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  • Already The End Of Our Travels?

    Already The End Of Our Travels?

    We mention our love of coffee quite often in our tales. A good cup to start the day isn’t just a preference, it’s an imperative to a successful day (especially for me). Our method of choice is the humble French press, a small ritual that gives even the most ordinary mornings purpose and intention. When you live full-time on the road, these things matter.

    There are, however, many things Chris and I have learned the hard way in our endeavor as full-time Bus owners. Some lessons come gently. Others arrive with far less grace.

    I say all this because on a seemingly uneventful evening—fresh off our PA Wilds motorcycle adventure—we began the familiar process of packing up and preparing to move on to the next destination. This includes one of the least glamorous parts of RV life: emptying the grey and black water tanks. It’s an absolutely unsexy routine, but one that is necessary.

    As I tidied up the inside of the camper, I could hear Chris outside through the open window. Grunting. Muttering. A few choice expletives carried on the night air. There was some rustling, then sudden silence. A moment later, more noises—but it was dark, and all I could see were shifting shadows moving along the side of the rig and the occasional beam of light from his head lamp flashing through the window.

    Then Chris hollers, “Can you come out here quick! Oh, and bring your phone!”

    Confused and slightly concerned, I slipped on my sandals, hurried down the three steps, and ran around to the other side of the camper. I barely had time to register the scene. Chris was crouched beside the open tank valves, the unattached sewer hose in one hand and a long, thin stick in the other.

    “I think something settled at the bottom of the grey tank and it’s blocked,” he muttered, prodding the entrance with his trusty stick.

    And then all hell broke loose.

    The dam inside the tank gave way without warning. A sudden rush of foul, murky water erupted as Chris scrambled to get the hose properly seated back onto the outlet—just a second too late. Chaos, panic, and a fair amount of shouting followed.

    It didn’t take long to figure out who the culprit was.

    Every morning, while washing dishes, I’d been casually dumping the used coffee grounds from our French press down the sink. Normally, we empty our tanks every couple of days, depending on usage. But this time, we’d been gone on the bikes and we hadn’t emptied our tanks for a full week. Those innocent little grounds had time to sink, settle, and eventually solidify at the bottom of the grey tank—forming a perfect, immovable plug. Lesson learned.

    Is This The End?

    Our travels were briefly disrupted by a deadline: we needed to be back in Minnesota. Not because we were finished with the Bus adventures, but because Chris needed to attend the yearly all-staff in-person company meeting. This gave us the chance to see friends and reclaim a bit of normalcy in our social calendar. Truthfully, full-time travel comes with its own set of challenges. It can feel isolating when your usual support system is scattered across the map.

    There was a part of us that wondered if we could stay and settle for a while. But a stronger part whispered about the next destination, insisting, we’re not done yet. There were still too many places to see. And, practically speaking, Minnesota is not a state you want to spend interminable winter months in a poorly insulated camper—one not built to withstand below-freezing temperatures. Unless it’s winterized and entirely devoid of inhabitants.

    So, from Pennsylvania, we pointed the Bus west and committed to three long days of driving. Up until then, most of our overnights had been spent tucked into truck stops or highway rest areas. Somewhere along the way, we heard about Harvest Hosts: a membership program for RVers that offers free overnight stays at unique locations like wineries and farms. Instead of traditional campgrounds, you park on private property and support the host by purchasing their goods or services. For an annual fee, you gain access to a network of places that feel quieter, more personal, and deeply rooted in local life.

    In my tendency to romanticize life’s simple moments, I was thrilled when we signed up and I got to choose our very first stop. My brain immediately went to “cute” and “fluffy.” Naturally, we headed to a sheep farm.

    We settled in for the evening and were lucky enough to receive a small tour of the family’s barn, where we met sheep and goats and learned what it takes to be a competitive show sheep participant in 4H programs. Our parking spot overlooked a wide open field. In the morning, we watched the sun rise as we drank our coffee, and I made the acquaintance of the host family’s cat, aptly named S’mores.

    It was one of those tranquil mornings you know is fleeting. The kind you savor because you’re unlikely to ever be in this exact place again. Yet in that moment, there was nothing but joy and gratitude for being there at all, and for choosing this life that keeps placing us in unexpected pockets of quiet beauty.

    Honey, We’re Home!

    We arrived at Chris’ parents’ homestead in early October and tucked ourselves behind the pole barn, right at the edge of their forested property. We have electricity but no water, which means that any official bathroom or shower situation requires a brisk walk to the house. Or, for those of us who insist on drinking a cup of warm tea right before bed, there’s the less official option: the ever-so-elegant crouch in the dark, under a sky full of stars, hoping a porch light doesn’t turn on at the worst possible moment.

    You could call this the original glamping experience.

     Fall, for many of us, is that perfect in-between season: cool mornings, warmer afternoons, and just enough chill in the air to justify an extra layer. The foliage turns even the shortest drive into something spectacular, and nearly every outdoor activity suddenly becomes more enjoyable. In my opinion, it’s the best time of year, full stop.

    It’s also peak acorn season.

    All night long, acorns rain down onto the steel roof of the barn like nature’s own percussion section. The first night is… not restful. Loud, startling, and deeply confusing. At various moments, it sounds like hail, gunfire, or a very aggressive squirrel with a vendetta. It takes us far too long to realize what’s happening outside, and even longer to accept that our only real solution is to close the bedroom window and hope that most of the acorns will have fallen from the tree that night and the next nights will be better.

    As if nature hadn’t already made her point, we also arrive right in the middle of Minnesota’s prime archery hunting season. Something Chris has been FOMO-ing about all summer. The thought of missing hunting season for the first time in what feels like his entire adult life had cast a noticeable shadow over our travels. Now, with the woods alive and the season open, his mood shifts almost immediately. Despite the acorns, the nightly walks to the bathroom, and the questionable bedtime tea habits, all feels right in his world again.

    For me, being back home also means returning to the barn. Riding and caring for horses has been a constant passion for decades, even back in Canada. There is something deeply cathartic about being around horses, something grounding in a way few other things do. Riding familiar trails, reconnecting with friends, and spending long days outside brings an unmistakable sense of joy to my life.

    Barn friends are a phenomenon all their own. We all range in ages and life stages, yet are bound together by a shared love of horses. Since I started spending time there a little over a year ago, my friend Abbie, who owns the barn, has generously let me borrow one of her horses. Sierra (an opinionated chestnut mare) has become a steady source of happiness and equine therapy since moving to the States and beginning a new chapter of life. She has opinions, she makes them known, and she’s exactly what I didn’t know I needed.

    During one weekend, I’m invited to join a group of gals for a trail ride about an hour north, and it turns into one of those perfect fall days. We ride through forests carpeted in yellow leaves, listening to hooves crunch rhythmically beneath us. Laughter echoes as we splash through a few water crossings, waving to other riding groups as we pass. It’s simple, joyful, and fleeting in the way all the best moments seem to be.

    To Diesel Or Not To Diesel, That Is The Question.

    While we’re in the area, we decide it’s imperative that we start seriously looking for a diesel truck. Because let’s not forget: we very quickly learned the hard way what climbing hills in a gas truck pulling a fifth-wheel feels like.

    As the self-proclaimed Chief Financial Budgeter of this endeavor, I track our expenses by category. Fuel is easily one of our biggest line items, especially when we’re covering long stretches of highway. We feel that cost acutely the moment the terrain gets hilly. With plans to head into the mountains out West next summer, the idea of doing that with our current setup feels daunting—particularly given how much we struggled in comparatively mild hill country.

    Now, let me preface this by saying: I know nothing about trucks. What I do know is that the idea of spending time in a dealership so soon after buying our last truck feels unpleasantly close. We should have done more research. We should have bought the trailer before purchasing the vehicle meant to tow it. We should have… Yes, yes. Hindsight is always 20/20. Like the other lessons on this journey, we learned it in the field.

