Breathing in Bella Coola is like sipping fine champagne through the nose. The air is sweet and clean and full of effervescence and oxygen. I set up my tent in the dark and slept twelve hours through the rain by the river only waking when the ravens insisted.

The long and luxurious ferry ride here on The Queen of Chilliwack was more like a mini cruise up the central coast than a mode of transport from A to B. To my delight, they build an extra hour into its schedule to stop and watch humpback whales in Burke Sound. It's not a long trip in distance, but The Queen of Chilliwack takes 13 delicious hours to get from Port Hardy to Bella Coola, going a relaxing pace of 11 nauts. After whale watching and chatting with Derrick and Glen and Ryan and Nancy and Dave and the captain on the bridge, I sat in the lounge and read 'Ishmael' by Daniel Quinn, a book given to me by Helen about a man on a spiritual search who finds his guru in the form of a wisened mind-reading gorilla. A few chapters in, the rocking motion of the ship, in combination with the drone of the engines lulled me right to sleep despite several small German kids running around screeching like chimpanzees in a zoo.

The humpbacks were awesome, spouting and breeching and rolling around with open mouths catching fish. Bald eagles soared overhead and dove in for the catch. For awhile up the Nootka Sound, white-sided dolphins lept and played in our wake. It was incredible watching them speed toward the boat and follow happily along in the waves. I could almost hear them giggling.

I arrived in Bella Coola in time for a music festival, which I will attend this evening. The band Chilliwack, appropriately, is playing.

My ride from Nanaimo to Port Hardy two days ago was every biker's dream. The sun was shining and until north of a little blip on the road called 'Woss,' it was warm and pleasant. Woss is where the adventure really began. I filled up and payed for gas as quickly as possible feeling the eyes of three hunter-types in a camper trailer trained on me as though they were looking through the view-finders of their rifles. I'm sure they were harmless hicks and simply enjoying some guy time passing a leud comment or two back and forth, but all of a sudden I realized, perhaps for the first time since leaving Christina Lake, that I was alone from here on in.

Entirely by choice, I am carrying on down (up) the road solo, and as freeing as that sounds, women can surely understand that particular form of vulnerability that comes with venturing out into the world alone. No matter how many martial arts classes she has taken and no matter how sure of herself a woman is, there is a certain way that the world perceives a woman travelling alone. Still. And perhaps that's part of the adventure. A little vulnerability in balance with a few martial arts skills can make for an interesting way to turn your perception back on the world when it looks at you that way.

I camped at Telegraph Cove, a pretty little fishing village off the highway, down a 5 km stretch of gravel logging road. The campground was quiet and I spoke about bears with an older woman who had been coming for years. She said they pretty much keep to the other side of the creek. I asked her where I could get some drinking water and she showed up a few minutes later at my tent with two bottles.

I have a healthy fear of gravel and that little stretch into Telegraph Cove made me wary of what has become more mythical with every passing person I speak to about -- 'The Hill.'

If the sun is shining tomorrow, which, according to the people here is not likely, I will conquer 'The Hill' and head toward Williams Lake. If not, I will stick around for the festival asking more and more people just how difficult and frightening it might be on two wheels...