The ride of my life to Bilbao - The Route VIII (part 3)

We all woke up sore. Very sore.

In two days we had gone over the biggest climb of my life and then smashed my longest day’s ride. We were already 320 kilometres and 1000s of meters ascent into our 3 day tour. What lay in front of us? Another full 150 kilometres to Bilbao. Suckers for punishment.

Despite the aches, pains, saddle bruises and not being able to fully stretch my legs until at least post breakfast, I felt mentally great and buzzing to get on with the adventure (if not the hard saddle…).

OUT OF CASTILLE AND LEON

Fuelled to the throat with the poshest breakfast we had eaten on any stage of the Route, we managed to put off putting bum to saddle for a bit, cycling upright to the cathedral square. A stunning, vast piece of Gothic architecture, set off by an empty medieval square, fortified gate and pastel blue skies.

 

Starting late as usual, I was out voted on taking a detour recce into the cathedral and we were soon off again carefully hovering above our saddles, only momentarily interrupted on our way out of town by me toppling sideways while stationary at the lights in an amateur click out of cleats fail. Brushing that off with a bit too much laughing (thanks guys), we found an easy if roundabout laden route out,  crossed a large road, fixed a puncture and headed due north into sparse countryside.

 

Predictably, this involved a climb. Up and up, leaving Burgos in the middle distance, with the land opening up to pretty, dry rolling hills. To my surprise, the legs felt good, powering up the hill. As often happens when touring, the legs and bum get over the shock of being asked to work a lot, go a bit numb and are somehow in better shape a couple of days into a ride. A bit like the pros growing their way into the Tour de France, just with slightly overweight, unfit, untrained, proto-middle-aged guys on cheap bikes doing a fraction of the distance.   

At the highest point we were blessed with a gorgeous 360 degree view (though nothing on what was to come later…). Merciful gravity then gave its gift as we descended through an arid landscape that looked like a mini Arizona. Cliffs, canyons and a semi-desert feel. We had a good 20 minutes of descending though this scenery on pitch perfect roads.

 

Now in the dry valley proper, we cycled on and on, eating into the kilometres until out of water and hungry. The only town or village of note anywhere near on the map was Poza de la Sal. Ahead and off to the left, the medieval town with castle atop rose out of the valley. I have been told that the prevalence of hilltop fortified towns in Spain is a result of its natural topography and tumultuous history of the reconquista and before (think titanic struggle between Moors, Catholics and lawless lands in between). Looking up at a place like Poza de la Sal, I found myself thankful for the spectacular legacy of history.

 

We had little choice but to detour uphill to the town for a late lunch. It was nonetheless a great call. As we approached the land became a touch more tilled and green. Then the real hill kicked in. A crazy incline bit into the thighs as we struggled up into the town. This was steeper than anything on the mountain two days before, but I sure as hell was not going to get off and walk… until I did, for a couple of steps. The protective powers of hilltop settlements in action.

 

The heart of the town was twisted, old, crumbling and beautiful. It was also almost empty. The only people we bumped into were the elderly sitting outside their houses watching a limited world go by, a very friendly pharmacist who while doing good trade out of said elderly complained of the lack of the young, and a welcoming youthful (i.e. under 75) bar tender who served us cold beer in the tiny cave like bar under a NUFC scarf.

We topped up the beer with baguettes and stretched out beneath the main church in the narrow slats of sunshine aside the cool shadow. Life felt good. Father time was though ticking and we eventually had to give each other a kick, reluctantly got back on the saddle, enjoyed our final look at this charming town and set off for the final leg of our Madrid to Bilbao journey.

INTO THE BASQUE COUNTRY

 

On our way out of town my disk-brakes screeched like banshees fighting some extreme gravity downhill. The next couple of hours on the road were swift and exceptionally beautiful. Much of it followed an ever tightening river valley, culminating in a run through a twisting canyon. In peloton racing between cliff and ravine.

 

The land then climbed again and passed through an area devoid of traffic or people.  At the end of a long, slow tiring, straight ascent, we stopped for Haribo and a cheeky swig of re-fortifying single malt. Ahead of us was a mountain, a tunnel, the dividing border of the Basque country and and a lot of contours on our map.