    Dealerships are also not my natural habitat. I have to actively remind myself to smile, otherwise I look completely unapproachable. “Fix your face,” Chris whispers under his breath as we walk in. Fair enough. I adjust accordingly.

    Before we even walk into the lot, we’ve written down very specific criteria. First and foremost (and this somehow confuses most salespeople) we have a budget. A strict budget. One we are not compromising on. And since we’re already doing this, why not go for the full American experience: a one-ton diesel truck with a ten-speed transmission. Ask me if I knew there were different kinds of transmissions before this process. I absolutely did not.

    After a few test drives, a handful of text exchanges, and several near-misses involving trucks with swapped transmissions of questionable origin, we finally settle on a new-to-us diesel that checks the important boxes. The good news: it already has the puck system integrated into the frame for attaching our fifth-wheel hitch. The bad news: it’s a different system than the one on our previous truck, which means we now need a new fifth-wheel adapter from the RV parts store.

    Chris gets his hands dirty installing the new adapter himself, adding yet another skill to the ever-growing roster of RV life competencies. One more lesson learned, one more piece of the puzzle in place—and one step closer to being ready for those western mountains.

    Routine Maintenance and The Case Of A Stubborn Wife

    While still home, we take advantage of the time and space to knock out some routine maintenance on the Bus. The top priority is a UV treatment for the roof. One of those preventative tasks that isn’t very exciting, but goes a long way toward preserving the roof material and, ideally, avoiding leaks or a full replacement down the line.

    After a stop at the local RV shop for supplies, we grab a ladder, we climb up to inspect the roof. And wow. She is filthy. It’s hard to say what exactly accumulated over the last few months, but the surface is coated in a generous layer of grime that clearly didn’t get the memo about being low-maintenance.

    First order of business: a thorough cleaning. We fill a bucket with warm water and diluted dish soap and get to work. Chris tackles the large surface areas with a pressure washer, while I follow closely behind with a sponge, getting into the corners and around the seals—making sure everything is free of gunk before moving on. Once the roof is clean and dry, we apply the RV roof protectant, and Chris finishes up by inspecting all the window seals to see if any touch-ups are needed. By the end, the rig looks noticeably better, and we’re left with that deeply satisfying feeling that comes from crossing something important off the list.

    Being home also gives us the opportunity to address another ongoing issue: Asian beetles.

    For those unfamiliar, Asian beetles (they look like lady bugs) are common in Minnesota—especially after the soybean harvest. Supposedly beneficial in fields, come fall they become aggressive home invaders. They congregate on sunny windows, stain surfaces, occasionally bite, and generally act like they pay rent.

    I retrieve our vacuum from the storage unit and make it a ritual to vacuum them up at least once a day. They tend to emerge when the sun is out, clustering along windows and ceilings. It’s also a sobering reminder of just how… porous RV construction can be. Bugs find their way in through windows, vents, seams—places you didn’t even know existed.

    But I digress. The goal is simple: reduce their numbers.

    Spoiler alert: not all of them were vacuumed. To this day, months later, beetles still emerge from mysterious hiding places we cannot identify. Where they come from remains unknown. What is known is that they have fully committed to RV life whether we like it or not.

    Another important task on our ever-growing Bus upkeep list is flushing and treating the water tanks. It’s one of those preventative chores meant to keep sensors uncovered, lines clear, and unpleasant surprises to a minimum.

    We start with the black water tank and everything goes according to plan. There’s a clearly marked flush port, clear instructions, and one very important rule: the black tank valve must be open while flushing. Easy enough. The tank flushes cleanly and successfully. We’re feeling confident.

    Maybe too confident.

    With the black tank done, my mind immediately jumps to the grey water tank. After all, if we’re flushing tanks, shouldn’t we flush all the tanks? Especially considering the recent coffee-grounds incident. I am determined to get every last particle out of that system.

    At this point, the black tank valve is closed. Chris, sensing danger, warns me not to reconnect the water. I don’t fully understand why, so I move closer to inspect. He repeats himself. More firmly this time.

    I remain fixated.

    I reconnect the water anyway.

    It takes approximately four seconds for things to go very wrong.

    Water begins leaking onto the ground—definitely not part of the plan. We scramble. The hose is shut off, we rush inside the trailer, and that’s when we realize what happened: with the black tank valve closed, water pressure had nowhere to go. The pressure built up and blew out the water pressure regulator valve.

    Luckily, the damage is limited. The regulator is easily accessible behind the toilet, which is both convenient and humbling. I head back to the RV parts store, purchase the replacement part, and we get everything repaired without further incident.

    Another lesson learned.
    Another reminder that confidence in RV maintenance should always be paired with listening.
    And maybe—just occasionally—pausing before reconnecting the hose.

    How to Register Your Motorcycle: The Saga Continues

    At this point, I’m convinced that the saga of importing and registering my motorcycle has taken nearly as long and has required as many steps as obtaining my permanent resident status. Possibly more. There’s certainly irony here.

    According to my research, once your motorcycle is imported, getting a state license plate should be fairly straightforward. The internet, as usual, made it sound almost charming.

    Step 1: Clear U.S. Customs & ensure compliance.
    CHECK.

    Step 2: Gather Minnesota DMV documents (proof of sale, insurance, etc.).
    CHECK.

    Step 3: Visit a Minnesota License Center.
    Here I am. CHECK.

    Step 4: Submit documents, pay fees, receive plates and registration stickers immediately.
    Absolutely no CHECK.

    Reality arrives swiftly. Because I’m from a French-speaking province in Canada, some of my documents contain French words. This alone is enough to bring the front desk to a complete halt. I’m informed that before anything can proceed, I must have these documents translated by an approved translator.

    Additionally, I’m told I need the original registration paper associated with my Quebec license plate.

    I try to explain—calmly, politely—that Quebec’s system is now digital. There is no original paper. We don’t have a vehicle “title” in the way the U.S. does; it’s called a registration, and it exists as a digital document. I have printed it. This is the thing.

    Nope. Nothing they can do. Figure it out.

    I leave the building frustrated and defeated, genuinely surprised. I had assumed that border patrol and the actual importation of the motorcycle would be the hardest part of this process. Instead, here I am—so close to the finish line, yet once again stuck running endlessly on the hamster wheel of bureaucracy.

    When I share this story with a few people, I’m told this experience is… not uncommon. Apparently, this particular DMV has a reputation. The suggestion is simple: try the license center in the next town over. They’re supposedly nicer. More adaptable. Possibly human.

    Still, assuming I’ll need that translation regardless, I send my French-language insurance document to one of the approved translation companies on the provided list. The total? $95. FOR SIX WORDS.

    Fine.

    Meanwhile, I embark on a side quest to contact the Quebec Road Safety Authority  to see if there’s any way to have a physical registration card mailed to my parents’ address, who could then forward it to me in the States. Every instruction loops me back to the website, where I can download and print the same PDF I already have.

    Yes. I know.
    But the DMV wants something tangible.

    Oh and Canada Post is on strike at this time. So even if this magical paper existed, who knows when it would arrive. Joy.

    After about a week of attempting to rationalize with the idea that government systems surely know what they’re doing, I lose patience. I gather my documents and drive to the next town’s DMV, fully prepared for another round of disappointment.

    I walk in.
    The bell dings.
    And I’m greeted with… a wave? A smile?

    Could it be?

    I step up to the counter and explain my situation. What I want to do. Where I’m coming from. And then I hear the words I never thought I would:

    “Absolutely, no problem.”

    She even comments on how ridiculous it was that I’d been asked to translate six words when the document’s purpose is painfully obvious. Digital-only registrations? Completely normal in other states and countries. My printed PDF? Perfectly acceptable.

    Well, I’ll be.

    Within minutes, my paperwork is processed. And then—just like that—I’m handed a license plate on the spot.

    And with that, we can officially close the extended case file entitled: “How to Import and Register a Canadian-Bought Motorcycle in the United States.” 

    Thanks for tagging along.

