As I wrote early this morning to Richard Louv (author of "Last Child in the Woods") about a new book he is preparing, I thought through to what extent our ability to surround ourselves in comfort separates us from our Universe .... and so, as I meditate on these things, I wish to share the following thoughts.

One of the funniest stories that we recall from our totally free, uninhibited, independent Hemistour bicycle trek (no caravan suport) .... in the Anchorage to Montana portion (about 3500 miles in length) we would spend days feeling the crunch of the stones beneath our wheels, pulling up every hill, feeling the exhilaration of every descent, feeling an iron-like strength develop in our ever expanding thigh muscles.

Many hills were walked. They were far too steep for our gears. And always, there was a vista, with nothing but raw and beautiful land, a quiet, soul-searching, soul-enchanting wind to be heard on every ridge we stopped. A total silence in most valleys, a silence that draws one into the deepest of all meditation. We went weeks without hearing any sounds of mankind.

There was one period where we were in rain forests for six days, and not once did it stop raining, and rarely were we out of the slick of mud or hard pack trails. Most of these roads were two tracks, for days and days they wound through endless forests. Nature closed in on us and kept us comfortably wrapped as in a cocoon, as we muscled up and down these roads, fern green and friendly. There are not words enough to describe how many shades of green we experienced at any given time.

In the mornings we packed wet tents and dampened, cold sleeping bags, and in the evenings we rolled out wet tents and dampened cold sleeping bags, with only our body warmth to make them tolerable. We never felt misery, since our bodies adjusted quickly to discomfort. The feeling of elation, discovery, adventure and a constant sensory stimulation over-rode all other things material. Bodies adjust.

We loved the lush green of these forests. We were taking in all of nature's show. She was busy at night drawing up the next round of excitement for us... everything she could throw at us one day would be out trumped the next. It was a drama that ran on for three months. This included in our early weeks of travel a few early summer snow storms and an intense cold that Alaska and the Yukon are known for. Once into the more rugged, rolling Yukon the long days produced extremes of heat, well above 100 degrees Fahrenheit.

We also came to feel the intense wild of these lands, and we knew their histories of settlement as we experienced all that the Klondikers had felt. And we felt these things from early morning to late at night.

We always camped .... simply pulling over near a creek or lake, moving a few stones and setting up our tents, then building a fire, or breaking out our stoves. We lived simply. There was no luxury here, no man-made music. Nothing more to disrupt our thought, ever. The night's were so long that we had not seen the sun go down or up for over two months.

And here comes the promised story......about midway through this journey, some days only seeing a dozen or two cars ... riding literally on top of the world ... we were in the one significant town we had come to. It was a one stop light town, Watson Lake, in the Yukon. A large motor coach pulled over, like a space ship landing and the portal opening, with a load swish of cool air exiting before its people, and then this coach let their occupants out. A woman painted in makeup emerged (why, who would see her?), seeing us on our bikes outfitted for camping she said, "Oh, we are camping too. But you know, about once a week we check into a motel, just to get ourselves readjusted."

A half hour later, she and her husband were back in their luxurious coach, radio and music blaring, seeing little, experiencing less. These motorized couches rolling down these most wild and pristine places has stolen so much experience from so many. These people have no clue, really, what nature has to offer. And they offer nothing back to her in return. So sad.

For more details, see May, 1973 National Geographic (BikePacking)