 

We rolled out, over the highest point of the road and then down into the tunnel. What a rush. As we quickly picked up speed around the curving, downward bends of the tunnel, I felt like I was in an F1 car at Monaco. Suddenly, we burst out of the dim into bright light and truly fantastical scenery.

To our right was a sheer drop into a deep, wide canyon, rising to flat topped bare cliffs that resembled Table Mountain. Everything was a verdant green. Cutting through the mountain we had crossed the watershed from dry, semi-desert central Spain into lush, wet Atlantic Spain.

 

We pulled up at the first opportunity and lapped up our surroundings. To our left the road hugged the side of the mountain, plunging down into a series of sharp valleys, cliffs, ravines and small hills. Without a doubt, this was the most beautiful place we had stumbled upon during our thousands of kilometres route across Europe.

It was exhilarating. My heart beat fast, tiredness fell away from the legs and I could not wait to take on the road ahead.

The next hour was the best cycling of my life. 40 kilometres of barely interrupted, hair-raising downhill through this amazing scenery. Hardly a need to pedal, carving around wide arcs in the road and then screeching around hair-pin bends. Topping 60 kmph on sections, the adrenaline thrill was right up there. After three days of hard grind, this was some payoff and so worth it. Adding to that, the views just kept on giving as we descended into the lush, dramatic valley.

A couple of ill-advised beer stops in pretty villages at the bottom of the vast valley were the only thing that stopped us from powering on towards the capital of the Basque country.

BILBAO AND OUT

The closer we got to the city, the less pretty it became. While the geography was still interesting- narrow sharp valleys and cliffs, the rivers were straddled by decidedly smelly industry and the unattractive sprawl started to hog every semi-flat space available. Through another tunnel and we arrived in the imposing valley of Bilbao proper. From up above, the city was an impressive if not exactly beautiful sight. That was though soon forgotten as we entered treacherous commuter roads as the light failed.

 

It took some serious concentration to navigate the traffic right across Bilbao and arrive at our cobbled road in the old town. I was navigating with a small Google map print-out and quite elated when I spotted our road on the right. Just as we turned our final corner of 470 kilometres, in my distracted tiredness I missed the dreaded tram track across our path. My front wheel snagged, back wheel flipped over my heard as the bike and I conjoined in a somersault up and then down towards the tarmac. I managed to commando roll out on contact and somehow got away with only bruises and a bit of shame.

 

At least it woke me up! We arrived at the hostel and were pretty chuffed at having finished a pretty gruelling cycle from Madrid to Bilbao, over a mountain, across vast tracks of empty aridity and then through the stunning Basque country.

 We celebrated with an immense pile of pintxos - delectable Basque finger food plus - large glasses of red wine and a tour around the city into the wee hours. The Guggenheim lit up at 3am was quite something. Once we had cracked the no-bike box riddle (always painful with a hangover, but worse when all boxes have been pre-booked by riders on the Camino de Santiago), Uwe departed for another year and Dave and I had a great half day strolling Bilbao. This ended in a cable-car trip up the mountain overlooking the Blbao to a breathtaking farewell view.

 

I really like the city, loved the trip and couldn’t wait to a new year and the next stage of the Route! Before that we could savour the aches and memories, as well as the sick profile of the best day's riding of my life...

 

Battle to Burgos - The Route VIII (part 2)

Having pedalled over a mountain the day before, what we needed was a nice easy recovery day. One of those days when you don’t have to push it, any incline is gentle and the day feels like ends before you ever really got into the thick of it. What lay before us was anything but. It proved to be the toughest day cycling of my life. A real battle against time, light and limited physical capabilities.

THE NICE PART

Tracing out our route at the breakfast table, we pin-pointed Burgos as our must-meet objective for the day. The only city for miles around and, vitally leaving “only” 150 kilometers for our final day into Bilbao (we could not afford to leave longer as we had no contingency day and any material mechanical or crash would mean Uwe missing his plane). What therefore lay ahead was at least 170 kilometers on the road at an average altitude of 900 meters.

The day started great. A fat Spanish breakfast, friendly words with the hotel proprietor and bright sunshine to greet us onto the saddle. Surprisingly the legs (and bum) did not feel too bad and the first 30 kilometers were top notch. A good road cutting through pretty countryside of small vineyards, tiled farm houses and the odd dramatic minor ravine.