    The Delicate Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

    I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it again: I am not particularly skilled at diagnosing mechanical issues based on sound. If my vehicle begins making an unfamiliar noise, my instinct is not investigation, it’s volume adjustment. If the noise becomes harder to hear, then clearly the problem has been addressed.

    This philosophy has worked just fine for me until now.

    One weekend, my brother-in-law takes my bike out for a short ride. He returns and immediately informs me that my chain is making an odd noise. I acknowledge this information in the only way I know how: politely, and without action.

    A closer inspection—this time by Chris, while he’s tightening the chain on his own bike—reveals the truth. My chain isn’t just noisy; it’s well past its service life. The wear is obvious. Stretch, uneven tension, and teeth on the sprockets that have seen better days. This is not preventative. This is overdue maintenance.

    So the list grows: new chain and new sprockets.

    While we’re already elbow-deep in motorcycle upkeep, we decide to revisit another unresolved issue: the persistent squeak coming from my rear brake. Previously, we had replaced the brake pads, which had changed nothing except our optimism. This time, we escalate. The rear disc rotor gets swapped out, because surely this is the logical conclusion to the problem-solving process.

    It is not.

    Despite fresh pads, a new rotor, and perfectly functional braking performance, the bike continues to squeak every time I apply the rear brake. Consistently. Reliably. Almost reassuringly.

    The bike stops. The braking force is solid. The noise remains.

    At this point, we’ve decided to interpret the squeak not as a defect, but as feedback: a reminder that maintenance has occurred. And most importantly—when I press the brake, the motorcycle slows down. Which, from a technical standpoint, is the primary objective.

    Hit the road, Jack

    It’s been a full and meaningful four weeks parked back in Minnesota. The days passed quickly, filled with good food, conversations, and the kind of family time that settles you in a way the road doesn’t always allow. We tackled the practical things and quietly squared away the technical loose ends that make the next leg of travel feel possible rather than stressful.

    As the month went on, the temperatures began their steady descent. Nights dipped to freezing, and our sleep setup evolved accordingly: extra blankets layered on, an oil heater borrowed and strategically placed, and the growing awareness that our camper, charming as it is, was not designed for prolonged Midwestern winters.

    Still, we lingered. We savored the meals shared around familiar tables, the easy laughter, the comfort of being near people who know us well. There’s something soothing about pausing long enough to feel rooted again, even if just temporarily.

    But the road has a way of calling, and this time it’s calling us south. Toward warmer air and mornings that don’t require negotiating with frozen hoses or multiple layers of fleece. We leave Minnesota grateful for the time, the memories and ready, once again, to point the Bus toward the next horizon.

    Warmer ground awaits.

  • Kickstand Chronicles, Vol. 3: Rugged East Coast Americana

    Kickstand Chronicles, Vol. 3: Rugged East Coast Americana

    From YouTube Content to Reality

    The Backcountry Discovery Routes—BDRs for short— had become a regular feature on our YouTube feed as we planned the places we wanted to see during our full-time travels. Watching other riders tackle long stretches of dirt, gravel, and forest roads gave us a sense of what was possible. BDRs are a network of long-distance, mostly off-pavement motorcycle routes that run through different regions of the U.S. Each one highlights public lands, small towns, and remote backcountry areas, offering riders a safe, legal way to experience wilderness travel without guesswork.

    Now we were finally moving from screen to real life. Rolling out of Maine, we followed the last hints of summer southward. The first signs of fall greeted us along the way: cooler air, shifting light, a sense that the season was turning. As we crossed state lines into Pennsylvania, the landscape widened. Farmland opened on both sides of the road, hills rose and fell in long, steady waves, and the rhythm of riding felt effortless.

    Ahead of us was the PA Wilds BDR, the next route on our list. This particular stretch winds through one of the largest undeveloped forests in the eastern United States, connecting state forests, fire roads, small communities, rivers, and overlooks. Riders talk about its mix of terrain—graded gravel, forest lanes, rocky sections—and the way it feels both accessible and remote at the same time. For us, it marked the beginning of a new chapter: more dirt, slower days, and the chance to settle into the kind of travel we’d been preparing for.

    To really slow down and savor all 500 miles of the route, Chris took a full week off from work. We were riding the BDR on its terms: no rushing, no clock-watching, just letting the trail set the pace and allowing ourselves the unhurried joy of stopping whenever something caught our attention.

    Up to this point, the weather had been almost suspiciously cooperative. Warm days, cool nights, clear skies stretching ahead. Which, of course, should’ve been our first warning. A quick forecast check revealed a wall of rain perfectly timed for our start. Classic. Gear would get damp, roads slick, and we would laugh at the universe’s impeccable timing. Bad luck? Maybe. But it had become part of our rhythm. A trademark, if you will. Nearly every story we tell later, over campfires or coffee, begins with clouds gathering behind us.

    So we ride—rain or shine. Because these are the conditions that turn ordinary days into legends.

    Day 1: Weedville to Milroy (164 miles)

    On the first morning of our Pennsylvania adventure, we rolled out fresh and eager. The sun climbed over forested ridges, casting a warm glow across the valley. Today, we start with Section 3 of the PA Wilds BDR: 164 miles of gravel, forest roads, and hidden valleys. Fall was in full swing; maples and oaks flickered reds and golds in the sunlight. Rolling hills and distant ridges appeared and disappeared as the road folded back on itself in a hypnotic rhythm.

    The ride started smoothly, tires skimming over loose stones and nicely maintained gravel roads. Then, just as the rhythm sets in, a road sign appears: “Road Closed – 5 miles ahead.” Classic foreshadowing. Closure, as we know, is rarely absolute. “Road closed?” Chris says. “How closed can it be?”

    Not long after, the answer reveals itself. Bridge construction sprawls across the path: Cement barricades litter the road like abandoned chess pieces, rebar juts skyward like skeletal fingers, and a dormant crane crouches in the distance, prehistoric, Jurassic Park–ready. Loose gravel skitters under our boots. Chris becomes pure momentum, sending the bike over rogue construction panels like a hero in a DIY montage. My bike’s turn comes—commitment unwavering as he runs back, jumps right on and does an encore performance. Boots tap, tires slide, adrenaline hums. Meanwhile, I narrate silently from the sidelines, prestige-documentary style, until the inevitable: the walk of shame as I traverse the scene on foot.

    The forest gravel road stretches onward, and that’s when I notice it: a square opening in the remnants of an old stone foundation. Out of the corner of my eye, it looks like nothing. Then suddenly, my imagination kicks in: hobbits, rituals, haunted mini-homes.

    Chris hears my exclamation over the helmet intercom:
    “Oh wow, I wonder where that goes!”

    I quickly park on the side of the road, hop off and jog towards the hobbit hole. Torchlight engaged—phone flashlight trembling like a nervous Android candle—I peer inside. It’s dark, damp, unhelpful. Shadows crawl across jagged stones, soil hints at abandonment, a perfect set for a low-budget horror flick. Chris encourages:
    “Go on inside.”
    “Looks like one of those haunted spaces you see in the movies.”

    I promptly sprint back to the bike. Zero out of ten for comfort, ten out of ten for story potential. Miniature hobbit hole of horrors: highly recommended.

    The afternoon sun is slowly starting to come down. The landscape opens up quickly, and before long the road runs straight through a set of cornfields. It’s flat, smooth riding—just a simple farm road with rows of cut corn stocks on both sides. It’s a brief section, but it stands out because it feels so open compared to the rest of the forested route.

    Once you reach the end of the fields, the terrain changes almost immediately. The road narrows, the gravel gets rougher, and the first rocks start appearing. Within a few minutes, the route becomes a steady uphill section with a mix of loose rock and embedded stone. The climb continues through the trees, with a few spots where the surface gets chunkier and you feel the rear tire slip slightly before catching. A consistent, rocky uphill that keeps you focused until you reach the top.

