photographer / writer Ben Searle’s work has appeared in numerous magazines and bicycle books. He also has a library full of inspirational cycle-touring images at: http://bensearle.info. This interview was first published In Cycling Plus magazine. www.cyclingplus.com. On Nicholas and Andrew Henderson’s website you can view more photos from Ian’s trips: www.bikebrothers.co.uk.
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