We topped off this section with a second breakfast refuelling stop sitting at charming cafe in the central square of Pedraza. Spanish omelette, strong coffee, some chat with the local old men (who I got the impression were pinned to their stools all day) and a view across the quiet, sun-reflecting streets to a castle. Not bad at all!

THE TOUGH PART

Riding out of town full and content, we quickly found a hill, circling around the castle and then up to a plateau. From then on, little seemed to change for hours. Kilometer after kilometer of arid, flat, uninspiring land. Barely any buildings and certainly no towns. It felt like a semi-desert and, at nearly 1,000 meters up, sucked both the air and excitement out of us.

We each took our turn on the front, and made OK time on a long straight bit of road before finding our turning and lying on the ground by a farm shed for a few minutes rest.

On and on we went, the energy sapping out of us. We did not see any person or car for what felt like an age and then, sods law, the one time I need to go to the road side for a rather urgent call of nature, a farmer passed me on his tractor, gesticulating while the others pissed themselves with laughter. A moment distinctly lacking dignity!

Another hour on and we had run out of food and were low on water. Having not past so much as an shop since our morning break, we took a a detour to the only place of any size in our vicinity on the map, Roa. Before we even got there, the first signs of group disillusion were raising their head. One of the reasons why I love riding with Uwe and Dave is they are mostly upbeat sort of people who take difficulties with good grace and more than a touch of humour, but it was made clear that our situation was not amusing.

After another schlep, 100 kilometers into the day, Rosa finally came into sight. A fortified town on a hill that dominates for its surrounds.  I am sure we may have appreciated its spectacle had we been on better form, but we weren't. 

Just our luck, the town centre was right at the top, so with a grumble we took the winding road up and through the walls, via winding streets to the main square. 

It was a strange place. Clearly with history and the odd grand old building like the church that dominated the square, but equally evidently rather poor. A strange feeling that modern times, young people and certainly prosperity had left this town behind.

Having said all that, it felt great to stretch out the legs on a rickety metal chair in the square, soaking up the sun and mediocre local fair served by a cafe. The lady serving was also welcoming and none of us really wanted to get moving. We duly had a second beer and stared at the map. It was getting late in the afternoon and we still had another 90 kilometers to cover before Burgos.

THE EVEN TOUGHER PART

Given the lack of other options beforehand and the aforementioned issue of time/distance to Bilbao, we agreed to at least give it a go to get there.

Sometimes it feels horrible to get back on a bike, and this was one of those times. Carves ache, the deep bruises on your arse pinch and knees feel like they just won’t start. A pinching grind. Fortunately a little distance and pinch of adrenaline usually pushes such things aside and such was the case here. With a distinct lack of chatter we pushed on in peloton.

In truth, I don’t recall too much about the landscape for the next few hours. While I doubt there was much of remark, even if there was, I missed it concentrating on the tire in front. Toying with that mesmeric balance between keeping close to save energy and not risking a clash through bashing the wheel in front. When tired, invariably there is the odd fizzing “tsssshhk” as rubber meets rubber for the briefest moment.

We passed my longest day’s cycling (the Ride-London Surrey 100 miler) and the morale visibly improved as we started seeing signs for Burgos. 50 km, 30 km, 20 km… I got a fifth wind and was genuinely enjoying the struggle when the light began to fade and fast.

Yet again, we were soon cycling in the pitch-black on unlit roads. Singing broke out amongst us and I recall desperate laughter as we encountered a steep hill and willed our way up in single file, one light on Uwe’s bike at the front and one on Dave’s bike at the back.

This was one of a number of unexpected hills, with the best part being the hairy descent. Letting the muscles sag as I followed in Uwe’s wake with nothing to guide me but a single LED lighting the road 5 meters ahead to the front of Uwe. I am pretty sure we were euphoric, but I might be confusing that with crazed.

Up another hill and over the top the lights of Burgos came into sight. What a sight! By the time we rolled in we had 190 kilometers under our belt for the day at an average altitude of nearly 900 meters. It It was past 10 pm and we were utterly spent.