    After the climb levels out, the road becomes easier again. I stop the bike to catch my breath and take a moment to celebrate the accomplishment of having conquered this section. To the average rider, this isn’t overly difficult, but it does require a bit of line-picking and keeping steady momentum. Being able to see my skills improving is encouraging and gives me some much needed confidence for what the next few days could throw at us.

    By late afternoon, the miles have carried us past forested ridges and narrow valleys, rolling farmland opening the view as we approach Milroy. First order of business: find a place to stay the night. The website promised mini cabins, hot tub included, for $89. However, when we contact the campground management, it turns out that there is an additional $50 cleaning surcharge. Our dream is crushed, in order to respect our budget. Instead we decide to go for a classic tent site for $47.

    Hunger propels us into town. It’s Monday; not much is open. Across from a trailer‑park‑vibe stretch, we spot a bar. Perfect. We clomp inside in full ADV regalia—dusty jackets and boots, helmets under arms. While Chris walks to the bathroom, I head towards the bar area to ask if we can sit on the outside patio.  A man sitting on the nearest stool turns towards me and with a sweeping up/down glance asks:
    “What kind of horse did you ride on into here?”

    His accent catches me completely off guard: Since when does Pennsylvania cosplay the Deep South? My brain responds on autopilot:
    “A really dusty one.”

    My response is promptly rejected with a shoulder turn. He resumes his original position and continues drinking his beer. Okay then. 

    We step onto the patio, order our meals and get to witness a corn hole tournament in full swing. It’s live, loud, and fueled by enough beer to make the rules optional. It’s glorious in a National-Geographic-meets-drunk-backyard way. Our burgers devoured, beers gulped down, we hear thunder rolling in like a cinematic audio cue. If we don’t get back to our campsite soon, the rain will get the better of us.

    By the time we retreat to the tent, the sky is darkening and occasional raindrops are pattering on the canvas. Dirt under finger nails, dust in every seam, adrenaline fading into tired contentment. Day one of the PA Wilds BDR: complete. 

    Our next morning’s verdict is… Sore. Unrested. Questioning life choices. We ride past the tiny hot‑tub cabins and wave politely, mourning silently. If there is one regret we will have during our adventure, it’s not having taken advantage of a hot tub after a long day on the motorcycles. This is the price to pay when living on a budget.

    Day Two: Milroy to Waterville (126 miles)

    The second day greeted us, not with a sunrise, but with fog so thick it seemed to blur ambition and destination alike. We packed our gear and made a beeline for the nearest breakfast spot, desperate for caffeine to stir our minds. A hearty morning meal at The Honey Creek Inn did more than fuel us—it sharpened our focus and gave the day ahead a sense of purpose.

    From there, we plunged into the desolate expanse of Bald Eagle State Forest. The gravel twisted and climbed, rising and falling across mountain gaps like the undulating back of some ancient creature. Here, the roads flow with a gentle, forgiving rhythm—perfect for those seeking adventure without the aggression of technical trails.

    Mist clung to us like a living presence as I eased to a stop on the dirt road to take it all in. The forest around held its breath. Every leaf shimmered with the remnants of rain, trembling under water still undecided whether to fall or hold on. The air was thick with the unmistakable scent of damp earth, pine, and something primal I couldn’t name. It filtered through my helmet like a whisper from a dream, both familiar and strange.

    Above, the trees arched in sweeping vaults, their limbs intertwined like the ceiling of a forgotten cathedral. Shadows lingered in their upper reaches, while the forest floor glowed faintly, a diffused light reflecting off the mist. The peace was absolute, yet edged with something sharp, a quiet that felt as if the woods were watching. Beauty here demanded stillness—it pulled you inward, slowed your pulse, and forced reverence.

    For a moment, I stayed there, suspended between calm and unease, breathing in the wet air, letting the hush after the rain sink in. When the engine beneath me rumbled, a low hymn in this sylvan sanctuary. I dropped into gear, twisted the throttle, and let the towering trees swallow me as the trail carried me deeper into the PA Wilds Backcountry Discovery Route.

    The winding gravel roads alternated between ascents, ridge lines, and descents, each offering glimpses of the Pine Ridge Creek valley before climbing back toward the ridges. By early afternoon, the rain had turned relentless. We were approaching Waterville, eyes scanning the GPX map for the Waterville Inn.

    At first, hope faltered: the inn was closed on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. A glance at the other local inn brought no relief—it sat permanently shuttered. We returned to the Waterville Inn, soaked but undeterred, huddling under the porch and pleading with the mist, “Anything but canvas.” We couldn’t handle another sleepless night on the hard ground.

    Then a grey pickup rolled in. A man stepped out, keys in hand, moving toward the locked entrance with the air of someone who belonged. “Who ARE you, rain-key-hobbit-sir?” I muttered under my breath. Minutes later, he returned and looked towards us. “You waiting on a key?”

    We stared. Did he even work here? Not quite. He was a restaurant supplier, and better yet, a friend of the owners. He personally guided us to the country store next door, helping us get in contact with the Inn owner. Within minutes, we secured the last available room. Ritchie, patron saint of last-minute budget redeemers, had saved the day.

    Supper followed, courtesy of Ritchie’s recommendation: homemade deli subs from the Country Store “so good that the Amish boys love them.” Cultural endorsement accepted. While we waited for our subs to be assembled, we wandered the country store aisles—a survivalist candy land of fishing gear, camping necessities, hunting paraphernalia, and taxidermied squirrels in mid-victory poses. A tiny boxing raccoon grinned up at me. Roadside Americana at its finest.

    Soon, the inn owner appeared. We paid for the room and were led upstairs to a space that Pinterest would classify as “Rustic Luxe Meets Log-Cabin Aesthetic.” Gear and baggage were piled near the warmth, a small comfort against the forecasted rain.

    Then came the moment I had imagined all day: collapsing onto the mattress.

    It… boinged.

    Betrayal. Too springy. Too firm. This was supposed to be my night of restorative glory. Chris, meanwhile, was already asleep—lights out, no commentary, a mystery of manly endurance that science may never solve. I lay there instead, listening to the rain drum a steady rhythm on the roof, the forest’s hush now translated into a lullaby of droplets and distant wind.

    Day 3: Waterville to Crossfork (140 miles)

    We leave Waterville behind and dive back into the forest roads. Pine, oak, and hemlock scent the air, a damp, earthy perfume mingling with the faint tang of moss and fallen leaves. Each twist of the road reveals another ridge or hollow, rolling topography that makes your body follow the bike instinctively—lean, lift, a fleeting moment of perfect flow.

    The gravel alternates between smooth stretches and loose patches that keep you honest. Small streams gurgle through rocks, their edges lined with ferns glistening like tiny emerald carpets. Mist clings low in the valleys, wrapping the hillsides in a secretive veil.

    By midday, a bridge became our impromptu rest stop. We unpacked oats and stirred a pot of oatmeal on our Jetboil stove beneath misty trees. Birds trilled overhead. For a few brief moments, the calm made me consider abandoning civilization entirely, embracing the life of a nature columnist, utterly absorbed in the quiet babble of the brook below.

    As we wrap up our break and head back on the road, we see wildlife flit in and out of sight. A flash of copper marks a red fox; further down, a white-tailed deer freezes at the roadside, weighing our presence before vanishing back into the trees. Bird songs echo faintly, a soundtrack to the solitude. Towns are rare: Duncan is little more than a quiet cluster of homes and a general store—a brief human punctuation before the forest reclaims the road.

    Every mile here is a study in contrasts: steep climbs that test endurance, followed by descents that demand attention and reward riders with glimpses of hidden valleys. The road’s twists mirror the hills’ undulations, a natural choreography that makes you feel less like a visitor and more like a participant in the landscape.

