Riding the Alaska Highway in the rain is the most existential experience of my life. Great expanse of beautiful nothingness for hundreds of kilometres and cold wet weather coming in every possible crack. My helmet fogs up because I can't go fast enough to clear the air. It's a catch 22. Slow and steady and 0 visibility, or fast and reckless and maybe slightly more clearance in the visor. Once in awhile, the sides of the road open up like heavy velvet curtains before act 1 and the clouds lift high enough into the rafters to allow a long view of more highway ribbon cut into the dripping evergreens rolling over an ever-expanding and extremely remote Rocky Mountain valley.

I've felt this way once before, when I landed alone in Calcutta after selling my restaurant and separating from the man to whom I was married. I remember thinking "I am nothing... I have no home, I am nobody's wife, I am not the woman who runs that restaurant, I have no attachments with which I can identify..." As disconcerting as that may sound, it's actually the most freeing feeling...

For two days after leaving Dawson Creek, the clouds hung so low over the northern Rockies making me believe I was riding into late November rather than July's end. I took it slow, riding only 300 kilometres a day and pulling in to camp before getting too unbearably cold and soaked to the bone.

A road-weary old mountain man at the Motor Inn in Fort Nelson where I was finishing up breakfast before venturing out into the densely cloud-covered road looked me and Henk over skeptically. "You be very careful out there, darlin'," he warned. "I ride this highway once a week to Alaska and yesterday some idiot from Quebec passed me like I was going still. A few minutes later, he took a corner goin' too fast and ended up in the other lane. Hit a Harley rider head on. Dead instantly." Warning taken. Thank you.

A guy running a lone gas station somewhere in the middle of nowhere was surprised to see me. "It's a rare thing for me to see a woman riding alone on this highway," he said to me while helping me fill my tank with expensive and low grade gas. Oh, really? How rare? "In fact, so rare I've never seen a one," he marvelled. He went on to admire my bike. "Never seen one of these either." Well, I laughed, today you've had two firsts! "I like the first first best," he said. Yeah. He sold me a jerry can and helped me strap it on to my already loaded down hindside. I actually had to use it once so far when a remote gas station had run out of fuel. One station sold me "emergency gas" that they save only for people who are stuck. I wasn't, but I may have been. Gas here is well up over a dollar.

I met several hard-ass bikers along the way and continually met them over two or three days along the "Alcan" as it's called. Hilarious to see these guys all decked out in their Harley 'uniform' of bandanas, chaps, furry seats--one even had a logo embroidered on his leather vest--"meanass," and freezing their big American butts off (no predjudice intended, just so happened that they were all American and quite large). I don't know why, but it's nice to know I'm not the only one suffering out here.

I saw an enormous black bear eating berries on the side of the road when riding in to Fort Nelson the other night. Then closer to Liard Hot Springs, where I soaked for the last four days, herds of small caribou roamed the road, along with a herd of huge wild buffalo.

Liard Hot Springs is an idyllic little paradise I found difficult to leave. The tension in my left shoulder from riding in the cold rain melted away almost instantly upon soaking the first evening. Aaah. I met a sweet couple from northern Alberta who invited me over for coffee in their converted greyhound bus. Wilf is a heart attack survivor and found the springs to be very healing. His wife, Wendy, snuck the odd cigarette in the outhouse, I discovered. They fed me breakfast sausages, then invited me to dinner. "Hope you're not a vegetarian," Wilf stated. Hmm. Not anymore. We had barbecued chicken breast and a great bean salad. He called me a "great conversationalist" and showed me off to the rest of the RV'ers like a proud papa. Never before have I been called a "great conversationalist." In Toronto, I find it difficult to mine my brain for something relevant to contribute at a dinner party. Out here I'm full of tales and alive. For the first time in a long time I feel like I'm writing my own story...

The other day it rained at Liard, and the three homeless adventurers in the campground magically found each other. Bret had invited me to leave my laptop in his camper after my bikini had been stolen from the change room (yeah!) so I walked over in the rain and interrupted his camper shower. I teased him about all the comforts of home he was travelling with and he proceeded to show me an amazing slide show of his travels in Alaska over the last two months. A true adventurer, he sold his house in the mountains above Aspen when his two other neighbors began warring over well water, packed up his sweet Australian Shepherd, Ling Ling, his mountain bike, and a dirt bike into a trailer and hit the road for Alaska, no return date in sight. Halfway into the slideshow, which was actually an interrogation session with photos, each of us equally fascinated by each other's adventure, we were interrupted by Wayne, a 66-year-old wanderer/environmentalist/activist/pot smoker. We shared some sangria and a one-hit-wonder and somehow somewhere the rain stopped tapping on the tin roof and the midnight sun disappeared. We went for a midnight skinny dip in the dark. I'd been wanting to do that since arriving but would never think to go on my own. Having two men along to fight off the bears and the locals was reassuring.

There's nothing more attractive than a man who has found a balance between self-confidence and humility. These two, both, one 66, the other 43, are very much living in that zone. Juicy, vital, interested, interesting, passionate, articulate, and FUN. We had a blast. For the first time since leaving, I belly laughed.

There's always a slight pang of regret when I meet new friends and we have to part. I said to Bret it's probably a good thing we're going separate directions because it would have been too much fun and too easy to just meet up along the way and cook gourmet camp meals, ride bikes, play with Ling Ling, soak in hot springs. Yes, we would have been very compatible playmates. But yesterday when the sun broke through and I was able to pack up my dry tent, the three of us shared lunch, then hit the road, Wayne Vancouver-bound and Bret off to Bella Coola after hearing both of us rave.

The roads were nice and dry and Henk and I enjoyed the first bit of warmth since Bella Coola. I really like saying Bella Coola. We camped in Watson Lake and this morning while I was packing up, a nice young fellow, Mel, invited me over to his campsite for breakfast. His wife, Josie, a dental hygenist, welcomed me with hot chocolate and bagels and we traded road stories.

Henk and I made it to Whitehorse today in the sun and camped in the Robert Service campground on the Yukon River, a 15 minute walk to downtown. It looks like a nice little western, northern town with an attitude I have yet to discover. Before pulling in to camp, I took a ride around town. I discovered the Alpine Bakery, a large log cabin with amazing smells and a sign that said "socially conscious business" and went in for a fabulous French lentil soup with organic bread and a carrot/apple/ginger juice. The owner, Suat, out of nowhere invited me to camp at his house. "We have a large family," he said, "and they'd love to meet a courageous woman like yourself." I was very tempted because he seemed so sweet, but something tells me I'll have plenty of time here for meeting his family. I was just saying to myself that by saying "yes" to invitations along the way, my adventure is becoming richly textured. I told him I'd camp tonight at Robert Service, then see him tomorrow...

There's a "longest days festival" going on until the end of the month downtown. A tent has been set up in the major intersection of Main and 3rd and street performances apparently take place all day long. I'll look forward to some great Yukon culture.

I'm also waiting patiently to see some little old lady in a monolith RV somewhere along the way in a river or a hot spring wearing my orange and blue Nike bikini.