I just about took in the beauty of the lit cathedral, as we stopped and worked out where to stay for the night. Uwe was unquestionably clear. No fucking about. He pointed at the high end grand hotel in front of us and that is where we went. To my surprise the guy at the desk welcomed us with our bikes, dirt and slightly unpleasant odour.

A scorching shower, hotel robes and filthy takeout pizza later, we were all zonked out on luxuriously fluffy beds. Every muscle ached, the head buzzed and it was heaven.

I slept the dreamless sleep of the shattered. Needed rest before another 150 kilometer day awaited us to Bilbao and what proved to be the best day’s cycling of my life. As always with cycling, ups follow downs...

Tackling the Spanish Sierra to Segovia -The Route VIII (part 1)

Dave and I arrived in Madrid late on a Thursday night and rendezvous'ed with Uwe in the bar of a cheap airport hotel. what lay before us was three days to get to Bilbao and some 450 plus kms.  I have to admit planning for this trip had been on the lazy side of minimal. We did not even obtain a proper map, just some Google map printouts. A bit of last minute route research had highlighted a rather large impediment -  the Sierra de Guadarrama.

Barring Northern Spain from Madrid is a 2000 meter high ridge of mountains. Given that I had never cycled over 1000 meters and none of us had done any training for this trip, this posed an intimidating obstacle. I kid you not, our only viable route took us over an actual Vuelta mountain stage! There was not much we could do about it now, except for plotting a route to Segovia, downing our beers and heading for some kip.

ROLLING OUT OF MADRID

After waiting for an inordinate amount of time for Dave to sort his bike out (we are talking champion level faff), we finally set off on our annual ride.  I felt great. Adding to the general excitement of a new adventure, I also had a new bike. Gone was my repeated break-down hybrid, in was a road bike with proper brakes, better gears, less weight and... a harder saddle.


The cycle out of Madrid was long and occasionally lost. Leaving any big city is a bit of a mess and this was no exception. Thankfully, we eventually found a cycle path heading due North and followed it all the way until city gave way to suburbia and suburbia gave way to fields.

It was at this point that the challenge ahead of us became all too evident.  Rising out of the middle distance was the dark, high ridge. Any thought that it might not be too bad was dispelled by a very fit looking cyclist who, upon being asked the direction of Segovia, waved North-West to the mountains and said "muy dificil" while glancing at our laden pannier racks.

The next 25 km or so in the foothills was actually very pleasant. The sun had come out and the road was flanked with black cattle that looked straight out of a bull-ring. We lunched at the pretty castle town of Colmenar Viejo, fortifying ourselves with far too many carbohydrates.

UN POCO DE VUELTA - LA SIERRA

As soon as we left the small town, the road started climb. Long sweeps and then shorter as we climbed quickly above the foothills. As we entered switch-back territory, I have to admit I questioned what I was doing and why! As the air noticeably thinned, the road cut into the forest. We took it nice and slow, conscious of going into the red and burning out. I tried to keep in my second lowest gear (leaving a safety net ...) and concentrated on careful, efficient pedalling. We were rewarded with some fantastic views back to the valley and Madrid, as well as to the mountainside falling precipitously on our left. Thankfully the road was guarded by rails in all the hairiest parts.

Taking breaks for water and air, we persevered up the 20 km climb. As the road steepened, Uwe pushed ahead a little and I just sat on Dave's wheel, determined not to drop. To that end, I have to thank Dave for patiently pulling me along (whether he knew it or not...). To my surprise, in the thick of it I was quite enjoying myself. My masochistic side was getting a buzz, surfing on endorphins. Up and up and up. 100 meters altitude at a time, each marked by gladly passed sign posts.

Predictably, the final schlep was the steepest part, rearing up sharply and causing me to set aside the dramatic views for trance-like fixation on Dave's back wheel. We were into gritted teeth territory. As a final "FU" to the ascent, I glanced back to the view, focused forward and just about managed to get out the saddle for the final few meters, pumping all the way into the strange little town at the summit of the pass.

I say strange, but that is not really fair. It seemed strange to us from where we had come, but was perfectly ordinary if you had a pair of skis. Yes, we had somehow lugged ourselves and all our gear up to a ski-resort 1800 meters into the sky! Never before, quite possibly never again.