    There’s a small detour to the Colton Point State Park overlook. Before all this, I’m blissfully unaware of what’s about to unfold. Our comm systems are still on, and Chris barely has time to park before he notices me trying to back up like an ungraceful duck attempting to waddle backwards with all 400 pounds of my motorcycle. He sees the disaster forming before I do. Through the headset I faintly hear, “…you’re falling!” which I find ridiculous, because my left foot is already pushing down the kickstand. But then I feel it—that slow, undeniable gravitational pull. Before I can make sense of anything, the bike tips right, taking me with it, and I end up sprawled across the parking lot. How is this happening again? All I can think to say, staring up through my rectangular visor at the tops of the trees, is: “How did you know I was falling!?” The parking lot is barely off-camber—maybe a couple of degrees—but just like on the Cabot Trail, it’s apparently my nemesis.

    We walk to the overlook afterward. It’s beautiful: Pine Creek winding far below between two mountain ridges, families scattered along the railing, everyone taking in the view. I try to keep up a strong front, as if I didn’t just tip over in a perfectly normal parking lot, silently hoping no one noticed (at least no one rushed over like during the Cabot Trail episode). To this day, I barely remember the overlook itself—just the flood of adrenaline and the photo that proves I was actually there.

    By the time Cross Fork appears, the forest thins just enough to reveal glimpses of sky and distant ridges. Solitude lingers like a shadow, even as signs of settlement whisper that civilization has not entirely abandoned this stretch.

    Outside the bar, we met a man enveloped in a cloud of cigarette smoke. Paul, owner of the modest motel we had passed—its mid-century façade a relic that could belong in a roadside anthropological archive labeled Hunting Grandpa Chic—offered more than a room that day. He offered a rescue arc.

    He accepted only cash or checks. Our situation? Cashless. Town facilities? No cash-back options available. Paul’s solution? “Mail it when you can. I won’t leave anyone stranded by my watch.” Not all heroes wear capes.

    Rain rolled back in, thunder gathering. Night riding in rain and darkness was a firm no from me, so we accepted Paul’s benevolent loophole hospitality and checked into our retro revival roadside palace.

    Inside, the décor looked curated by hunters whose color palette peaked in 1973. The beds? Coils enthusiastic enough to trigger mattress PTSD. Yet I loved it. I reveled in the vintage spectacle like an art critic evaluating motel maximalism. Our bikes stood obediently outside our door, sentinels in the dim light. Paul, an absolute legend in his own way, knocks on our door a little while later to offer us towels to dry off our motorcycles before we leave tomorrow morning.

    The place flirted with mild Bates Motel vibes—but only as autumn flirts with Halloween: slightly ominous, irresistibly moody. If dark literature had décor, this room would be its perfect embodiment.

    Day 4: Crossfork back to Kane (254 miles)

    After all that rain, the next morning arrived softened by mist. The roads ahead twisted in endless S-curves. A few puddles waited, glimmering in the pale light, promising small, sparkling splashes as we crossed. The logging zones were particularly treacherous—earth churned and chewed by heavy machinery, softened into a slick glaze we quickly dubbed “greasy.”

    It wasn’t mud, exactly. I would classify it more like existential doubt—damp loam mixed with sand, shallow but persuasive enough to whisper, “Go on. Slide a little.” Chris rode through it with unshakable steadiness; I rode it like a woman narrating her own survival tutorial. The terrain didn’t feel chaotic, but it was slippery enough, each wheel-spin felt like a negotiation with gravity itself.

    We passed small towns and clusters of farms, roads narrowing and widening, the forest opening in brief glades where mist curled over fields like smoke. Between Cross Fork and Weedville, the route followed winding ridgelines and gentle valleys, punctuated by stream crossings and pine-shrouded hollows. 

    A welcome distraction appeared in the form of a tiny, inviting café in the town of Emporium: Aroma Café & Market. Outside, rain hammered the roof in steady rhythm. Inside, the warmth, the smell of roasted coffee, and the quiet hum of conversation felt like a small, civilized miracle in the midst of the wilderness. We lingered, letting cups of steaming brew thaw our damp spirits.

    Later, the Elk Museum and Visitor Center drew us in, though we knew the chances of seeing actual elk at this hour were slim. True enough—no majestic antlers wandering past—but the displays offered a silent reminder of the wildlife inhabiting these forests, and a moment to stretch our legs before the final push.

    From there, gravel and asphalt wound us back toward Weedville, then northwest toward our campground near Kane, PA. The off-road route was traded for highway in order to get back to home base a little quicker. The rain softened, mist lingering in pockets along the road, reflecting the waning daylight in silver patches. By the time we reached the campground, the RV and the familiar comforts it promised felt like a sanctuary after the loop: tires, bikes, and travelers damp but triumphant, ready to dry off and rest, knowing the forest had given all it had to offer.

  • Marathon Hikes & Surprise Seafood Feast

    Marathon Hikes & Surprise Seafood Feast

    Maine and Nova Scotia. It’s surprising how two coastal regions along the same Atlantic stretch can be so different. The very air tells two stories. 

    In Maine, the salt in the breeze is clean, briny, and threaded with the faint scent of seaweed sunning on the shore. It’s the kind of classic “ocean smell” people picture when they dream of the coast. The contrast is small but unmistakable. Maine’s air feels gentler, mellowed.

    Driving along, the coast reveals another set of differences. Maine’s houses have that iconic New England charm with weathered cedar shake siding, dark shutters, and an understated color palette shaped by storms, salt, and tradition. Many homes feature radiant “sun face” wall ornaments—technically called sunburst wall plaques—watching over wide porches. According to Wikipedia, they symbolize warmth, energy, happiness, and positivity, often inspired by ancient solar deities and cultural beliefs in good luck and abundance. It’s a look that feels old-school, nostalgic even, especially as the road winds toward each mountain peak.

    Long Live The Daily Hike

    When one gets in the habit of hiking, it brings you into an almost addictive headspace. Where the streak must be continued. Every day feels incomplete without at least a few miles on a trail. Your cardio gets better, your balance improves, and even the hiking sticks start to feel like extensions of your own rhythm.

    With time, you begin to understand the personality of different trails—how “moderate” can mean anything from a pleasant forest walk to a full quad workout; how elevation gain written on a map never truly reflects how steep a climb feels when your breathing quickens. There were a few hikes I had planned that ended up taking much longer than expected. Some even pushed us past sunset, turning into careful nighttime descents lit only by headlamps.

    Those after-dark hikes were a first for me. The forest shifts at night—the temperature drops, the birds quiet, and every rustle feels amplified. My knees, already a bit weak and jumbled from hours of stepping over roots and rocks, protested with every uneven stretch. The already difficult task of placing each foot over obstacles rather than into them became even more challenging as the sun slipped behind the tree line.

    But there was something strangely calming about it too. With our headlamps cutting narrow beams through the darkness, the world shrank into a tunnel of light. Step, plant, breathe. Step, plant, breathe. Mile after mile, we made our way back to the truck—slowly, steadily, and somehow feeling more alive than we had at the start. Especially when the unmistakable howl of coyotes echoed in the distance.

    Saturdays Are For Long Hikes

    Then came the Saturday that will forever be known as THE LONG HIKE.

    I had planned what I thought would be a challenging but reasonable nine-mile route. Nine miles didn’t sound like much, mostly because my brain still insists on converting everything into kilometers and convincing me it’s shorter. 

    The logic was simple: We had a full weekend to rack up miles and conquer peaks. And for some reason, it had evolved into this unspoken competition with ourselves—pack in as much as possible, squeeze every ounce out of daylight. So much for nature’s calming influence.

    As we approached the trailhead I’d pinned on our map, two crucial factors had been conveniently ignored: the time and the day. We left for the trail at 10 a.m. on a beautifully sunny Saturday in Acadia National Park. Peak weather, peak season, peak foolishness. Naturally, the parking lot I aimed for was completely full.

    Time for Plan B.

    We kept driving up the winding road along the base of the mountains, searching for any sliver of available space. The next lot was also full—but there were cars neatly lined along the shoulder of the road. Perfect. We joined the single-file pilgrimage, creeping forward until we hit a stark sign that read: “NO PARKING BEYOND THIS POINT.” Because we are eternal optimists, we tried our best to wiggle our big truck behind the sign, but also dangerously close to the front bumper of the car behind us.The front cab and hood of the truck were definitely flirting with illegal territory, while the bed of the truck was defiantly sticking out. If you squinted, we were good. Technically. Kind of. 

