The result is, inevitably, a work in progress. I’m still nowhere near the Zen purity of Peace Pilgrim’s journeys (she walked for thousands and thousand of miles carrying nothing more than a comb and perhaps a toothpaste), but I have eliminated an incredible amount. Every time I unpack, I try to peel off a little bit more, shave off a few grams here or there.  Honestly, it becomes obsessive, but the reward is a a bicycle that moves easily and doesn’t buck like a bronco at every turn.

Currently, I’m down to (I think) about 20 pounds (or perhaps a bit less - my bicep scale is a a bit vague today).  I’ve resisted the temptation to get rid of my tent and sleeping bag (surely I can just doze in a garbage bag?) but I do feel the need to get rid of as much as possible.

In the next installment, I tell you about my embarrassing attempts to strap the gear to my bike rack - two days of experimentation, witnessed by none other than a representative from the Victoria Cycling Coalition! Horrors.

The first day of a trip is always a slightly exhausting leap into a new world. Jumping from the security of home (even borrowed homes, as I’ve been aggressively couch-surfing for three weeks) into another life of bags and gear and rope and bicycles and buses and ferries - it’s an exhausting prospect.

Luckily, some happy gnome from Travel Heaven decided to smile upon me, and I was blessed with gorgeous sunshine, helpful souls who pointed me in the right direction when I was lost, and a pretty happy transition into my new nomadic universe.

Part of this delight was due to starting my trip in Victoria, where  an incredible series of bicycle routes link the ferry terminal on the Saanich Peninsula to the city. Honestly, I felt as though I was in some kind of bicycle paradise, where the terrain was flat THE ENTIRE WAY (I had to shift to a lower gear once on a minor incline leaving an intersection). The bike path (mostly Lochside Trail from the ferry, which connects to the longer Galloping Goose Trail) is mostly bicycle only, or on quiet rural roads with very few cars.

After I left the ferry, I celebrated the invasion with some sun-warmed, ripe Himalayan blackberries (Rubus laciniatus), a hardy plant introduced from Europe in the nineteenth century and now a constant companion in southern BC. What could be better: pondering colonial imports while navigating the wilds of “genteel Siberia” (Malcolm Lowry’s nickname for British Columbia)?

P.S. sorry for the small file size of the photos - I have to figure out how to re-size them on my camera.

First, I have to apologize, because I illicitly stole this cool photo from someone’s Flickr site (it came up on Google search, and I couldn’t resist!) - so let’s thank Dig this Photography for this great shot of a local bike commuter using Vancouver’s transit.

Today was my first attempt loading the Bike Friday on the bus rack - I wasn’t sure if the small wheels would be secure, but luckily the tension bar that locks over the front wheel adjusts to fit any bike (even 20″ mini-wheels like mine).

Kudos also to the nice man who helped me lift the bar, and to the bus driver who chatted with me about folding bikes while avoiding traffic on East Broadway.

I’m off tomorrow, so getting the bike and my gear on the bus will be the first challenge (I’m taking transit to the ferry terminal). I’m not sure why, but I often get nervous when I have to do something mechanical, especially if I have an audience - I feel like I’m taking too long, or something. So wish me luck, as I wrangle with Saturday morning traffic and lurch around bus stops loaded with heavy gear bags.

From now on, I’ll be keeping in touch via internet cafes along my route, so I hope I’ll be able to share some of my adventures as much as I can. First stop: Victoria, on Vancouver Island - a quick visit to the Marine Museum, catch up on some sleep, and then I’m off across the Strait of Juan de Fuca to Port Angeles. (Did you notice a trend? I’m cheating by using as many ferries and buses as possible…and yes, I’m naturally pretty lazy.) Anyhoo, I’ll talk to you from the wide open road -  Bon voyage!

It’s past midnight, and I’m still up, trying to learn how to re-size photographs on my camera and digging up American dollars in old wallets. I haven’t slept in my own bed in over a month, and won’t be back in my apartment until February. So why am I insisting on rattling my own cage and turning everything in my life upsidedown?

I guess there are several reasons, but maybe these two photographs can provide some insight into my (temporary) insanity. The first photo was a self-portrait after spending six days in an aluminum boat, chasing after whales and getting a spectacular sunburn on my face (the rest of my body was covered in a heavy nylon survival suit). Despite the painful scars on my nose and forehead that peeled for weeks, I was really, really happy when I snapped that shot.

The second photo is of a tiny hummingbird that died when it got trapped in the general store next to the Whale Lab (we’re not sure what happened, but we think it panicked when it couldn’t find a way outside). It was the most fragile thing, just a ball of iridescent fluff our friend carried home on a sheet of paper. It sounds a bit trite, but I can’t help being reminded when I think about that hummingbird that we are all delicate creatures, vulnerable and living on borrowed time.

So, when folks ask me why I am living out of a backpack with two pairs of underwear, I usually explain that I am hoping to chase as much happiness out of the next five months as possible. And if I get a bit sunburnt in the process, that’ll be okay. (Hopefully I’ll prove to be a bit more robust than our friend the hummingbird, and come back to share all my stories!)

In the midst of packing, my life currently seems to be all about gear. What to bring (and what not to bring) is a constant debate, as I struggle to bring my weight load down to a manageable level. I scrapped the trailer, the packing case, the panniers, even the laptop (my beloved laptop) is in the “to store until February” pile.

And part of my inner debate about gear concerns footgear. I’ve decided against clip-in pedals and dedicated cycling shoes, so for most of my trip I’ll be low-teching it with an old pair of running shoes that I was given for free.

