Brian submitted his bucket list to Bucket List Publications a week ago and it all seemed over the top. He is a true adventurous spirit, including bucket list items such as canoeing the Yukon river from White Horse to Dawson City Landing, attending the Pukkelpop music festival in Belgium, and a cross Canada tour. As I read his list, I wanted to meet him; I wanted to be his friend; and more importantly, I wanted to make his dreams come true. The top item on his list was heli skiing. I couldn’t even put heli skiing on my bucket list because I’m just not that capable when it comes to skiing. I mean, it seems like something only stunt men do in the movies. What type of person has the ability to ski through wide-open glaciers, high alpine bowls, and massive old growth forests? When I read that heli skiing was his biggest dream, I wondered if he was actually capable of doing it now and I needed to know more.

I emailed Brian with curiosity, asking him questions like, “Are you a professional skier?” “When did your passion for skiing start?” and “If you could go heli skiing, would you have the physical ability/endurance?” His answers and his location fueled the fire in me to make his dream come true.

But where do I start with all of this? How do I go about making this happen? I researched heli skiing opportunities in the area and watched, in awe, several heli skiing videos. One company emerged above them all. Situated in Revelstoke, British Columbia, labelled “The heli-skiing capital of the world” by The New York Times, Selkirk Tangiers Heli Skiing is the ultimate winter destination. For over three decades, their exclusive half-a-million acres (200,000 hectares) of terrain in the Selkirk and Monashee Mountains have lured skiers and snowboarders from around the world. Their tenure has over 200 established runs with countless options for exploring the powder playground.They are in the business of making dreams and bucket lists come true!

I contacted Selkirk Tangiers and after some negotiations and planning, Brian, along with a friend, Kevin, is going to live his powder dreams with Selkirk Tangiers Heli Skiing!

On March 6th, Brian will arrive at The Sutton Place Hotel for three nights stay. He’ll be skiing at the Revelstoke Mountain Resort on the 7th and heli-skiing with Selkirk Tangiers on the 8th. The Sutton Place Hotel is located at the base area at Revelstoke Mountain Resort. Every suite offers outstanding views across the Columbia River to the Monashee Mountains. Revelstoke Mountain Resort boasts North America’s greatest vertical at 1,713 metres (5,620 ft). They also offer 3,121 acres of fall line skiing, 13 areas of gladed terrain, and phenomenally groomed terrain. Revelstoke Mountain Resort is also the only resort world-wide to offer lift, cat, heli, and backcountry skiing from one village base. They simply offer the best snow in the mountains and make sure you have the best possible time out there.

In cooperation with Selkirk Tangiers, Bucket List Publications is helping others live each day to the fullest and making their most burning desires come true.

Submit your bucket lists to Bucket List Publications and you could be the next bucket list adventure recipient!

You can also make donations to Bucket List Publications and invest in the bucket list dreams of readers from around the world.

Sometimes classroom activities extended beyond the curriculum creating global citizens. My students were extremely generous during fundraisers like Run for the Cure and we often had classroom contests and events to encourage giving. Last year, I offered to dress like a man for one full day, including clothes, hair, face, and mannerisms if my students raised $1000 during the week. As you can see, they easily met their goal. I happily went to work as Mr. Leslie and held my head up high while eating at McDonalds for lunch that day.

Upping the stakes, I offered to add permanent, hot pink color to my hair if they reached $2000 the following week. Once again, they graciously meet their goal and stood proud when I walked into the classroom with permanent pink hair for over a month.

Interacting with the students this way and sharing in their success creating a lasting relationship that extended outside of our one hour together in the classroom. We learned together; we interacted together; and we achieved together. We created a respectful environment similar to a democracy. Rather than being their dictator, I allowed them to determine the rules together within the framework of the curriculum.

By the end of October, we were a family and when my birthday arrived, my family had a beautiful, thoughtful party for me. They gave up their lunch to transform my classroom into a Birthday retreat. We celebrated and enjoyed treats and I was overwhelmed by the relationship that we’d build. They chipped in to buy small, thoughtful gifts that only a true family would know to buy. Each present was special and uniquely created or purchased for me. I fought back tears, but it was a proud day to be a teacher. 

Outside of the classroom, I tried to contribute to extra-curricular activities as frequently as possible. I assisted with numerous sports over the years such as basketball, volleyball, soccer, dragon boat racing, and field hockey. I was a regular chaperon at school dances and I anxiously awaited prom and safe grad.

We had our ups and downs on the field but the players always had a smile on their faces. Not even torrential-like rains could bring our spirits down.  

Before we knew it, prom was upon us and my family was leaving the nest. We’d become so attuned to each other, that several of us actually matched in our attire. 
Although I love watching them appear like princes and princesses as they walk around the gym for their special moment, it is safe grad that brings the biggest smile to my face every year. With activities like blow-up games, mechanical bulls, and clown-like bicycles, even the teachers let go and enjoy themselves. It’s a time where you can challenge students on the blow-up football field or ride around on a tricycle and receive praise from the administration for participating. Who could pass up an opportunity like that? As an English teacher, I constantly expect my students to perform before an audience. The safe grad entertainment was a switch in roles as the teachers created an act that was displayed for the entire graduating student body. Saying we had an 80s theme doesn’t quite do it justice without including a picture. My last full year teaching was life changing. If you solely determine student success on test and exam achievement, my students were successful. They had excelled within the curriculum and standardized test scores were at an all time high. Although that was a beautiful part of their achievement, it was the community that we had created that truly displayed their success. None of us will forget the family that we became in that tiny classroom.

What happens if you decide one day to do something ridiculous, like bicycle from Vancouver to Mexico? Well, you’ll probably have a ridiculously good time. And you’ll most certainly come away with a heck of a lot more than leaner muscles and an incredible appetite.  In this second and final installment, Patrick Byrne recounts lessons learned from his latest adventure and tries to convince everyone that bicycle touring is the answer to all of the world’s problems.

“So where did you come from?” I had faced this question innumerable times throughout my trip, having piqued the interest of passersby who spotted the bulging saddle bags hanging over the rear tire of my bike, usually as I stopped for a lunch break at a grocery store or gas station, sitting on a curb chugging a litre of milk.  In this particular instance I was scarfing down a deluxe burrito at a roadside Mexican food stand when a middle aged, rotund and unkempt man approached me with the question.  “Coming from Vancouver,” I responded.  When a blank look crossed over his face, I elaborated, “In Canada.” “Oh! The other country!” he said. This gentleman, like most of the people I met along the way, was genuinely curious about my travels. When he asked the second most popular question, “Where are you going?” I naturally started saying “San Fran…,” my original destination when I left Vancouver in September with three friends.  But plans had changed and now my destination was none other than the Mexican border, and I was alone.

My companions who had cycled with me for about 2000 kilometres were shipping their bikes home in Santa Cruz in favour of continuing their travels by backpacking around Central America. I had originally intended to join them, but decided to continue biking for two reasons:

1) When I began the trip in Vancouver, I would never have even dreamt of biking solo. Now I had the confidence to go it alone, nowhere to be for two months, and all the equipment. Why stop?

2) It struck me one day in Oregon, the salty wind in my hair, the miles flying by effortlessly and the feeling of immense satisfaction that can only be experienced after  propelling yourself a considerable distance entirely under your own power, that my dad would absolutely love to go on a bike tour. Again, the timing was right; my father was taking time off from work as he dealt with the challenges of depression and so in theory would be able to join me. I decided to take the risk and start off on my own, with the idea that I would work out the details as I went.

