Isolated and irrelevant
Irrelevant /əˈreləvənt/ adjective - Not connected with or relevant to something. Not related to what is being discussed or considered and therefore not important.
Sometimes we might choose a path in life, but more often than not, life chooses a path for us. Living full time on the road, going full nomad has meant giving up connections to people and places, and in turn, quietly, unnoticed, becoming less relevant to them. Of course, the sacrifices promise rewards that fairy-tales are made of, freedom, and finding connections with new people and new places. I don't think we chose to be nomads, to live an alternative lifestyle, we simply drifted into a new day to day routine. Through our first roaming winter, as much as we tried to choose a path, the world continually laid out its own path for us to follow. Steered by weather, blown-out tires, mechanical repairs, or whatever the circumstances were, we seldom found ourselves in control of what we were doing nor where we were going. Whenever we start to think we're at the helm, we're quickly reminded that we're just along for the ride. May as well lean back and enjoy it.
Anticipating upcoming adventures, I barely pulled the camera out when we arrived in Moab. Had I known how quickly our time there would come to an end, I would have done things differently. What's that they say about living each day?
The year began with that fairy-tale nomadic freedom of being unsettled, gliding from one paradise to another Shangri-La. In February 2020, we had returned to the United States after spending a couple of weeks backcountry skiing at home in Canada. Now back in the sun and warmth of the South, we wandered from Las Vegas to Lake Havasu City, Death Valley, and Sedona. By mid-March, we were settling into the magic of Moab, surrounded by familiar faces and familiar places, excited for the adventures the coming weeks would bring. If our lives were akin to leaves being gently carried by currents and eddies in a tranquil stream, the world around us was trying to navigate a tidal wave. Self-contained, off-grid, and isolated in the desert we tried to keep our heads blissfully buried in the Southern Utah sand. Despite closing our eyes, covering our ears, and yelling la-la-la-la-la in an effort to drown out the reality, the COVID-19 global pandemic found us. All good things come to an end. On March 17, 2020, Moab and surrounding counties closed their doors to non-essential visitors. As communities, regions, and nations shuttered to travelers, the last chapter of our nomadic fairy-tale was read, we turn the page in anticipation of more, but the block letters are clear. The End.
Irrelevant; not related to what is being discussed or considered and therefore not important. Travel, adventure... the words synonymous with the life we were living are suddenly taboo, evoking visceral reactions. What we identify with is distasteful and scorned. Romanticizing destinations and experiences have no relevance to a world on lockdown. We are quiet in the knowledge that to many, who we are, what we do, travel, adventure, seems cocky at best, dangerous, offensive, or belligerent, in the face of a pandemic devastating people around the planet.
Irrelevant; not connected with or relevant to something. To be vagabonds, not connected to a place, houseless, roamers, wanderers... we find ourselves in the awkward position of being neither locals nor essential anywhere. When being a visitor is met with disdain, where do nomads belong?
Go directly to jail. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. We could have fought against the current and pushed our luck south of the border, moving from place to place to find a spot that might welcome visitors. But feeling uneasy, we went with the flow of the stream carrying us back home to Canada. With most of the nation firmly gripped by winter, comfortable options were few, and life steered us to Penticton British Columbia. Crossing the border on March 19th, 2020 we answered two questions; 1. "Where are you heading?" 2. "Do you have people there to get your groceries while self-isolating for 14 days?
Sun is good for the soul!
Should vs shall and recommendations vs law. After obediently isolating for two weeks, disoriented by recent events, feeling dejected with our fairy-tale coming to an end, and anxiety irrationally peaking from an overdose of news media, we do the unspeakable and go mountain biking. Since our license plate is unmistakably not from the region, we're undoubtedly visitors. Even more obstinate, we're pursuing outdoor recreation while hundreds of thousands post #stayhomesavelives. With somewhat irrational fears of exposing our truck to isolated incidents of vigilantes vandalizing visitors' vehicles in an effort to educate them, we opt for the 8km pedal to the trailhead. The sun, warmth, and the outside world was the medicine we so desperately needed. We managed to get out a few more times before life again chose a different path for us.
As if righting the wrongdoings we had committed, our bikes were stolen from not more than ten feet away from us. In a deep pandemic coma, where hours, days, and weeks blend together, I heard the grinder cutting through metal, but assumed it was the RV Park maintenance team repairing something, as they had been busily readying the park for the busy season ahead ever since we had arrived. Worse things could have happened, we were still safe and healthy, and still in the sun and warmth of the South Okanagan. A few weeks later, with cabin fever again setting in, I made a 36hr trip, on eerily empty highways, across a border, past endless illuminated overhead sign gantries recommending against non-essential travel, to get a couple of bikes that we had in storage. It was worth it. Bikes are fun!
Like life... sometimes we are in control, and sometimes we're just along for the ride.
Spring arrives in the South Okanagan months before many other regions in Canada.
Sunshine, bikes, and flowers. Not bad ingredients to lift one's spirits.
A rare rain day making the Rock Oven trail feel a little less oven like.
Hunkered down in a feeble attempt to evade the gale force winds and stinging sleet.
Even in less than ideal weather, there is no shortage of spectacular vistas from the Rock Oven with Skaha Lake below.
Paddling Skaha Lake in a rain storm.
Better known for vineyards and boating, there's amazing biking to be found in the South Okanagan.
If you're thinking that a decade old downhill bike isn't the right equipment for the Three Blind Mice trail network. You're right. Remember our bikes were stolen.
Another gentle nudge from life that leads us to a new adventure. When our bikes were stolen, police reports filed, insurance claims made, we started following local social media to see if our bikes would pop up. While we never found our bikes, a post jumped out with a link to a video of the Mascot Gold Mine near Hedley British Columbia. As weeks had gone by, we were now well over our fears of being unwelcome tourists during the pandemic and were taking full advantage of everything the region had to offer. Learning of an old trail descending from near the mines all the way down to Hedley had us salivating.
Sun-kissed ribbon to the sky.
The abandon Mascot Mine teetering precariously on a cliff high above Hedley.
Riding through more than a century of history on Donkey Trail.
The old Donkey Trail descends more than 3,300 ft down the mountainside into the heart of Hedley.
Hadley Grace Church
Devil's Throat trail in the Wiltse trail network. Some of Penticton's mountain bike trails are decidedly quiet. These trails see so little traffic that they almost disappear into the landscape.
Egg Rock trail in the Wiltse network above Skaha Lake.
Aptly named Slabs trail in the Three Blind Mice trail system.
Our last ride with good friends before leaving. These two got us groceries while we self isolated, and made us feel at home for nearly three months of fun in the Penticton sun.
Life takes another crazy turn, a new season, a business, and everything
irrelevant is relevant again. As warmer weather came, it brought with it
confirmation that programming with the companies we had been so proudly
guiding and instructing with for years, would be curtailed. While
travel, tourism, and mountain bike programming around the world was decimated, appetite for
it was soaring. Kids and adults were desperate to find the camps and
clinics that disappeared when larger companies couldn't pivot with the
pandemic. With a massive effort, we suddenly found ourselves offering
people what they wanted. Programs were published to the website, and
with a single social media post, a summer of mountain bike instruction
programs sold out, right back in the city I grew up in, Fernie British Columbia.
One last nomadic escape before the busy summer arrives, enjoying the spectacular beauty of the Bow Valley, leaning back, along for the ride, waiting in anticipation of where life will takes us next.
Mount Rundle from Two Jack Lake, Banff, Alberta, Canada.