TRAVERSE 100
which is to say equivalent to being sucker-punched by a moose, snatched the cap clean off my backpack.
I didn’ t notice for several hundred kilometres. The Dempster demands all your attention. One eye on the road, one eye on the weather, one eye on the bear that ' s definitely watching you from that stand of willows. By the time I realised something was missing, it was too late.
My cap was gone.
That evening in Inuvik I felt more than a moment of deep personal tragedy. Now, I ' ve lost things before on motorcycle trips: gloves, tools, dignity. But this felt different. This wasn’ t just a hat. This was my companion. And it had been cruelly abandoned to a fate of roadside solitude, destined to be trampled by RVs or adopted by a squirrel with poor fashion sense.
I wandered the streets of Inuvik in a state of mourning. My ride was ruined. My cap lost to who knew what. I ate a locally made pizza that was apparently delicious, my tastebuds cared less, I stared blankly at the menu taped to the wall facing me. When I told the waitress I’ d lost a cap, she just gave me a sad nod. My riding companion Sean, had provided a similar nod.
“ The Dempster takes what it
TRAVERSE 100