I left my friends at a coffee shop in Santa Cruz. Biking away from them that day in October was perhaps one of the biggest challenges of my entire trip (100,000 lb logging trucks speeding by me with one foot of clearance notwithstanding). But the decision had been made and they had already shipped their beloved bikes back to Ontario. Now I found myself slowly pedalling away from my companions, biking into unknown territory, completely alone. A gut wrenching bought of loneliness when I stopped for lunch at a scenic beach overlook reminded me that meals, whether in a cozy kitchen or sitting on a guardrail at the side of a highway, were meant to be shared.

The road was twisty and the shoulder was small, but I had plenty of room because cars were few and far between. For one of the first times of my trip, the ocean was no longer comfortingly at my right side. After a week of rest and relaxation with a beautiful family who welcomed me (a complete stranger) to stay in their home in the town of Solvang, I was biking east into the Angeles National Forest reserve that contains the San Gabriel Mountains just to the north of Los Angeles. My destination was an organic peach farm, a small establishment nestled in the mountains that could not have appeared more idyllic in its descriptive website.  Think happy hippy commune, organic vegetables and fruit, beautiful landscapes, meditation and yoga lessons included.  It wasn’t until after the gruelling 8 hour, 3000 foot climb to the farm, that I realized how secluded I really was.  The goal was to stay here for about a month, living and working while I waited for my father to join me in Los Angeles to complete the trip.

Looking around me, I noticed the farm nestled in a small valley running between two long ridges, low-lying scrub bushes clinging to the sand of the high desert landscape.  The fields of peach trees stood out against this backdrop and a few farm buildings were the only evidence of any habitation for miles. Then I looked a little bit further, to the edge of my field of vision.  A twelve foot fence topped with a generous portion of razor wire abutted the farm on the western edge. A small sign read, “Juvenile Detention Centre. County of Los Angeles.” The only neighbour for miles was this prison, which I later learned was instrumental in the creation of this very farm: a convict had escaped twenty years ago and killed the previous owner with his own shot gun.

My spirits remained low as I learned that there were only two other people at the farm: Dada, a small but stern, long-haired monk who oversaw the farm’s operation on behalf of the Ananda Marga ‘spiritual organization,’ and Bob, a shifty eyed man in his mid 50s who could somehow produce a fully bristled face in about six hours who described himself as a “silent homeless man.”

I settled into the lifestyle of the farm, waking with the sun streaming into my small bedroom, outside working by 8am, finishing up as the sun hit just the right spot on the western ridge of hills. My chores ranged from the mundane (weeding) to the mind-numbing (digging holes that in my opinion did not need to be dug, refilling the same holes that never needed digging in the first place). While at the beginning it was difficult to work alone all day at simple repetitive tasks, I soon came to appreciate the solitude after being given shared projects with Bob, the world’s most talkative silent person.  As we shovelled and generally slaved away, Bob would look around furtively to make sure Dada wasn’t watching, then put the shovel down and in a conspiratorial tone ask me questions like, “Do you think they really landed on the moon?” and “They don’t have those chem trails from planes in Canada do they?” And don’t even get him started on ancient prophecies.

Aside from the 7 hour work days (6 days a week), the odd practices (a complete prohibition on any and all foods containing meat, garlic, onion, mushrooms, caffeine, alcohol, chocolate), and a particularly rough 48 hours of violent food sickness due to expired vats of food bank yogurt and cottage cheese (the farm was not doing so well financially), I found myself deeply appreciating the simple lifestyle that afforded ample amounts of time for introspection.

My time at the farm quickly wound down and I was once again thrust back into the whirlwind of the daily rigours of bike touring. Before leaving, in both an act of generosity and defiance, I biked into the nearest town and purchased the largest cheeseburger I could find, gifting it to my meat-deprived farm companion Bob. If anything, maybe he wouldn’t think I was spying on him for Canadian intelligence anymore. But mainly, I wanted to prove to both myself and him that what I had experienced thus far in my travels was true: people are kind, generous and to be trusted, despite the often silly fears we harbour.

The time soon came to continue along and I bid the farm farewell, both relieved to be leaving and appreciative of the unique experience.  As I pitched my tent in a small clearing of the forest overlooking the deep valley below, just out of sight of Interstate 5 which snakes its way into the heart of LA, I took one last chance to pause and appreciate the silence, knowing that I would soon be entering one of the most notoriously busy, sprawling cities in the world.

Finally the day arrived and I patiently waited at the baggage claim area at LAX, scanning the crowd for the tell-tale sign of my father: a neatly coiffed salt-but-still-mostly-pepper head of hair rising a few solid inches above the general population. We happily embraced and set about piecing together his bike in a quiet corner of the airport. Our busy first day ended with a hectic 20 mile ride to our CouchSurfing host in the heart of the city; an arguably unnecessarily tough start for a bike touring novice. Pushing myself outside of my comfort zone was a major part of what I had found valuable throughout my trip, and part of the rationale for such a challenging start to the trip for my dad was that I wanted him to experience, and share with me, the experience of being truly challenged.

But at times I worried that perhaps I had pushed my dad too far, that I had expected too much and forced him into something he wasn’t quite ready for. I began to feel foolish for thinking that bike touring could change somebody, could ‘cure’ mental illness. I thought I was doing him a favour by forcing him to face life with spontaneity and curiosity. That his medications and doctors appointments were useless when compared to the experience of receiving unparalleled generosity from others on a daily basis, being exposed to new experiences, people, and places. But gradually, my dad rose to the occasion, undergoing the traditional peak of exhaustion on the third day of biking, making it through notoriously dangerous stretches in Long Beach unscathed (and uncomplaining), and successfully climbing a massive hill after getting his tire stuck in a ditch and (gracefully) falling into the bushes. We made it through sketchy roadside campsites, a hilarious (if dangerous) ride from a man who was completely stoned, and getting hopelessly lost in San Diego.

But my understanding of my father deepened immensely on the day we rode to the Mexican border. As we left the campsite that morning, Dad awkwardly gave a left-handed money handshake to a young father whose family had recently had their home foreclosed. I laughed a little bit inside, both at his clumsiness, and his tremendously good heart. He truly had embraced the ability to both receive with gratefulness, and give generously, lessons I had learned years ago from him, but had only recently truly discovered for myself as I cycled alone. So later that afternoon, as I hoisted my bike over my head to celebrate the completed journey, my father manning the camera and encouraging me to revel in my accomplishment, I knew we had truly done something special not only for ourselves, but for each other. Never would I have imagined that a) I would bike from Canada to Mexico and b) that I would have the honour of my own father joining me for the last leg.  And I realized then what was really the magic (and enduring lesson) of bike touring: you never know how things will end up, but if you approach life with an open heart and an open mind, good things will most certainly happen.

Part one can be found at http://lesleycarter.wordpress.com/2012/02/18/reaffirming-my-faith-in-humanity-one-pedal-at-a-time/.

***Check out other great articles by adventurous bucket list seekers at Bucket List Publications.***

Bucket List Publications wants to offer the opportunity for readers from around the world to achieve their dreams and cross off bucket list items. 

