“I was skeptical about the prospects for the remainder of the tour. For three or four hours after leaving Prince George, the riding was more bland than any we’d hit thus far. I supposed we’d seen the best we were going to see. Turns out even a speckled Tobe can be wrong once in a Northern moon. Cutting back east just past 100 Mile House brought us upon some magnificent country road which made it all worthwhile–the heat, the traffic, the whining. Lac des Roches, a safe haven for weary bikers and clams alike.

Sitting atop the crest of an aspen hill, overlooking the cool waters of Lac des Roches calmed my mind. The view hearkened memories of the endless landscapes of Montana, and as the sun worked its way down through one last golden hour, I could hear the breeze speaking softly through the trees. Astride this horse of iron and steel I have traveled far, though farther still the road calls unto me.”

-Memoir de Toby

“That evening, following a heartfelt palaver with one raucous fella ‘Walt Whiskers’ and a couple rounds of euchre, we nestled into our cocoon-like abodes, bellies warm with beans and our souls warm with whiskey. Nature buzzed around us in the night, chirping frogs and stalking deers and friendly mosquitoes. In the morning we broke our fast in the cabin home of our gracious host Luca, who apparently runs the lakeside resort year round. Mayhaps a snowmobile tour is in order one of these winters…”

“So it began. The day that was to follow our night on Lac des Roches held in store trials aplenty for our trio of gay Christian biker brothers. The Clam, newly instated as a welcome member of the group, was bubbling with briny confidence. Somehow a mosquito had managed to bite me 7 times on the ass. And after a 30 mile ride downhill behind a truck hauling a load of broken rocks, we stopped at a gas station with a clogged shitter for breakfast.”

“But of course the day wore on, lulling us into a state of pleasant complacency beside aquamarine lakes and whispering pines, only to turn around and snatch it all away. A pall of smoke descended, the bellows of the Pacific winds fanning flames upon the hillside. The landscape adopted an alien yellow haze as we moved southward towards Kamloops. Traffic thickened with the air, and friendly Canadian smiles became ugly grimaces cast sidelong at the wayward Christian gay biker detectorists seeking shelter in the apocalyptic wastes.”

“Kamloops passes by in a dusty blur. Then Vernon. Our progress stymies as the miles tick by like the procession of so many hours. Lac des Roches seems an eternity ago. Where is the paradisaical Okanagan we were promised? Where are the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?”

“Then comes Kelowna. A throng of slow-moving vehicles stretching farther than the eye can see. The entire population of Canada scurries from their air-conditioned dens, alongside us, a swimming mirage over blacktop in the heat. My god, the heat. It has already taken the Clam, cooked inside his own shell. Chewy meat not fit for these arid climes. A paltry snack for some desperate avian mendicant.”

-Silver, reconstructed memories

“The fellowship is breaking. Search yourself, Toby. You know it to be true.

At Peachland we encounter two fellow Christian bikers. A German duo making their way south from Alaska to Patagonia atop an old Honda Transalp and a KLR. Brethren of the road, I know not where you are now, though I pray the road carried safely in its sensuous embrace, and I wish you all the luck in the world.

Eventually, Cobb and Clam hobble forth from the road, bikes sputtering from the flagellation of traffic. In amongst their delirious ramblings, we discern tales of a vacant campsite, nestled down in a crevasse along the shores of Okanagan Lake. Space enough for fifty men, with wine and women aplenty. But we do not believe. We cannot believe.”

“The greatest trick a clam ever played is convincing the world it didn’t exist. That evening, riding down the winding drive between Okanagan vineyards, my faith was restored. Traffic parted ways, the skies cleared, and the last overflow site on the lot was ours. As we settled in, erecting our tents and hammocks in a row like the paddlers of some ancient rowboat, I met my brothers’ eyes, and shook their hands over a cheap mug of Pinot and a Bali Shag. The campsite was secluded and the bikes were resting nearby ‘neath a shady tree. All that was left, at least for old Cobb, was to fall in love with a seductive siren.”

“Fate was to have it. The road saw fit to grace our presence with that of two such creatures, the lovely Pamela and Lady Claire. Two friends on a ‘glamping’ trip out of Whistler, BC, looking for just the kind of ramble a trio of wayward gay Christian biker detectorists as ourselves could provide. Right from the get-go we were drawn to them–Silver carrying load after load of glamping equipment from their car to the site neighboring our own. Danny Cobb, however, was the most entranced of all. One might say his Cobb grew three sizes that day. And rightfully so.”

“After a quick sprint south to the nearest town–an outpost by the name of Summerland–to fetch us some possibles, the ladies cooked us a feast the likes of which a weary traveler cain’t have seen for the previous two weeks. Pasta, and fresh greens, and fried salame. The wine it trickled down from the hills onto the rocks along the lake shore, well into the night. And we danced around the fire, havin’ a ramble that woulda made ole Levon himself grin.”

“An evening of revelry after a harsh day on primarily crowded and ugly roads is just what we needed. All of us came out of our shells, so to speak–especially our new pal Taylor (Clam). We even fit in a couple tastings at the local vineyards before they closed down. I still have a bottle of Sage Hills Syrah waiting for just the right company on my wine rack. Afterwards the sun went down and the night grew ripe for some good old fashioned skinny dips. But like all good things, there is a line where enough is enough. And if you don’t fall asleep before that point, you’re bound to wind up shattered on the rocks, like so many mollusks before.

The next day we woke to a solemn outcome. One I cannot bear to put in words here. If you must know, please refer to the title of this post, and corresponding video installment. Suffice it to say, we were galled, and the next day could hardly go on.”

-Silver, requiem for a Clam

“So we decided to stay another day!”

-Silver, excerpt from the Magna Carta, I believe

“The ramble continued, in a heartfelt attempt to put bygones under the bridge, and move past the two birds in glass houses. Or whatever it is that those gay Christian, British, detectorist, orgy-going black detectorist, murder-mystery comedy dinner-theatre bikers say. Before long we forgot why it was we were sad in the first place, and I forgot why it was we decided to blog about it.”

“So we rode back to America, and never called those beautiful Canadian girls ever again.”

“Now all three of us live in a house with a dog that walks all over us. The end.”

-Silver, ready to go to sleep, January 2016

“Gulping down a cool amber ale at our local pub, I can’t quite believe this tour has reached its culmination. It is not the end though, rather a brief intermission before the road and her opportunities open up to us once more.

Trying to recall all that has happened over these two weeks leaves me thinking that I’ve missed something. There seem to be gaps in the timeline, or vague recollections of what may or may not be memories, or visions derived from the subconscious. It doesn’t necessarily bother me that at any given time I can’t remember certain pieces of the tour, though it is strange to have done something so memorable and not be able to retain it all. There is one feeling that I cannot forget. This feeling could be described by words that you would understand, but cannot truly represent what it is like to be out there, surrounded by the majesty of the open road. Till the day I die, I will continue to chase that feeling.”

-Slyder, post-tour memories