    As it turns out, nine miles was actually fourteen miles once the full route revealed itself—twenty-two kilometers. That mathematical betrayal hit us only after the fact.

    We began with the famous Precipice Trail, which turned out to be exactly what the name promises, with absolutely no false advertising. The route climbs almost straight up, rising over iron rungs bolted into the cliff face, threading narrow ledges that press your spine against granite and dare you to look down. The views are spectacular. Every downward glance delivered a pleasant surge of vertigo and the reminder that gravity is a very real concept.

    As we continued our quest for spectacular views atop mountain peaks, we had the privilege of hiking up various types of terrain. Among them, the rock staircases varied wildly—some neatly arranged like nature’s version of a gym circuit, others complete free-for-all scrambles. We followed the painted blazes, trusting that they knew where the trail was supposed to go even when our legs questioned why we were going there. Each step was a fresh reminder that glutes and calves are both heroic and dramatically petty when pushed too far.

    The trail stretched on far longer than expected. Every section seemed to open into yet another—another ridge, another scramble, another false sense of nearing the end. Hours passed. Eight of them, in fact. By the time we emerged from the last segment, every muscle in my body was trembling. But the vistas were indescribable, the kind that make you stop mid-sentence. The fellow hikers we met along the way were wonderfully kind with little bursts of camaraderie. Quick smiles, encouraging words, that unspoken “we’re all in this together” energy that happens when strangers become temporary teammates.

    One man, cheerful and sweat-soaked like the rest of us, recommended a brewery near our campground. “Great pizza. Great beer,” he said. “If you’re into that kind of thing.”
    Well. He spoke directly to our souls.

    The scenery almost erased the discomfort (almost) until we climbed back into the truck and my legs staged a mutiny. The photos taken that day capture the entire emotional arc: hopeful excitement, mild concern, worsening concern, full existential questioning, then the hollow-eyed perseverance of someone who just wants a sandwich and a soft surface.

    And while we’re on the subject of photos—how do influencers look effortlessly radiant at the summit? I look like I’m molting. The moment the incline begins, I turn into a sweaty, frizzy, tomato-tinted creature that no filter can save. Any action shot of me requires distance. Dramatic distance.

    That’s me. Clearly in the “questioning my life choices” phase of the hike.

    The final leg of the journey wasn’t even on the trail—it was the long walk along the pavement back to the truck, since to Precipice was a one-way climb. Every passing car was a temptation. A tiny part of my brain whispered, “Flag them down. Hitch a ride. No one will judge.” But then the stubborn part kicked in, and we marched on, fueled by the promise of beer and something carb-loaded. My internal mantra became a chant: pizza and beer, pizza and beer, pizza and beer. Sometimes survival looks like determination; sometimes it looks like food-based affirmations.

    By the time we finally spotted our truck in the thinning row of cars, we remembered our questionable parking job. A group of hikers ahead of us noticed too—they paused, laughed, tried to take a picture. Chris, being the embodiment of Minnesota Nice, shouted a joking “Hey! That’s ours!” They burst into laughter, relieved to find the renegade parking belonged to someone whose day had clearly been as long as theirs.

    Like us, they were coming to the end of a long day, some of them barefoot now because their shoes had surrendered earlier. Before I could blink, Chris offered them a ride to their campground. Five of them piled into the truck bed like a scene straight out of a feel-good movie. I could hear their laughter trailing behind us, wind tossing their voices around. When we reached their stop, one of them gave two taps on the roof (classic signal) before hopping out with heartfelt gratitude. In moments like that, the world feels small in a good way.

    And then, finally, the reward: Fogtown Brewery. Live music drifting through warm air, tiny pixie lights hanging above the patio like glowing fireflies, the smell of pizza that could revive the dead. We devoured slices, sipped cold drinks, and let the day settle into memory.

    That meal tasted like victory. Like exhaustion. Like pure contentment.
    It tasted exactly like THE LONG HIKE deserved.

    The next day’s planned hike was quickly forgotten and instead we decided to take a very leisurely bicycle ride on carriage road, where we gave our bodies some well deserved rest, but also kept ourselves moving to keep the streak going.

    The Particularity of Our Campground

    One thing we quickly learned about campgrounds in Maine is that the calendar runs a little differently—especially when it comes to Halloween. Apparently, Halloween happens in September. Not officially, of course, but in practice. And honestly? As a super-fan of anything spooky, eerie, pumpkin-themed, or glow-in-the-dark, it felt like a cosmic gift.

    The first clue was subtle: a few pumpkin lights strung around a camper, a witch’s hat perched suspiciously on a picnic table. At first, I thought people were simply getting an early start. But then the decorations ramped up—fast. Campsites transformed into full-blown Halloween displays overnight. Motion-activated skeletons jerked to life as we walked past, their red eyes glowing like something out of a low-budget horror film. Ghosts swayed in the trees. A fog machine hissed to life in the evenings, rolling smoky tendrils across the gravel like a scene from a haunted carnival.

    By the second night, it became clear this wasn’t just enthusiastic decorating—it was a tradition. Entire families returned each year specifically for “Campground Halloween,” a weekend of spooky lights, potlucks, costume parades, and friendly attempts to outdo each other. And honestly? It was magical. Something about being surrounded by twinkling lights, cackling animatronics, and grown adults who take their skeleton displays very seriously made the whole place feel like a cozy, festive micro-universe.

    Maine Hospitality Comes in a Bowl of Mussels

    On our final evening, the universe handed us yet another surprise—this time in the form of food. One of our neighbors, who had been out fishing the day before, knocked on our door holding a bucket the size of a kid’s Halloween candy pail. Inside: mussels. A lot of mussels. Apparently, he had caught far more than he and his family could eat and figured we might be up for a fresh seafood feast.

    Cue me speed-scrolling through Pinterest for a recipe while trying to remember what pots we actually had with us. Remember a few chapters back when I mentioned that we packed minimally? Well, that included bringing only three out of our four pots and pans. Thankfully, one of them happened to be the biggest pot we owned, and it just—just—fit enough mussels for two people.

    The cooking process turned out to be wonderfully simple: clean, steam, and serve. I melted an embarrassing amount of butter, added garlic (for culinary confidence), and crossed my fingers. In minutes, the shells opened, releasing that salty, ocean-fresh aroma that instantly makes you feel like you’re doing something right.

    We sat outside at our little campsite table, surrounded by the glow of Halloween lights and the faint echo of a distant fog machine, digging into a bowl of mussels that tasted like pure East Coast charm. Chris slowly acquired the taste—hesitant at first, then increasingly enthusiastic as he realized dipping anything into butter and garlic is practically cheating.

    By the end, we were full, happy, and deeply grateful. Not just for the food, but for the generosity of strangers and the small, unexpected moments that make travel feel less like being on the road and more like being part of a community.

    Little Motorcycle Rides in Maine

    During our three-week stay, we didn’t end up venturing onto any off-road trails with the bikes—something we usually chase whenever we’re in a new region. But honestly, the paved routes around Acadia National Park, the Schoodic Peninsula, and even Deer Island had their own kind of magic. Sometimes a calm ride is exactly what the moment calls for.

    Riding through Acadia National Park feels like gliding through a moving postcard. The Park Loop Road twists along rugged cliffs and dips into stretches of dense forest where the scent of pine becomes almost heady. Every few miles the trees open up to reveal glittering blue ocean, granite ledges, and distant islands that look like they’re floating. Even at lower speeds, the road’s gentle curves give that satisfying lean that makes a motorcycle feel like the perfect way to experience the landscape. There’s a peaceful rhythm to it—uphill, coastal view, downhill, forest shade, repeat.