Imagine living every day to to the fullest and making your most burning desires come true. From extreme adventures like skydiving and bungee jumping, traveling the world, interacting with exotic animals, and creating a family with the man of my dreams, I’ve followed my bucket list to success. I’ve now broadened my horizons and set my sights on the bucket list goals of others.

What are your dreams? Maybe you could be the next bucket list adventure recipient! Maybe you could be the next person to make your dreams a reality!

We’ve already started to put the wheels in motion by offering a free skydiving tandem jump with deluxe video package from Skydive San Diego. This contest runs until March 12th, 2012 and the lucky winner will be able to scratch skydiving off of their bucket list.

We’re in the process of organizing a race school experience for one of our readers in Iowa, USA. We made all of the arrangements with GASS Racing School and all the reader needs to do is show up for the experience of a lifetime. This bucket list adventure will be featured in May so stay tuned.

We also recently organized a heli skiing adventure with Selkirk Tangiers plus skiing and accommodations at the Sutton Place Resort in B.C., Canada for one of our lucky readers! Dreams are starting to come true with Bucket List Publications.

Currently, we can only offer the bucket list experience without covering the costs of travel, meals, or accommodations, but Bucket List Publications eventually wants to offer the complete package! Each month, we’d like to feature one person’s bucket list and make one of their bucket list items a reality. Their dreams come true will be featured in the following month on Bucket List Publications. In 6 months, we built a blog from nothing to over 900,000 readers. People want to live their dreams and up until now they were doing that vicariously through us, but we want to offer them the opportunity to live their own life to the fullest. One lucky winner, each month, will be selected to make one bucket list dream a reality. We’ll do all the planning and the writing, leaving the adventure and accomplishments to them.

“The purpose of life, after all, is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experiences.”
– Eleanor Roosevelt

Please feel free to submit your bucket list to: info@bucketlistpublications.com
Put “Bucket List” in the subject line.
Include your name, blog address, current city/town & country
See http://www.bucketlistpublications.com/2012/02/09/2012-bucket-list-adventure-awaits/ for an example bucket list.  

Contributions can be made at:
http://www.bucketlistpublications.com/investors/

Last call for boarding was at 7am and if you know me, that means I like to be there at least two hours early to make sure we don’t have problems in the line or issues with being late. We first stepped on the ship at 6:15am and breakfast wasn’t being served until 8am. What could we possibly do from 6:15-8? After doing a quick tour of the boat we realized that the main sundeck was already handing out drinks like Halloween candy so we took advantage of the “drunk-all-day” option that is usually only supported by young, college students.

Our 8am breakfast was washed down with several “Brilliant Sunset” drinks, orange juice, orange, maraschino cherries, grenadine, vodka, and ice. Then, we found our way back to the main deck because the limbo was about to begin and I had liquid courage.

I was surprised when Darren said he didn’t want to participate but I happily just asked him to take pictures as I made my way to the back of the line. Let me just say that several morning drinks and a dress do not equal good limbo skills.

I was back to the table 4 rounds later and we laughed about my inability to get down while trying not to flash everyone on the deck. I had my bikini on under my dress but I opted for the more classy limbo version in a dress.

Bingo followed the limbo and was too tame for our liking. We took that time to fully explore the ship and our options. Little did we know that there was another, equally large, deck serving drinks and having a dance party. Initially, we didn’t join in the crowd. We found seats off the the side and became onlookers, but the same courage I exhibited to participate in the limbo encouraged Darren to break out his best moves for me. he didn’t bother to join the others on what was a clearly marked dance floor. Nope! Not required I guess. Instead, he brought his best moves out where he was actually way more obvious and noticeable.

We took turns showing our best moves and taking pictures, completely oblivious to anyone else around us. We had always had fun together but this was the adventurous, free-spirited Darren that I knew existed and I laughed harder than ever before. It was most likely a combination of drinks, not knowing anyone, and being comfortable around each other that encouraged his new found freedom but I knew I had found my perfect match and we would have a lifetime of fun together.

Exhausted from dancing, we made our way to the bow of the ship where the breeze would be the strongest. Several, hilarious, jumping-action shots were taken before we actually took a break and enjoyed the views of the ocean while listening to the waves crash below.

We were about to set foot on new land and discover a new place, but I was quite content right where I was. It wasn’t the actual time spent in the Bahamas that made my day perfect; it was the new memories we made with each other that will last a lifetime.

Check out other great articles by adventurous bucket list seekers at Bucket List Publications.  

Having left England on a cold December day, I arrived at Siem Reap in Cambodia on Christmas day late in the evening. The heat hit me immediately. As I was still wearing my warm clothes I was quite relieved to feel the cool breeze on my face as I took my first Tuk Tuk ride to my accommodation. I had never been to Cambodia before and I was struck by the poverty of the country almost straight away. My stepson greeted us and took us back to his apartment where we were shown to our very comfortable bedroom. I decided over the next few days I would see the poverty for myself. I had not imagined, however, the extent of it and was very surprised. What affected me most was seeing the children living in such squalid conditions. I found it difficult to visit the markets where children would beg me to buy their goods. On my third day I walked into the local village to visit the people there and to take photographs. Here the poverty of the people was very apparent. Children were running around barefoot avoiding skinny cockerels that hustled for food and shouting hello to us in loud voices. Everyone we passed smiled at us and asked how we were and some even offered us food despite their poverty. Both my husband I were very touched by this. We passed small huts that looked like they would crumble to the ground should there be one large gust of wind. I saw children being washed under taps while they fought to escape the parent attempting to clean them. How do these children stay well, I wondered and what do they eat? Cambodia is a poverty stricken country, where the average wage is seven dollars a week. Everywhere you look there is poverty and malnutrition. There are also many children. Where there is poverty, there are health problems. I glanced at the small stalls selling food and tried not to grimace at the flies that hovered there.

The Khmer Rouge

So what has ravaged this beautiful country and left such poverty in its wake? I knew something of the Khmer Rouge regime from things I had read but I realised I had no clear idea of what happened between 1975-1979. How could I not have been aware of such a terrible genocide? I was of an aware age. I thought back to what I may have been doing during this time and was ashamed of my ignorance. The Khmer Rouge killed nearly two million Cambodians from 1975 to 1979 spreading like a virus from the jungles until they controlled the entire country. They destroyed and dismantled in the name of a Communist agrarian ideal. Today, more than 30 years after Vietnamese soldiers removed the Khmer Rouge from power genocide trials are still going on, a bitter sweet moment for the impoverished nation still struggling to rehabilitate its crippled economic and human resources. It is this legacy that the children of Cambodia have inherited. Under Pol Pot’s leadership, and within days of overthrowing the government, the Khmer Rouge embarked on an organised mission. Children were taken from their parents and placed in separate forced labour camps. Factories, schools and universities were shut down; so were hospitals. Lawyers, doctors, teachers, engineers, scientists and professional people in any field (including the army) were murdered, together with their extended families.

If you are unfamiliar with the Khmer Rouge there are many books to familiarise yourself with this cruel and terrifying regime. ‘First they killed my father’ by Loung Ung is an emotional insight into one child’s experience of the horror of The Khmer Rouge. I was lucky to be given this book by my stepson and his wife while in Cambodia. Both the book and the country have touched me on a deeply emotional level. Seeing this beautiful country after this terrible rape by the Khmer Rouge makes it impossible not to be moved by the people’s positive attitude and their continual smiles. Knowing that thirty years ago the country lost most of its educated people and Doctors I was curious about the health situation in Cambodia.