High fives were out in force before the adrenaline seeped out and the cold rain seeped in. We ducked for shelter in a wooden ski-bar and were delighted to find vin chaud that tasted like heaven.

DOWNHILL THROUGH HEMINGWAY COUNTRY

Sadly it was getting late, so we had no time to hang. Within 30 minutes we were back on the road, rain gear on, high gear selected for the run down the mountain. It was bloody cold and I was shivering within 5 minutes of rolling out of town. |

The descent was steep and sweeping, cutting through swathes of thick, drenched forest. Not since Sweden had I been so cold on a bike (http://walter82.blogspot.com/2018/10/the-route-vii-swedish-summer-cycle.html). The high speed of the descent made the chill factor worse, replicating a 50 km/h ice wind. We had to stop half way down to put on whatever extra layers we had (i.e. yesterday's shirt) and then continued down the mountain in a dark mood.

Perhaps I would have focused more on my surroundings had I known at the time that we were passing through the very place where 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' is set - fierce Civil War fighting in this area was captured in fiction by Hemingway's powerful epic - but I did not find that our until later and was concentrating on surviving.

Wet roads, sharp bends, big drops, bad vision, freezing muscles and tired reactions. Not a good combo, but survive we did. Who would have thought that pedalling up the mountain would have been more fun than gliding down it...

CYCLING UNDER A MARVEL OF THE ANCIENT WORLD - SEGOVIA

At the bottom we took a brief detour around the slippery cobbled streets of Real Sitio de San Ildefenso (I love grand Spanish names!), a royal palace and surrounding town often compared to Versailles  - impressive place, but poor relation - and then set off full pace for Segovia. Thankfully the sun had come out again and I felt something approaching contentment as we powered to our focus for the day.

Visiting Segovia added over 30 km to our route. While not a good idea when we were already pushing our distance capabilities, I was not going to give it a miss. I am a bit of a history nut and ahead of us was one of the remaining wonders of the Roman world. The Segvoia aquaduct. My word it did not disappoint.

As fortune would have it we entered town from just the right angle, taking a left turn to a sudden sweeping view of the aquaduct, city walls and old town. It was magnificent.

We cycled right to the base of the aquaduct bridge. As its giant, double-level arches towered over me, I stared open mouthed and thought all the natural thoughts. How was this thing built? How has it survived? Simply WOW.

Two thousand years old, originally 17 km long, culminating in the nearly 30 meter high aquaduct bridge we were parked underneath. I mean WOW!

We somewhat overdid our stay in town - you can't blame us given the surroundings. I even legged it up into the heart of the old town for a glimpse of the cathedral - but the sun falling behind the buildings hammered home that we had to get our arses in gear. One final push for the day.

DARK 1 - 0 CYCLISTS

Fortified by ice-cream and a beer, we struggled back up the hill and headed East and a little North in search of somewhere to stay another hour or so down the road. How I would have loved to stay in Segovia, but that would have left a minimum of 350 km in 2 days, a plain stupid distance.

Used to falling upon random places to stay in villages, town and road sides across much of Europe over our last 7 trips, I suppose we assumed we would find the same here. No luck. As the sun gave way to a pitch black moonless night, the settlements we had vied for on our map turned out to have no signs of life. Half abandoned villages in the Spanish countryside, with no shops or restaurants, let alone rooms to stay - a bit of a theme through our journey.

There was a marvellous moment when a lit road turned into an unlit road, then a track, before settling on being a tractor churned stretch of mud and then a field gate. You have to laugh when you are standing in Lycra in the dark in a field with no clue where to head for shelter. Retracing our tracks and finding a proper road again, we decided to keep heading East. With our 2 lights between 3 people (not clever) on the front and back of the peleton we rode for another 10 km or so before making it to a sight for tired eyes. A small, perfect little hotel!

Out of Madrid, over a mountain, past some history and through the dark, we had made it to the end of our first day. After a giant meal refuelling on pig trotters (a local speciality) we were soon knocked out, getting what rest we could before what proved to be the longest and hardest day cycling of my life...