    The Schoodic Peninsula was a completely different vibe—quieter, moodier, and more remote. The roads here are wide and smooth, with long stretches where you hardly see another vehicle. It’s the part of Acadia that most people skip, which makes the ride feel like a secret you’ve stumbled upon. Black volcanic-looking rock lines the shoreline, waves constantly crashing against it. We stopped to enjoy the scenery and were greeted by grey seals in the distance. Just a small part of their heads were sticking out of the water. Their eyes followed our movements as we found a comfortable rock to sit on and quietly take in our surroundings. Riding with the sound of the waves in the background, and the salty mist occasionally brushing your face shield, made the whole loop feel cinematic. It’s a place where your mind slows down and your shoulders drop a little without you even noticing.

    Our favorite unexpected ride was Deer Island. The route takes you through small fishing towns, over bridges that hover above quiet inlets, and past clusters of weathered boats anchored close to shore. It’s the kind of ride where you follow the road simply because it’s beautiful, not because there’s a particular destination waiting at the end. The island itself has a slower heartbeat—calm roads, gentle hills, and scenery that feels untouched. No rush. No noise. Just the hum of the engine and the soft roll of the Atlantic in the background.

    Even without the thrill of off-roading, those weeks of riding were memorable for their easy pace. Each route offered something a little different—ocean views, coastal cliffs, fishing villages, forests—but all of them shared the same quiet, grounding charm. Sometimes the best rides aren’t the most technical ones; they’re the ones that simply let you breathe, look around, and enjoy the place you’re in.

    And just like that, our stay in Maine came to an end. Between marathon hikes, coastal motorcycle rides, and unexpected seafood feasts, it’s safe to say the state kept us well-entertained. Tired… but entertained.

    But the road doesn’t slow down for long. With the Bus hitched and the bikes strapped in, we’re pointing our compass toward Pennsylvania next—ready to trade ocean views for forest trails and ride the Backcountry Discovery Route loop we’ve been eyeing for months.

    New terrain. New stories. Same two wandering souls.

  • Kickstand Chronicles, Vol. 1: The Cabot Trail

    Kickstand Chronicles, Vol. 1: The Cabot Trail

    The hum of our engines cuts through the morning fog as the first light spills over our campsite in Pictou. The world is quiet except for the low rumble of anticipation and caffeine kicking in. We’re gearing up for our first multi-day motorcycle trip, the beginning of The Kickstand Chronicles, a collection of rides, reflections, and fleeting moments that remind us of why we chase horizons on two wheels. 

    Our destination is the legendary Cabot Trail. One hundred and eighty-five miles of winding asphalt carved through cliffs, forests, and sea spray. It’s the worst-kept “hidden gem” among motorcyclists, a bucket-list ride we’ve dreamed about for years. Today, it’s finally happening. 

    But before a wheel even turns, the age-old debate arises: Clockwise or counterclockwise? Ask any local, and you’ll hear passionate arguments for both. After hours of forum scrolling, campground chats, and a fair bit of indecision, we settle on counterclockwise. That route hugs the coastline, keeping the ocean to your right, the edge so close you can taste the salt in the air. Some say it can trigger vertigo. I call that a front-row seat to the Atlantic. Besides, I tend to romanticize everything, remember? 

    Panniers packed, GPS loaded, comms charged, we roll toward Cape Breton Island. The drive takes just over an hour, and we avoid the highway whenever possible. When we finally cross the causeway, signs boast about the world-famous Cabot Trail. Unsure how far apart gas stations might be, we fill up and set off. 

    The plan is clear. Counterclockwise it is. 

    Except, within twenty minutes, it isn’t. 

    Something feels off. “This doesn’t look right,” I mention through the comms. 
    “This is definitely the way,” Chris replies, his voice full of confidence. 

    Given my less-than-stellar navigation record, I let it go—until a few miles later, I hear a faint “Crap” through my helmet. 

    “What is it?” I ask. Silence. His blinker flashes, and he pulls to the shoulder. 
    “What is it?” I repeat, louder this time. 
    A pause, then a half-laugh, half-sigh. “You were right.” 

    Did I hear that correctly? I was right? 
    Too stunned to celebrate, I ask, “Wait, what do you mean I’m right?” 

    Turns out we had turned too soon and were heading clockwise the whole time. My carefully plotted route and dream coastal views vanished with one wrong turn. 

    We consider doubling back but quickly dismiss it. The road ahead is open, the day young, and retracing steps has never been our style. This is how we always travel: Part plan, part instinct, and a generous dose of improvisation. 

    How many miles we cover in a day depends on the weather, temperature, and how often I stop to admire the view (which is often). The only real rule is to keep moving forward, wherever the road decides to take us. 

    At the entrance to Cape Breton Highlands National Park, a ranger waves us down to share tips on the best lookouts. This year, there’s no park fee, and thanks to a fire ban, campsites are easier to find. The gate lifts, and we shift into first gear, winding upward through curves that reveal spectacular ocean vistas. Steep cliffs drop vertically into blue depths. Just when we think we’ve seen the best view, the next corner proves us wrong. Choosing which lookout to stop at becomes a battle with FOMO. 

    As everything feels perfect—the bikes humming, the sun warm on our shoulders, the road unfurling ahead—we pull over at a scenic curve along MacKenzie Mountain. From here, the coastline stretches endlessly into the Atlantic, rugged cliffs stand proud beneath a sky too blue to be real. Tourists gather at the viewpoint, laughter and camera shutters carried by the wind. 

    MacKenzie’s turns sweep down the mountain in wide arcs, but the parking lot sits on a noticeable slant. Not much, just enough. 

    When it’s time to leave, I swing my leg over the seat and feel it: that slow, sinking shift. “No, no, no…” I whisper, but gravity has already decided. In slow motion, the bike leans, wobbles, and with a loud splat hits the asphalt. 

    Unfortunately, I go down too. My body flings sideways like a ragdoll in a bad stunt reel, landing flat on my back, arms sprawled out as I stare up at the sky in disbelief through the rectangle of the helmet visor. 

    In my ear, Chris’ sigh comes through, one part patience, one part prophecy. He had already noticed the slope and parked me in a safer spot. And here I am, proving him right again. 

    Tourists rush to help, their concern comically disproportionate to my bruised ego. Together, we heave the bike upright, her shiny new handguard scuffed, my pride thoroughly demolished. 
    “You good?” Chris asks, his tone halfway between concern and amusement. 
    “Yep,” I answer. “Now please help me lift this thing so I can die of embarrassment somewhere else.” 

    The “I fell here” memento I made from a postcard bought in a nearby shop.

    And just like that, the perfect ride has its first mishap, the kind that becomes a favorite story later. Or a cautionary tale. Whichever one calls to you best. 

    We continue through the valleys of Cape Breton Highlands, the scenery still surreal. Cliffs plunge into the sea, winding roads weave through dense trees, and every curve reveals another picture-perfect moment. As the sun dips low, we start scanning for a campsite. 

    We find a quiet spot near the mountains, nothing but rustling leaves and a babbling brook nearby. Our only neighbor is a small tent with a lone bicycle parked beside it. We had seen the same bike earlier, the rider grinding up a steep incline while we cruised past, impressed and a little guilty. 

    Curiosity wins, and we wander over. That’s how we meet Johan from Lyon, France, who is cycling across Canada, from Vancouver to Newfoundland. By now, he has pedaled nearly five thousand miles, averaging 70 a day and surviving on Knorr meal packs. Genius, really. We have spent far too much on dehydrated camping meals, and here he is proving the cheaper ones taste just as good. 

    As we walk back to our tent, I sigh dreamily. 
    “Wow,” I say. “I want to try that kind of travel someday.” 
    Without missing a beat, Chris replies, “You couldn’t ride from here to the road without getting winded.” 
    Touché. 

    The next morning greets us with stiff backs but another golden sunrise over the mountains. Sleep wasn’t great, but the view makes up for it. We pack our gear, stretch our sore muscles, and head to Pleasant Bay for a long-anticipated whale-watching excursion. 