Meeting Arun Sinketh at The Angkor Hospital for Children

A few days later I myself was very sick with a stomach upset and again I found myself wondering about the health system in Cambodia and along with my husband went to ‘The Angkor Hospital for Children’ (AHC) visitors Centre. Arun Sinketh the Human Resources Director, sensing my interest and keenness to write an article offered to give us a tour of the Hospital the following day. I left armed with booklets and information and studied them that night. I was saddened to discover that the life expectancy in Cambodia is just 57 years and that the probability of dying before the age of five is 88 per thousand births. It was difficult to comprehend the figures. The children of Cambodia are the most appealing I have ever met and I fell in love with many of them. As I journeyed back to the Hospital the next morning, many of them waved and shouted ‘Hello’ to us. Some were travelling totally unprotected on the front of their father’s motorcycle. I cannot begin to count how many under-five’s I saw travelling helmetless on a motorcycle with either one or both parents. Heedless of the dust and heat they ride happily along seemingly unaware of the dangers. I immediately found my mind wandering back to what I had read the night before and shuddered. One of the most lasting legacies of the Khmer Rouge and which continues to claim new victims daily, are land mines. They litter the countryside and even the soldiers who placed them there cannot recall where they are. As I travelled through the country the effects are visible in many ways but perhaps most poignantly in the number of children, men and women wearing prostheses or riding wheelchairs. I knew there had to be something I could do to help the smiling people of Cambodia. Where better to help the children than a hospital?

The Hospital Tour

With the statistics in my mind I pushed open the door to the Visitor Centre again where Arun was waiting for me. With a kind smile and a warm welcome she began my tour of the ‘Angkor Hospital for Children.’ The first thing I see is the hospital logo, a green symbol in the shape of a heart. Arun has worked at the hospital for 11 years. She first began her career there as a nurse in 2001 and continued nursing for two and half years. Her biggest pleasure is the children. She later moved to be a PA and volunteer coordinator. In 2006, she worked full time as a PA. Arun is still studying in her spare time and was very inspirational.

I would now very much like you to take the tour with me. I was desperate to see how the hospital cared for these vulnerable children of Cambodia. We left the coolness of the visitor Centre and headed outside into the stifling heat where Arun pointed out the entrance gate and explained that the gate opens at 6 a.m. but people will have been queuing long before that. I asked her how many children are seen in one day and was stunned when she told me 400 children a day attend the hospital outpatient department. Almost half would have travelled more than 50 kilometres in the back of a pick-up truck or by motorbike. Most likely they will walk. I tried to imagine travelling from my home in Oxfordshire back in England for thirty miles or possibly even fifty to sixty miles to get to an outpatient department and shudder when I imagine trying to get a child there when I have no transport. It is unimaginable. Transporting a sick child all that way in a Tuk Tuk does not bear thinking about. I later visited a rural village in a Tuk Tuk and the roads were so uneven that I felt certain we would never make it. I came home with a mild headache from the heat and the uncomfortable ride. How much worse for a sick child. I followed Arun into the waiting area of the outpatient department, past crying children, anxious mothers and siblings to the triage area.

‘The majority of children who come to the hospital are less than five years old. The three main diseases are respiratory, diarrhoea and malnutrition. After triage, the child will see either a nurse or a doctor depending on the severity of their symptoms. Because waiting time is so long, up to many hours, we provide a play area for the siblings of the sick child. 400 children a day coming to the Hospital means a long wait.’ Arun explains.

And I thought we waited a long time in England. I make a decision not to moan about our healthcare system again.

Inpatients

The inpatient ward I found quite upsetting. Arun who previously nursed at the Hospital looks at the children affectionately and tells me how much she enjoyed nursing the children. I see a young baby suffering from Pneumonia and watch as his mother assists with the Oxygen mask. The baby looks very small and helpless and it is very distressing to see a young baby so sick and I have an overwhelming desire to pick her up and make everything all right. But, of course, I can’t. Arun tells me the parents are encouraged to nurse their children and to be as active as possible in their recovery. The inpatient ward has 55 beds. I feel helpless when seeing so many sick children and decide to later ask Arun how I can help. We pass the smiling Doctors and nurses and as we do so a mother looks to my husband gratefully, thinking he is a Doctor. On walking back through the waiting area she immediately poured out her gratitude to us, bowing and showing us how deeply grateful she was. I looked to my husband and saw from his face how deeply moved he was by this. The friendship and generosity of the Cambodian people was quite a revelation to us and we instantly warmed to them.

Arun tells me that nursing these children is very satisfying. I am amazed to hear that more than 30,000 patients were seen in the inpatients department in 2010 with 2,356 admissions. Almost 100,000 have passed through the Intensive Care Unit. Frightening statistics.

Nean Pisitomony

Arun introduced me to Nean Pisitmony who comes from Preah Vihear Province, more than 100km from Siem Reap. His parents brought him to AHC to uncover what was making their seven year-old boy so sick. They had taken him to other hospitals, even as far away as Phnom Penh, but no one had been able to help them. At AHC he was quickly diagnosed with congenital heart disease and the Hospital was able to send him to Malaysia for corrective open-heart surgery. After a successful surgery he returned to Cambodia and had no complications. One day, while traveling through Kompong Thom, he saw the AHC logo on a donation box and immediately recognized it as the big green heart that had saved his own heart. Mony started saving money to someday donate to AHC because he thought that this was the best way he could help.

In February 2010, Mony returned to AHC. He had an abscess on his face, with severe swelling and an infection in his left eye. Even though physicians in his hometown treated him, he was not getting better. His parents decided to bring him back to the hospital with the big green heart.

At AHC, he was taken care of by the eye doctor, treated with antibiotics and improved quickly. He thanked all of the staff at AHC for saving his life once again and was finally able to donate the $100 he had been saving. He hopes that his donation will help save lives of other children, and it will.

With the growth of their own surgeons and the help of generous volunteers many children with heart conditions like Mony are now being treated right at AHC. In 2009, 24 open heart surgeries were successfully performed in the hospital’s own Operating Room!

Homecare programme

The most interesting aspect of the Angkor Hospital for Children for me was the Homecare programme and I immediately found myself wondering how I could return to Siem Reap and follow the homecare team who go directly to the patients in rural communities because they are too weak and fragile to travel. The homecare programme provides not only medical assessment and treatment but also provides support and education. The first step in prevention of further health problems is to educate the people. This includes giving seeds to grow vegetable gardens, mosquito nets to prevent malaria and dengue fever and even school uniforms. 70-75% of homecare patients are HIV positive. Often in Cambodia those living with HIV are marginalized and in some cases children have been expelled from school. Other patients suffer from malnutrition, congenital heart disease and neurological pathology. They all require assessment and care. I began to wonder if I could write an article about such devastating health problems and still remain positive. I soon learnt that in the Angkor Hospital for Children there is much to be positive about.