Riding the Icefields Parkway to Cowboy Country

I had planned our Western Canada trip around three or four must-do's. One of these was the Icefields Parkway. The highest and alleged most spectacular road in North America, running 232 km across the top of the Rockies joining the Jasper and Banff National Parks. Over the past two weeks we had made our way to Jasper through a combination of planes, ferries, cars, taxis and one heck of a long train. There was though a problem. A snow dump. Around the time of our arrival in Jasper, a large snow storm had covered the heights with a massive amount of the white stuff, leading to severe avalanche risk for parts of the road. Consequently the Icefields Parkway was closed in the middle for a number of days while rangers reduced the risk through controlled explosions.

In order to make it in time to catch our plane on Sunday, we had to be in Calgary by Saturday evening. The best info we could get out of the park office or the internet was that the Parkway "may" open from after 2 pm on Saturday. A pretty tight and uncertain window, especially since turning back would involve an 8 hour giant loop via Edmonton to get to Calgary. After having scoured the weather charts in the days leading up to the Saturday, we saw a break in the weather, decided to risk our luck and started out along the Parkway.

ICEFIELDS PARKWAY

The signs were looking good when we passed into the National Park. We stopped at the barrier to check in with the ranger, who told us the road was expected to open early. Incidentally, we also asked about the the half dozen massive tick like bugs we had found in our collective hair the night before, but the ranger waived our concerns off, explaining that ticks had not been reported in the park for ages (...more on that later). All that mattered was the sun was out and the road seemingly clear in front of us.

From the off the stunning scenery from around Jasper kept it up and then raised a notch or two, as the road ran through a valley between precipitous, snow covered peaks on each side. Our first stop was Athabasca Falls. The freezing water of the Athabasca river, takes a sharp turn and falls down through a steep ravine. Most of the falls were frozen solid in sheathes of giant ice stalactites. The water forced its way through one part of the chasm, causing a violent roar that echoed amongst the ice. The kids were particularly excited peering down into the chasm and noise from the bridge over the falls.


Impressive as they were, the falls were barely a drop compared to the magnificence of the wider landscape we transversed over the next few hours. Without any exaggeration, I never been anywhere more spectacularly beautiful. A true wilderness of jagged peaks falling to vast forests, broken by a rushing river and frozen lakes.

Snow and ice covered everything, except the steepest heights of the mountains and the layers between the fir branches. 



I have seen the odd view that rivaled this place, but never a thousand different views over such a distance. It was jaw dropping and made it quite difficult to make progress as we were compelled to stop at one remarkable lookout after another.

Each time we got out the car we received a stark reminder of how vulnerable we were out here. Thin air, ice wind and not even a shelter to the horizon.

Adding to the feeling of isolation, we barely saw any wildlife, apart from the odd bird in flight and one massive raven dominating a stop off zone (presumably in case humans left any scraps in this desert of ice and show). This was a strange feeling after practically bumping into large wildlife on every turn around Jasper. Likely a product of the increased altitude and continuing winter conditions.

Just when we thought that would be it, a herd of the sturdiest of mammals stopped us in the road. A dozen or so mountain goats were somehow surviving in this landscape caked in meters of snow and ice. It was a heartening sight.

COLUMBIA ICEFIELD

In the middle of the Icefields Parkway, over 2000 meters into the sky is base of the Athabasca glacier. This giant river of ice rises up to the Columbia Icefields. Some 3000 meters up, it is the largest ice field in the Rockies. Sitting on the continental divides, its melt waters flow to three oceans (Arctice Pacific and Atlantic via Hudson Bay).

As we approached the glacier, the flow of the Athabasca river reduced into channels through the ice and then finally disappeared. What was left was a sheet of glacial ice reaching from the valley, and thereby our feet, up and over the mountainous cliffs overhead. Quite an awesome sight and one we wished to climb on!

Strapping each member of the family into every vestement of warm clothing we had, we set off on foot and trekked a kilometer or so on to the lower reaches of the glacier. Against our clear advice, the kids kept jumping into the deep snow and ice to our side until one of my old crevass related stories stopped them in their tracks (http://walter82.blogspot.com/2006/01/mountain-huayna-potosi-6088m.html).

With the sun now out strong, the combination of reflecting UV and freezer like cold from the icy depths treated us to that unique, peculiar sensation of residing on a river of ice. Reaching a natural stop point before evident crevasses, we took a long look back down the vast, ice-chisseled valley and then slowly headed back down.