But I did succumb to some savvy marketing - check out my crazy “lizard toe” shoes. They are the “Five Fingers” by Vibram, which enable you to basically walk in your bare feet (great on grass, not so hot on rough rocks). I’m still not completely convinced of their practicality, but I did use them for part of the West Coast Trail and didn’t die, so I’ll try them out on this trip.  Perhaps the biggest advantage of these shoes is that strangers will ask about them - maybe it’s a new way to meet people?

An equation: Take one week with grey whale researchers, multiply by eight hours per day in a 22′ aluminium skiff, add 3′ swells on the open Pacific, and you have one seasick traveller. On the first day, I puked once over the side of the boat. Every day following began with my breakfast of Gravol, the only solution to a week of nauseous misery.

Despite the seasickness, spending my days looking at whales was like a damp version of heaven. I could not get enough of it: I loved scanning the horizon for the telltale puff of white blown above the surface of the water, and scooting around wild green islands and rocky points.

Based in a creaky 100-year-old wooden home across from the Nuu-chah-nulth village of Ahousaht, our days at the University of Victoria Whale Lab had a certain rhythm. After listening to the marine weather forecast at dawn, we’d tumble out of our bunk beds, scramble into bulky nylon survival suits and rubber boots, wait in line to use the washroom, and then stagger down the wooden dock to the boat carrying dry bags and plastic gear boxes filled with equipment.

I worked mostly with Laura-Joan, a masters’ student studying gray whale foraging in Clayoquot Sound. Some days we spent surveying, noting the location and number of whales we spotted. Other days we trailed a sonar device through a mapped area and scooped samples of mysids, small crustaceans that were the primary food for whales in the area. (I even ate one – a bit wriggly and salty).

As big as buses, the whales were quietly busy feeding off the south-west shore of the island, just at the edge of the open ocean. They’d surface for air, breathe about 8 times, then take a deep dive to the bottom (signalled by two tail flukes lifted high in the air) where they’d start scooping boatloads of small crustaceans into their mouths. Each time the whales went below the surface of the water, they left behind a round, flat pancake of displaced water, called a “dive puddle”. When they surfaced to breathe, their huge, dark snouts and back slid easily through the waves, giving us a glimpse of the large, white barnacles clustered on their dark skin (they carry several hundred pounds of parasitic barnacles and sea lice on their bodies).

I’m finally back from the west coast of Vancouver Island, and am currently enjoying the delightful highs (mostly) and lows (very occasionally) of couch-surfing with my nearest and dearest. My internet access is limited to the times when I can find wi-fi and happen to have my laptop, so I’m a bit late in updating the blog.

Since my grey whale videos are taking a bit longer than anticipated to upload on Youtube, I’m posting a little entry about the trials, travails and general fabulousness of the West Coast Trail. I didn’t finish the trail - 48 hours of solid rain in the first 3 days spurred on a heavy wimp-out survival response, so my friend Sue and I stayed put at a couple of campsites to dry out. (And get soaked again…one hiker, a prof from the University of Calgary who has hiked the trail 36 TIMES said it was the worst weather he had ever seen).

The benefits of taking it easy on the WCT (instead of powering through with grim determination) meant that I was able to really enjoy watching the wildlife. A number of grey whales were surface feeding for the first few days of our trip (see the photo below of the whale swimming sideways with half of it’s tail fluke visible). I was able to see my first spyhop! (That’s when the whale lifts it’s head vertically out of the water by “balancing” on their tail in order to look around).

I also saw wolf tracks on the beach, about 70 sea lions on a pullout rock, lots of seabirds, a river otter, a pine marten, some very cool finches that I still have to identify, and lots of wonderful old growth coastal plant life (amabilis fir, sitka spruce, cedar, maidenhair ferns….)

The biggest challenge on the trip was figuring out how to stay dry - it’s been so many years since I was backpacking that I’d really lost my techniques for staying out of the rain. The first day was such a wash out - hiking for 7 hours in ankle-deep mud bogs, scrambling over logs, and feeling cold water squish between my toes all day. When we reached camp, I was wet through and through.

Other hikes were a bit gentler, but not necessarily drier. On the third day, we hiked along the beach (carefully checking tides, of course) and had to cross two streams and a small river that were fairly small flows at the time. After 12 hours of rain, crossing them on the way back a day later was a different story - the tiny creeks had swelled to triple their size, and fording the river meant wading through icy, rushing water past my knees.

Stay tuned for an analysis of my ultralight hiking experiment!

Ah, the transformation is complete - I’ve slowly turned into an obsessive outdoor gear junkie, when I carefully weigh every item before packing my bags, jealously recording every ounce in an effort to carry a lighter load.

And the perfect tool to help me? My dear mum’s cooking scale, bought in Wales in 1972 and brought back to Canada. Still working happily after all these years (although I’ve lost the matching plastic bowl). I’m not sure if the manufacturer’s would have envisioned this use for the scale back in the days of Gary Glitter and self-rising flour, but it does the trick for me.

These are the days when riding a bike is so lovely that I seriously can’t imagine doing anything else with my time. Hot days, warm evenings, the easy breezy cruise along 10th Avenue, a few jaunts to the False Creek seawall with friends…it’s just fabulous.

Oh, that warm feeling of accomplishment…what could be better than proudly showing off my new (homemade) backpack and sleeping bag?

It’s true: after one week of sweat (and a few tears), I’ve finished my ultralight, ultra-fabulous, ultra-functional backpacking gear, ready to be tested on the West Coast Trail. Using kits from Ray Jardine, I saved a whole wack of cash and several pounds of extra weight.

Now, if only I could lose my twenty pounds of ice cream around my middle…