Education

Because the families admitted to AHC have needed to borrow money just to get there, they arrive with little or no food. All eligible families are provided with food and cooking supplies. There is a community kitchen at the hospital where families gather to cook meals. A whole family will stay with a sick child and the hospital arrange cooking classes twice daily to show mothers how to make food like bor-bor, a traditional Khmer porridge and other nutritional foods. There is also a demonstration garden adjacent to the kitchen which displays a variety of nutrient rich vegetables that can be grown locally. Seeds are given to the parents to take home. I found this very positive indeed. In fact my whole visit was a very uplifting experience and the smile on Arun’s face as she showed us around warmed me immensely. I could see that the poor malnourished children I had seen on the streets could and would be helped. All thanks to a New York based photographer named Kenro Izu who first came to Siem Reap over fifteen years ago to photograph the Angkor temples. However, it was the images of the children that would capture his heart as they have done mine. He was compelled to dedicate himself to improving their lives. With little more than the will to effect positive change he founded ‘Friends without a Border’ and was able to raise the seed money for ‘Angkor Hospital for Children’ Read more about Kenro Izu here.

I finished my tour with a look at the Dental Clinic. Arun told me that few children in Cambodia own a toothbrush! Arun also told me 40 children a day see the dentist. I then, visited the Eye clinic where monty was treated.

The children of Cambodia need your help and there are many ways to offer. Izu founded the Friends Without A Border non-profit organization in 1996. Since that time AHC has treated more than 800,000 children, performed over 12,000 surgeries, educated thousands of Cambodian health workers, and improved the quality of healthcare in the countryside. In 2010, the AHC’s satellite facility opened at Sot Nikum Referral Hospital in Dam Daek in order to bring compassionate, high-quality care into other parts of Siem Reap Province.

You can donate money.

If visiting Cambodia, you can donate blood.

Or like me you can offer to volunteer your services

I was so uplifted by the children of Cambodia that I know I have to see them again. If I can help them in any way, then that is what I want to do. The Angkor Hospital for Children gave me hope and uplifted me. The Angkor Hospital for Children is doing a wonderful job in what is a very difficult country. It is an organisation that I very much want to support. Please read more aboutFriends Without a Border and help in any way you can.

Seeing the country and learning about their history and how they lost their doctors and educated people thirty years ago in the most horrific of circumstances leaving them in poverty made me feel uncomfortably privileged and humble at what I take for granted. Cambodia and the children of Cambodia changed my life for the better. I am so pleased to be able to help them.

Check out other great articles by volunteering bucket list seekers at Bucket List Publications.  

Crocodiles epitomize nature’s ability to chomp you up and spit you out in one bite. If you’re faced with a life-ending situation, then the instant death option offered by crocodiles probably isn’t an example of her worst vengeance. But still, they’re big, mean, viscous and deadly. It’s a natural instinct to avoid the habitats of such monsters, therefore the opportunity to pay to seek out said deliverer of doom is, well, a popular one.

The area is heavily populated with crocodiles, something you learn straight away

First impressions:

The location for this particular crocodile cruise was the Daintree Rainforest. Located on the North Eastern tip of Australia, this lush rainforest is not the usual impression people have of Australia, a country better known for its dry, rugged, red dirt Outback. However, located close to Cairns, a city on the Eastern coast of Australia and a popular, lively destination, this is probably one of the most accessible, convenient Rainforests you can find.

After a short drive along the coast front, (a habit of Australia to plonk its roads in the most picturesque of locations) we had pitched up at our campsite and were already in explorer mode. The local tourist office was overladen with hundreds of leaflets covering the many things to do in the Daintree, but the snapping jaws of crocodiles and a few posters of the local favorite – Fat Albert (the resident crocodile alpha male) was always going to make a Crocodile Cruise the winner!

The Boat:

Strolling past signs warning of the fatal danger of the areas local inhabitants, and the campsites audacious decision to locate right on the river’s edge with no perimeter fence, I probably shouldn’t have been expecting some sort of river Battleship and armed guard. Instead, we had a pretty flimsy low hulled boat and a guide armed with nothing more deadly than his laser pen. This, however, proved to be incredibly useful, as having forgotten my glasses (concentrating more beforehand on reading the coverage in my travel insurance, loss of limb maybe covered???) the cruise starts by seeking out the smaller and better camouflaged river residents.

The Cruise features much of the local wildlife, not just crocodiles

Tree frogs and snakes are a regular site, and it’s amazing to see them up close knowing that without the guide (and laser pen) you would have simply strolled right on past. How he picked them out must simply be down to his expertise, as not once did one of the 20 odd passengers locate any wildlife before he did.

The cruise goes up and down the river, and with narration it adds to the amazing scenery and flora on offer. You feel as though you’re at least 2 days from civilization, and blissfully forget the easy 2 hour drive back to Cairns. The wildlife you see is obviously going to vary between cruises, but we also managed to see Kingfishers doing what they do best (fishing!)  amongst other local bird species. What is great about these tours is the local guide’s knowledge. Knowing all about the development of the local area (having lived there his whole life) he entertained us with stories of the local farm (owned by his brother) and the infrequent habit of crocodiles to snatch their cows.

The cruise didn’t disappoint, a local male was the first sighting

The Crocs:

With the first half of the cruise being croc-less, several passengers were getting a little tetchy. However, this was premature as rounding a bend in the river took the cruise to a whole new level. The first sight, a large male snoozing on the bank had all the cameras snapping away. Apparently, as long as you are in the boat or on land a crocodile feels vulnerable and is not likely to attack. Do not fall in though, as the playing field adjusts considerably!

There’s every chance of seeing a few youngsters as well

It was likely that this male croc had been busy, as further along this straight was a female croc and then a baby, about 2 foot long, all bathing in their own little spots. It was great seeing this trio and range of ages. Peering across the field that bordered the river I noticed our campervan and the camp site, and thought last night’s decision not to walk down to the river edge had been a good one!

All things considered, the Crocodile Cruises are a brilliant way to explore the Daintree. Aside from the Crocs, you see much of the best of the rest of the Forests wildlife, and cruising along the river added to the isolated, jungle feeling. The cruises have a staggering success rate (over 95% of cruises see Crocs) and the added opportunity to take an afternoon cruise from a different location can help out the unfortunate ones, all at no extra cost!

Check out other great articles by adventurous bucket list seekers at Bucket List Publications.  

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Submissions to lesleycarter.wordpress.com & Bucket List Publications. 

Gone are the days of relaxing on a river, taking in the scenery from a comfy airplane seat, or paddling quietly in a canoe. New trends in travel include adrenaline, extreme adventure sports, and pushing the limits. At the base of Mount Katahdin, Maine’s highest peak, I found Maine Whitewater River Surfing, Three Rivers Jump and Raft, and the experience of a lifetime!

Rafting the Class V Penobscot River, riverboarding the whitewater rapids, and skydiving from 11,000 feet was the most insane, adrenaline-filled weekend of my life. Whitewater rafting is an ultimate experience by anyone’s standards, but the tough Class V Penobscot River has chutes, drops, and large holes that challenge both guide and guest alike. In exciting rapids like Exterminator, Cribworks, and the Nesowdnehunk Falls, I quickly learned that I could easily be in over my head, but the guides are experts and carefully selected to make the ride both safe and exciting. It is 13 miles of pure adrenaline, yet I still found the time to look up and enjoy the breath-taking scenery that surrounded me.

Before we even left the training waters, one guest paddled himself out of the raft, and we realized that rafting is not all about muscles or size. The white water was in my face and I was soaked to the bone, but I managed to stay in the raft. During the very little down time that the Penobscot has to offer, I took the opportunity to go for swim in the white waters. I left my reservations about fish and other marine life at home and splashed around like a child. After the liberating experience of controlling the waters, there was no time for fear of a few fish.

