It was the early Eighties. I was in my early twenties. Peace and love had been shelved for maximum profit. Many people went to work for banks. I was in my early twenties and although I had done many jobs, I hadn't travelled nearly enough for my own satisfaction. I had a friend, a Dane, who was always coming from or going to one epic trip after another. Once, while sipping beers in his parent’s basement, I made the comment that I sure wished I could take one of those treks. My friend looked at me and with just the right expression and inflection, told me that all I had to do was get up and go.
His magic worked, and all my responsibilities real and imagined took a back seat to my life. I am forever in deep gratitude for that one simple statement. Sten talked of his last trip to Africa. He had penetrated as far as Cameroon. The best part was that he had crossed Canada for $37.00. That was it! The Swede portion of me knew that I could outdo a mere Dane.
Without much property and of no fixed address, I had about $2000.00 saved up from working as a bank manager trainee. The training year was over and I was to be assigned a small bank branch somewhere up in Northern British Columbia. I was in love with a young lady I had met at the bank, who later became my second wife and the mother of my eldest son. She was herself away travelling at that time, so I quit my job and got ready to hit the road.
I converted my money into English pounds, Canadian and American dollars, Spanish pesetas, French francs and the balance into US Travellers Cheques. I made a money holder out of a metal film canister with a guitar string fixed to it so it couldn't be cut from my neck as I slept. I got a six pound, two man pup-tent, polished up my old Boy Scout aluminum camping cookware and dusted off my rucksack. I bought a pair of Scarpa boots at the Three Vets store in Vancouver.
I practiced sleeping lightly for a week before my departure. My younger sister eagerly helped with this chore. I would sleep on the living room floor with my boot-laces tied together and snug in my closed fist. My other hand was under my head with my camping knife’s leather sheath standing in for a blade. Sister would sneak up on me from many different angles and try to take the shoes or the money after I was asleep. The responses were a gumbo of pa kua, karate, shing-i and savate. This practice resembled Peter Sellers and Cato in The Pink Panther somewhat, but it honed my reactions. Little sister, I miss those days.
While hitch-hiking and walking across Canada, I ate whatever I could gather and I slept outdoors. The Okanagan region was good to me. I made woven mats of cat-tails to sleep on and I built “Dakota Hole” fires. My main objective was to stay safe by staying undetected, even when near the highway or in proximity to people. A Dakota Hole fire is a circular pit, dug small and deep. Some distance away, another smaller hole is dug. A tunnel is then bored at an angle connecting the two. A small fire of dry smokeless wood is kindled in the larger hole and a pot is placed over the opening. The fire draws air from the tunnel and the flames are completely hidden. I remember cooking a nice hearty soup, forty yards away from two drunk Albertan cowboys who were waiting for a bus.
I veered South at Sarnia, Ontario and walked over the Blue Water Bridge toward Detroit. As I walked across that span, I came upon a young man, a monk from a monastery in Canada. He was walking around the perimeter of the Great Lakes. He carried a big carved stick that had been given to him by his brother monks. It was inscribed, “Michael – We go with you.” I took that as a real good sign.
After a three day wait inside the airport, I was on a cheap flight across the Atlantic to England. My expenses for crossing Canada totaled $43.00. Tio-tusend små svart lång kukkura djävulen! Six dollars over Sten. Thus began my trek from North Vancouver, British Columbia to Tangiers, Morocco and back via Texas on a budget of two thousand Canadian dollars. You will encounter some of those stories in this archive.
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