Unlike the previous few hours, I can't pretend that we were still enjoying the spectacle on our own. It was quite a shock reaching the glacier, as suddenly there were hundreds of people. This was a popular day trip from the vastly more visited Banff National Park. The visitor center was vast and rather money grabbing.  We moved on quickly.

BANFF NATIONAL PARK

This was swiftly forgotten as we took to the road again and, if it possible, found scenery just as ridiculously impressive as before. Now dropping down through sharply sweeping valleys, the cliffs felt nearer. We drew in a breath every time we crossed a sign-posted avalanche zone and relaxed as we exited. It did not help that on each side there was evidence of multiple recent avalanches.

We were now in Banff National Park, and I could see why it was so raved about. Vast and, in these reaches, completely unspoilt. It made for a wonderful couple more hours on the road, basking in our majestic surroundings (or in the case of my two youngest children, finally catching up on some sleep...).

Given its renown, we decided to end our ride on the Icefields Parkway with a trip to Lake Louise. I will be short on this one. It was the biggest disappointment of our whole trip. A pretty enough mountain lake. Pity about the huge, out of place hotel, crazy car park and drowning crowds.

Escaping, we took a detour through Banff town. It seemed like a cool place, though much, much larger than Jasper and I guessed unlikely to have elk walking through it any time soon.  Sadly, we did not get to explore it properly as Calgary and, hopefully, the Roughnecks beckoned.

COWBOY COUNTRY

Hoping to find a live ice hockey game as a final Canadian cultural experience, we instead discovered the Calgary Roughnecks were playing at the ice hockey arena that night. They are a men's lacrosse team, playing beat the crap out of the other team lacrosse on a carpet laid on the ice. What could be more Canadian than that!

The problem was one of distance, time and tickets. Despite having too much off the first, too little of the second and none of the third, we decided to try our luck. This meant jumping on the freeway and picking up the pace. I felt sad as we left the Rockies, a mood enhanced by the arid, uninspiring, end of winter cow country that makes up the land between the mountains and Calgary.

A good dollup of country radio kept us going, and before we knew it we were driving past the oddly out of place ski jump from the 1988 Calgary Olympics and into downtown. It is fair to say Calgary is not a pretty city, but the sprawl creates quite a spectacle, and the over head passageways between buildings is intriguingly different (it allows people to stay under cover when the temperature drops to minus 30!).

Joining a massive traffic jam, we inched into the stupendously large conglomeration of Calgary stadia - both a former Olynpic venue and current home of the Flames and Calgary Stampede. After what seemed like an age, we parked up amongst a vast collection of pick-up trucks on steriods and ran to the stadium.

What we found was chaos. Unbenowest to us, the Rednecks had decided this was a community day and and distributed free tickets around much of Calgary. The result was a scrum, stressed people and an unexpected sell ot.

We consoled ourselves by purchasing some awesome Flames hockey merch, taking in the atmosphere and glimpsing the insane scale of the Stampede buildings outside (it has over 1.5 million visitors each year) .

UP AND AWAY

Our trip to Canada was all but over. Without exageration, it had been one of the best trips of my life and proof (to me at least) that adventurous travel with the kids was not only doable but enhancing. From the Pacific to the Rockies, whales to bears, First Nations to Greek-Canadians, Vancouver to Calgary and everything in between, it had been a blast.

On our way out we stopped off at Fort Calgary,outpost of the frontier days. A timely reminder of the strange quirk in history that lead to the formation of this (largely) charming, giant country, but also of its adolescence. Seeing this reconstructed wooden lodge next to the grandeur of steel and glass of the modern booming city, bore witness to the energy and drive of Canada. Coming from the old world, it felt intoxicating. Combine that with its awe inspiring scenery and wildlife and I figure we have reason enough to return. Very soon.


AFTERWORD... TICK ALERT!

In the end we brought back more from Canada than memories, pictures and a lumberjack shirt. Unfortunately I was right. It was ticks we had found in our hair back in Jasper. Fortunately we had found a dozen and removed them. Unfortunately we missed two.  To the shock of my mother, she discovered two ticks buried into the back of my daughters head. I can't describe the relief (and satisfaction) when the doctor removed them (and squished them). Nasty little buggers. Encountering wildlife stays with you, but I hoped not in this way!