The Penobscot River has long been a popular spot for whitewater rafting, but now Maine Whitewater River Surfing is kicking it up a notch and giving people a chance to run the rapids without the boat. It’s called riverboarding and Maine Whitewater River Surfing is one of the only outdoor adventure company in New England that does it.

After a day of rafting, my arms were tired and my back was tight, but we set out to reach the shore of the Penobscot and get our first look at the rapids from a boarder’s perspective. There were wetsuits, life jackets, helmets, and even fins to go with the boards, but the view was still intimidating. I didn’t know what to expect. Seeing the water rushing and the white caps foaming looked dangerous; that’s why the trip started with a safety lesson. We learned about currents, and the all-important signals; including the panic signal of waving your arms frantically in the air, which seemed rather straightforward. With the help of guides, Karl and Mike, we finally began to tackle the whitewater.

The first step was to swim across the river against a powerful current, which was not easy; it was more work than fun. The ride down the rapids was intense; as the water smashed against my face and I missed the surf, I became more and more comfortable with the frightening situation. However, there’s really nothing that can prepare you for a wall of whitewater rushing at your head, and while it’s intense; I did it over and over again.

Riverboarding is relatively new in North America and I am now a member of an exclusive club. But jumping off of the raft and grabbing a board was nothing compared to the adventure that lay ahead.

There is nothing natural about falling 11,000 feet through the sky, but I was going to give it a try with Skydive New England Jump and Raft. The pages upon pages of waivers that I had to sign before I jumped only proved skydiving is an extreme adventure sport. I had to sign my life away, watch a video that stressed the fact that I could die, and watch several other people take the plunge before I could jump myself, but the technicalities could never outweigh the natural high of putting yourself in the scariest situation imaginable and confronting that fear head on.

My heart pounded in my chest as I waited for the 20 minute flight away from Millinocket airport. If I thought about it, I wouldn’t do it. I didn’t want to overanalyze the situation. I jumped at the idea of skydiving, but now that I was in the plane, my inhabitations were taking over. But the fear deep in my chest was part of the thrill.

Thankfully, my instructor did most of the work. When it was time to leave the plane, he stood up and told me to step onto the wing. Mindlessly, like a robot, I just did whatever he told me. Breathing became more difficult as we both stood up on the wing and prepared to fall.

My only regret was that I closed my eyes during the first 3 seconds of free-fall. It was the most in control I ever experienced in my life, which is completely ironic since I had very little control of anything. The free-fall lasted over a minute and we reached speeds of around 140 mph! The air felt cold against my hands but everything else was like a surreal dream and I was at peace. I found my home in the skies!

Adventure sports and the pursuit of adrenaline fuelled activities has become an increasingly sought after diversion from the 9 to 5 monotony of everyday life. Many people are embracing what nature has to offer by doing things like skydiving, riverboarding, and whitewater rafting. In the past, many people opted for just one adventure sport, but nowadays most people not only take it to the skies or the river, but they combine the two. Due to the massive uptake of extreme sports, many companies are developing whole new concepts such as Jump and Raft. I can’t wait to see what happens next!

Check out other great articles by adventurous bucket list seekers at Bucket List Publications.  

You can win your own skydiving experience at Bucket List Publications. Check it out before March 12th, 2012 and don’t miss the chance to make your bucket list dreams a reality.

I am the first to admit that given the choice of a 5 star hotel or camping I will pick a 5 star hotel.  I tell friends that anyone who grew up in the developing world with a commode for a toilet and one bath a week would appreciate my love of luxury so it was with some surprise that I found myself so eager to work in flood relief in Pakistan.

When I first heard news of the floods that began to spread their strength and turmoil in various parts of Pakistan in August of 2010, I felt sadness that was somewhat distant and removed.  Raised as an American in Pakistanwith the call to prayer as my alarm clock it was my childhood love and home, but as an adult I have been more connected to the Middle East through work and travel.  My memories of Pakistan are primarily relegated to occasional emails from friends and to those moments on the subway when I close my eyes and the rhythmic movement transports me back to the Pakistani trains of my childhood.   That changed when I saw a picture in the New York Times of the city of Jacobabad under flood waters.

Jacobabad in the Sindh district of Pakistan was home to my family when I was a little girl, it was there that I broke my leg and where my mothers artificial flowers were stolen.  Stuck into the ground around our house to add color to clay that would never grow anything, they provided a source of joy for a few hours and then they were gone!  The NYT photograph hit my heart in a way I had not anticipated and through what could only be a work of God an opportunity came about for me to participate as a nurse in Medical Relief with internally displaced persons in that very area.  I never imagined that I could be a tiny part of this or that my life for a short time would resemble a National Geographic feature story.

Although I grew up in Pakistan and then lived as an adult raising my family in Islamabad, Pakistan followed by seven years in Cairo, Egypt, my current reality is that I work in downtown Boston and drink a Starbucks coffee daily.  I shop at Ann Taylor and get frustrated when my hot water runs out or I don’t have time to put on my eyeliner – this my friends is the somewhat unfortunate truth.  Early September, suddenly the idea of working with victims of the flood began to become real and I began to be cautiously excited, knowing I may not have what it would take but being willing to take that chance.

On October 15th, armed with thirteen thousand dollars worth of donated medical supplies and numerous bottles of vitamins, I boarded Etihad Airlines and flew via Abu Dhabi to Karachi ending the journey in Shikarpur, Sindh.  Just outside the Shikarpur gates, a kilometer from the hospital where we were staying, we saw the remains of the ‘Pictures of the Day’ from the October 4th online edition of the New York Times - 27 burnt convoy trucks. They had been destroyed by members of the Taliban in the area and those same Taliban had been found hiding out in a mosque just a half kilometer from our base.  I remembered saying to a colleague just the week before, “Don’t worry! I’ll be no where near the burnt convoys!” I hadn’t paid as close attention to the location as I should have.

The two weeks that followed were filled with what I will call holy moments – watching a mom point to Heaven in thanks as food was distributed to her family, laughing with children at my own mistakes in Urdu and Sindhi, praying in the depths of my soul for the baby who looked like a skeleton at 4 months of age and the emaciated mom who held that child with the love only a mother could have, putting shoes on an ancient woman with a million stories written into the wrinkles on her face to guard the ulcerated sore on her foot against infection, delivering a sewing machine to a widow who danced with it on her head and seeing so clearly that people are created in the image of God.   These women and children in their unwashed yet beautiful bright colored clothing were dear to the heart of God and “no mere mortals”.

The team of a doctor, two nurses, a community health worker, interpreter, and food distribution team were like a mini United Nations from 6 people groups with ability to speak 6 different languages between us but a unity in purpose and spirit that gave us efficiency as well as times of laughter and joy. We covered 8 villages and two IDP camps in 14 days with surveys of needs, medical camps and food distribution. Mud huts, tents provided by USAID, rope beds, chickens, roosters, water buffalo and cow dung completed the setting and tested our nostrils and stamina but everyday provided a new adventure and new moments of awe. We gave out malaria medicine like it was candy at Halloween and scabies lotion and soap even more so. We experienced desperate eyes change to eyes of hope as a mother realized that her child would be cared for, as a father realized his daughter’s wound would heal. The holy moments were greater than those experienced in any church I have attended and brought me to my knees in tears, laughter and gratefulness.

There was for me an added bonus.  Almost anyone who was raised in a country other than their passport country (better known as a third culture kid) can relate with the immigrant experience.  The sense of isolation, nontransferable skills and being ‘other’ can creep up at the oddest of times and result in a deep loneliness and sometimes conflict with one’s passport country.  The two words ‘between worlds’ best describe our lives and feeling most at home in Heathrow Airport waiting for a connecting flight is very common.

During the time I was in Pakistan, I was not other – I was home.  Seeing friends who knew me when I was young, receiving blessings from men who worked with my father and women who had deep friendships with my mother, walking through compounds to the embraces of old friends, and being woken yet again by the call to prayer were more holy moments that I had not anticipated as I prepared to go.  I was told a couple of years ago by a wise friend that there are times in our lives when we need to remember who we are.  I was given that gift through the action of working in flood relief and going toPakistan.

I arrived back in JFK International Airport in New York City after 23 hours of travel and within a few minutes felt ‘other’ again – there was a moment of confusion as I looked at the Immigration line options.  Was I really a resident alien?  An alien? No – I was aUS citizen shaped by cultures and moments that were not of my own doing.  In that moment I recognized that the peace of belonging happens deep in my soul and that peace can transcend the outside circumstances.

I don’t know why I was given the gift of going and not others - that is a mystery to me but I know it is nothing I did and really simply Grace.

Check out other great articles by adventurous bucket list seekers at Bucket List Publications.  

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Submissions to lesleycarter.wordpress.com & Bucket List Publications. 

Some numbers:
2 – Patrick’s flat tire count
23 – Total flat tires suffered by group
1 – trip to the emergency room
15- nights spent at strangers’ homes

Gifts from strangers on the street:
4-pears
2-beers
1-chocolate bar
3 tire tubes
1 bike maintenance book

“So, how far is it from Vancouver to San Francisco?”
“Oh I have no idea.”
“But…you’re going to bike there?”
“Yeah, it’s cool, it’ll be an adventure.”

And thus began nearly every early conversation I had with coworkers and friends about my “plan” to bicycle down the West Coast in September of 2010.  As of August 1, I had no bike, no route, and no gear. But exactly one month later I found myself rolling my precariously laden bike (total weight of bike + gear = 81 lbs) down the residential streets of the Point Grey neighbourhood in Vancouver, unsure, for the first of many times during the trip, where I would sleep that night.  Starting off with 2 friends and 1 relative stranger that day in September, I had no idea that by the middle of December I would find myself with beefy thighs and a mean shorts tan, posing for pictures with my father at the Mexican border having traversed over 3200 km, more than 1000 km further than the original itinerary.

What happened along the winding roads, smooth bike lanes, glass-strewn freeways, and rocky dirt paths of British Columbia, Washington, Oregon and California, you ask?  The answer, like so many of my responses to people I met along the way, is simple: adventure.  So pack your panniers, shimmy into your padded bike shorts, don your helmet, and let me tell you a few tales from along the way.

As we left Lauren’s apartment that first day of September, after a hectic week of arranging to have our ‘real’ lives put on hold for four months, 3 trips to Mountain Equipment Co-Op for gear, some frantic bike assembly and maintenance, and a variety of last minute panic inducing occurrences (losing a contact lens, getting health insurance), we truly set out into the unknown. While we had with us a guidebook and a wealth of equipment, we lacked, among other things, the following: a) basic bike maintenance knowledge b) anything other than rudimentary biking experience c) fitness.  The premise was that we would just have to see how far we could bike each day, and go from there.

We rolled (teetered) out onto the street, many hours later than planned, riding our weighted down bikes for the first time, trying to get used to clip in pedals and spandex shorts, questionably functional brakes and painful seats.  After a few wrong turns (“We’re already getting lost and we haven’t left Vancouver yet!”), some surprisingly strenuous sections of coastal road after Stanley Park, and a joyful reunion with Miranda who somehow managed to lose the group for upwards of half an hour, we were ready to board the ferry and make the crossing to the small town of Gibsons.  Exhausted after our frantic first ride, we lay strewn about the surprisingly plush seats of the ferry, eating tuna directly out of cans and warding off disgusted looks from well-dressed commuters with our impish grins and personal justifications that if you are carrying everything you own on your bike, you can get away with most things, a feeling that would certainly fuel many escapades later on in the trip.

That night, riding off of the ferry into very unfamiliar territory, we began to feel the first hints of fear that our general unpreparedness was catching up to us.  It was pitch dark, we only had 2 functioning lights between the four of us, and we were miles from the nearest campground.  We decided to take a sideroad that we hoped would have access to some open but secluded space where we could pitch our tent for the night, but all we found were walls of thick bushes and steep driveways lining the road that hugged the edge of the coast.  Eventually, Lauren and Emma decided that we needed to take a more direct approach and simply ask someone if we could sleep on their lawn.  They did just that and within minutes they triumphantly returned, showing us our very own piece of land on George and Jennifer’s front lawn upon which we could pitch our tent for the night.  I was sceptical that someone would be so kind to four grubby-looking, sweaty bikers and in the back of my mind expected some sort of horror story ending in axe murder about to befall our humble bike team.  But we were exhausted and quickly fell asleep after what would turn out to be one of our shortest biking days on the trip.

We awoke that morning to the shifting and crashing of the ocean lapping at the beach, and George, our septuagenarian host, rousing us from slumber with the alluring announcement in his thick Scottish accent, that breakfast was ready and that we had better get up. “The word of the day is marmalade!” he proclaimed.  A good sign if ever there was one.  As we ate a full breakfast of scones, ham, English muffins, fruit and yogurt, tea and coffee, and yes, lots of marmalade, we enjoyed not only a spectacular view of the ocean from the sitting room, but also hilarious stories about George and Jennifer’s richly-lived lives. I quickly realized that my fear had been obviously ridiculous. In fact, perhaps this sense of unfounded defensiveness, especially around strangers, was completely irrational.  Through their unconditionally trusting kindness, George and Jennifer not only gave us a place to sleep, and food to eat, but also the confidence to trust in others, accept help, and to be generous in our own small ways.  George’s parting words to us rang true as an oft-repeated motto for our trip (more often than not to justify impressive chocolate binges): “If you’re not good to yourself, then who the hell will be!”

The days rolled on and we found ourselves meeting other touring cyclists, fielding queries from interested locals, and attending to Miranda’s many flat tires.  We settled into a rhythm: wake up with the sun, ride the curve of the coast, and tumble into our tent for 10 hours of sleep so we could do it all over again the next day.  As our tans deepened, our quads rippled, and our butts ached, we inched our way through Washington, about 80 km a day.  We felt strong, adventurous and unstoppable.  And then it started to rain. And rain. And rain some more.  After a damp day of thick, wet fog that settled on the road, making the surface slick and the visibility poor, we were eager to stop for the night in the town of Westport.  Throughout our time in Washington, we had been particularly struck by how, um, rural, the state was.  It might have been that most ‘downtowns’ we cycled through were populated primarily with buffalo jerky and fireworks vendors, or that 80% of vehicles that passed us were trucks with mangy, barking dogs in the back, but Washington was beginning to lodge certain stereotypes into our minds. I was particularly concerned with the large hand-drawn poster outside of a store proclaiming: “We love God, the Consitution [sic], and the Tea Party.”  But as we pulled into Westport, things were looking good.  Spotting a library as we rode through town was the first good sign, it had been way too long since we had seen evidence of literacy.  We pulled off the road and alighted upon the “Totem RV and Trailer Park” where we paid $20 and were shown to our campsite, a barren patch of gravel in the corner of what appeared to be a parking lot. We set up our tent close to the chain link fence, having been warned by the owner that he could not be held responsible if an RV ran us over in the middle of the night, unaccustomed as the trailer park was to people in tents, not to mention people in tents who had no car with which to set up as a buffer between their tents and certain death.  After struggling to get our tent pegs into the hard ground, we stepped back and surveyed the scene.

Through the thick fog (and the impressive stench of fresh fish) we could see in front of our tent a row of squalid-looking trailers, complete with stacked tires, overgrown grass climbing up the sides of the dilapidated mobile homes and hemmed in on the left side by the smouldering remains of a stripped-bare RV, the remnants of which were clearly being used by our fellow RV park neighbours to fuel an impressive bonfire.

My defences were up, I was clearly out of my comfort zone and once again felt the forbidding doom of impending axe (or maybe shotgun) murder.  But this time, I was slightly more emboldened and decided to go talk with the people sitting around the fire, if for no other reason than to get a working description of my soon to be killers.  But the people I had stereotyped so brutally refused to play along with my assumptions. We had a pleasant chat about life in the trailer park , how it was cheaper than renting in the town and that you couldn’t be closer to the docks where a few of the men had jobs.  If you could put up with the hot water being turned off at 9pm, and the less-than-scenic view in exchange for being able to live with your family, close to your work, then what was the big complaint?  My new friends clinked their beers, joked about our tiny tent, and turned back to their roaring fire. Turns out happiness can thrive where I would least suspect.

The rain continued unabated as we continued south towards Oregon. We once again found ourselves soaked to the skin with no plan for the night as we rolled into Raymond, Washington.  Through some stroke of luck, Emma had written down the numbers of some CouchSurfing hosts the last time we had Internet access and one of them was located just outside of Raymond.  We made the call and were soon on our way to Chandra’s house.  Upon our arrival, we were welcomed into our new digs by Chandra and her 15 year old son, Elijah, and promptly given warm bowls of soup, the use of their washer and dryer, and glorious, hot showers.  Chandra, we learned, was a bit of an outsider in Raymond.  Her meditation and yoga courses were slow to receive positive attention as her neighbours were rather traditional Christians with a disdain for anything ‘alternative.’ Chandra, her husband and Elijah had also just returned from a 7 month journey around the world.  The adventurous upbringing shined through in Elijah, one of the most confident and kind teenagers I’ve ever met. After an evening of travel stories, a movie, and guitars, we tucked into bed; our spirits once again overflowing with trust in strangers.

We finished off our time in Washington with more rain, a coincidental meeting with a man walking to Mexico who happened to be best buddies with a professor of ours, and a life-endangering bridge crossing into Oregon.  But the border didn’t stop the rain and we decided to once again call upon trusty internet strangers to provide lodging for the night.  Neil, a semi-retired track coach and guidance counsellor from Seaside, OR, was our host.  With a ruddy face, a tireless smile, and a knowing wink, Neil let us into his home, immediately offering us full use of anything, “I’m barely home, so use my kitchen, garage, laundry, whatever you need, it’s just sitting there otherwise!” he said.  After a quick chat about his own travels, Neil was out the door again, turning to say “Oh and if you leave, don’t worry about locking the door, 99% of people are good, and the others, well you can’t do anything about it anyway so you might as well trust people and be happy.” A wink, a smile, and he was gone. After five minutes with him, we already knew that Neil was something special.

After a brief respite from the rain at Neil’s, we found ourselves mentally and physically recharged. We were still fighting a chilly wind and began noticing a subtle change in the colour of the leaves. The seasons were changing and with nothing more than a sweater and a rain jacket each, we knew it was time to pick up the pace and keep moving south.

Wet days dribbled into sunny weeks as each turn of the wheels propelled us further south and we soon found ourselves posing in front of the California welcome sign. The moment was complete when a man in a beat up truck saw us awkwardly trying to take self-photos and did a U-turn on the highway so that he could take a picture of us all together underneath the sign.

One of the great joys of bicycle touring was how each day turned into a massive game of leapfrog.  In the morning, we would pass another group of cyclists (most often retired couples), stop and chat with them a bit before heading on again, possibly see them again at lunch, and then have what would amount to a joyous reunion at night when we both turned up to the same campsite. The reunions were even sweeter when it had been days or weeks since you had last seen one another.  In this age of instant communication, it was particularly amazing to me how information would travel up and down the coast simply through people talking to one another.  When we came upon another group of cyclists, the traditional greetings were exchanged and we entered into a seemingly scripted dialogue: “Where are you guys from? Where are you going?  Do you know ___ and ___? Cool! How are they doing?  Where are you staying tonight?  Know anything about the weather? How busy is that road coming up?” All the essential information was passed easily through the shared bond of being a hobo on a bike.  One time in particular, I found myself receiving a hand written note that had been passed on twice already with exact directions for a particularly tricky detour around a section of road under construction.

We entered the majestic Redwood forests of Northern California and spent gruelling mornings climbing 3000 foot hills, and glorious afternoons coasting down along the beautifully paved Avenue of the Giants, winding our way through the thousand year old trees, never needing to pedal.

As we neared San Francisco, I began to have doubts about the second portion of the trip.  Originally, after we biked to SF, the plan was to ship our bicycles home and continue to travel through Central America by bus, plane and foot.  But my appetite for cycling had only just been whetted and I found myself realizing that what I really wanted to do was just keep bicycling.  I loved the feeling of having a massive, seemingly limitless expanse ahead of me which I could explore by my very own power; in short, the initial pain had transformed into a desire, in fact a need, for movement, for rhythm, for uninterrupted journeying.  In nearly two months of cycling I had become comfortable with the vulnerability and uncertainty inherent in never knowing exactly where you will sleep, eat, or even where you will find yourself the next day.  I had started to learn the most important lesson of the journey; that people could be trusted. With this new confidence in myself and the world, I made the Mexican border my new destination and informed my trusty travel companions of the change in plans.  Striking out on my own was something beyond consideration when I first started the journey, and now it was quickly becoming a reality.  I celebrated my decision by purchasing my very own lightweight tent and shipping home 9 pounds of unnecessary gear.  I was now self-sufficient from an equipment point of view, but fear of loneliness lingered in the back of my mind.  The big change was coming fast and I resolved to continue the solo journey with the same spirit of openness, vulnerability, and generosity that had made the first part of the trip so life-changing.

Part two of Patrick’s story will be featured on Thursday, March 23rd on http://lesleycarter.wordpress.com/ or can already be found at Bucket List Publications Magazine at http://www.bucketlistpublications.com/2012/02/22/reaffirming-my-faith-in-humanity-one-pedal-at-a-time-part-two-san-francisco-to-mexico/. 

Check out other great articles by adventurous bucket list seekers at Bucket List Publications.  

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Submissions to lesleycarter.wordpress.com & Bucket List Publications.