    At the dock, Captain Mark welcomes us aboard a small zodiac. His energy is contagious, his stories blending fact and folklore with effortless charm. As we head out, the sea greets us with gentle swells and salt spray. Before long, a pod of pilot whales surfaces nearby, sleek and curious. Mothers and calves glide between the waves, unbothered by our presence. 

    Above us, Northern Gannets dive like arrows into the sea. Closer to shore, cliffs rise in jagged layers, their edges carved by time. Captain Mark points out “The Old Man,” a rock face shaped by nature into a profile both haunting and human. Grey seals pop their heads above the water, watching us with curious eyes before slipping beneath the waves again. 

    After two hours on the water, we return to shore, salt-streaked and grinning. It’s the kind of experience that lingers long after you’re back on land. 

    Side note: our GoPro didn’t survive the adventure. In a burst of enthusiasm, Chris dunked it underwater for the perfect whale shot. Minutes later, it blinked, sputtered, and died. Saltwater, as it turns out, isn’t forgiving. Another casualty of curiosity. 

    Later that day, we follow a small dirt path toward a Buddhist temple we spot on a roadside sign. The trail twists through trees and opens to a clearing where a white and gold stupa gleams under the sunlight, prayer flags fluttering in the breeze. The air feels still and sacred. Carved messages speak of peace and presence, a quiet reminder to slow down. 

    Captain Mark had mentioned that each year, monks here buy a local lobster catch, bless the lobsters, and release them back into the sea. It’s their way of giving life another chance, just in case one of their brothers has returned in shellfish form. The story lingers with us as we ride away, engines blending with the hum of the forest. 

    From Pleasant Bay onward, the Cabot Trail feels like it opens up at every turn. The road clings to the mountainside, the Atlantic stretching endlessly below. Each curve offers something new: a burst of wildflowers, a sliver of beach far below, a rush of wind that smells like pine and salt. The trail demands our focus but rewards us with awe. 

    Before leaving Pictou, our campground neighbor Dwayne had warned us with a grin, “Watch out for the hill people up north. You’ll know when you get there.” What we find instead is Meat Cove, a windswept, cliffside campsite where ocean and sky meet in spectacular fashion. It’s less remote wilderness and more adventurer’s resort, full of tents, camper vans, and laughter drifting through the salt air. We can’t help but laugh at the irony. 

    As the sun dips into the horizon and the waves crash below, the beauty of it all leaves us silent. 

    We rarely plan campgrounds ahead, so our options often depend on timing and our sore backsides. Balancing the choice between riding longer or settling for what’s available has led us to some of our best surprises. Sometimes the gamble lands us somewhere extraordinary, like a stretch of beach framed by forest and ocean. 

    That’s how we find our next stop: A literal beachside campground. I imagine a magical night by the sea, the kind of place you see in travel magazines. For the first hour, it’s just as whimsical as I’d imagined. The sky turns from gold to deep indigo, the waves hum softly, and the tent glows warm from lantern light. Then the wind shifts. 

    What starts as a breeze becomes a gale. The tent walls whip and snap, and sleep becomes a distant dream. Then comes the rain. We scramble to zip the fly shut, sealing ourselves in a humid cocoon that feels half sauna, half shelter. By morning, we’re bleary-eyed and delirious, the night officially filed under “memorable disasters.” 

    Coffee is non-negotiable, so we roll onto a small cable ferry and ride straight across without dismounting in Englishtown. Breakfast follows, along with the inevitable conversation about why we do this to ourselves, hauling gear, chasing weather, and sleeping on noisy, slippery fabric. 

    Refueled and restless, we continue east to circle the island completely. The wind roars against our helmets as we ride through stretches of empty coastline, windswept trees bending inland. On this side, there are fewer tourists, more “for sale” signs, and a quiet stillness that feels both freeing and slightly eerie. 

    Lighthouses dot the shoreline, white and red against the blue horizon. Even after a dozen of them, their silhouettes never lose their magic. They are symbols of endurance, quiet keepers of the Maritimes. 

    Further south, we reach Isle Madame and the village of Petit-de-Grat, a serene fishing community shaped by the sea. The road meanders along the coast, where pastel homes rest close to the water and boats sway gently at their docks. The air smells faintly of salt and seaweed, touched with the clean smell of linens hanging on clotheslines. 

    The pace here is unhurried. Every bend reveals another cove, another weathered shed, another moment worth remembering. Locals wave as we pass, their gestures warm and familiar. Isle Madame feels humble, proud, and deeply rooted—a place where the sea is both companion and teacher. Riding here isn’t about distance; it’s about simply being present. 

    We end our loop at a small pub, toasting the ride with a local specialty: the donair fried roll. Crispy, rich, and exactly what tired riders need. Once again, the sun dips below the horizon, and though a few hours still stand between us and the Bus, the pull of our soft bed wins out. 

    Helmet hair, rosy cheeks, and road dust—signs of an adventure well lived. The Cabot Trail has earned its place in the Chronicles. 

  • We Head East

    We Head East

    Leaving the cabin meant facing the hardest part of long-term travel: Deciding where to go next. Every option feels like the right one; yet choosing means letting go of a dozen others. The desire to see it all can weigh heavier than the motorcycles packed in the trailer. FOMO is a real travel companion, and if you let it take over, you’ll sit frozen in “what ifs” instead of moving forward. It’s analysis paralysis at its worst – like staring at a blank page before daring to write the first line. I speak from personal experience on this one.

    To arrive at a final decision isn’t always simple. Chris and I had been glued to our laptops for hours, scouring maps for a campground that checked all the boxes: Clear, unobstructed skies for our internet connection, close to bucket-list worthy motorcycle trails, far from a noisy highway, away from the middle of a city, reasonably priced, and available for a three-week stay. Yes, we know, our criteria list is a mile long.

    Each time we thought we’d found the right spot, we’d comb through campground reviews like detectives. When we finally landed on a spot that seemed perfect and spoke to someone at the other end of the line, our relief gave way to skepticism.

    “Do we pay now?” we asked.
    “Oh no, at the end, don’t worry about it,” came the casual reply.

    Which immediately set off alarm bells. The trauma of our North Bay, Ontario campground fiasco was still way too fresh. No deposit? No receipt? No guarantee?

    “Do we get a confirmation number or email?” I asked, trying not to sound shrill.
    “Oh, yeah, sure. It’s 9038.”

    To this day, we’re convinced that number was pulled out of thin air just to shut us up. But with no backup plan, we crossed our fingers and hit the road for the 1000 miles journey. Onwards to Nova Scotia, Canada!

    Our first day had us driving for over 11 hours, until the sun started to set. That’s how we ended up at a truck stop in New Brunswick for the night. Not exactly the pretty-views-camping we’d envisioned as rookie full-timers, but in RV life, safe and practical wins in certain cases. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead while the low hum of diesel engines became our white noise.

    The next morning, optimism took the wheel, along with just enough blind faith to keep things interesting. I had been appointed Chief Navigation Officer, a title that sounded far more official considering my actual skills. What I didn’t realize was that my GPS had “Toll Roads Off” in its settings. Combine that with the fact that we’d run out of Canadian data, our route was locked-in the moment I pressed “Go.” No rerouting, no quick fixes. Just commitment to our paper Atlas. It became a lighthouse beacon safely guiding our ship to port.

    Of course, that’s when the map betrayed us. A “primary highway” looked promising outlined in bold red, but turned out to be anything but highway or primary. The fastest route on paper was definitely not the easiest way to tow the Bus.

    Here’s where our personalities inevitably collided. Free spirit me was the one who insisted on chasing the ocean as we headed East, convinced that the smaller highways would reward us with sweeping views. The ever-rational Chris, pointed out the less romantic reality. Postcard-worthy roads usually come with sharp curves, low shoulders, and a headache or two. Naturally, we married each other.

    We ended up following my lead. Our prize for chasing the ocean? A narrow, winding road that ended abruptly in construction. 

    “How closed could it really be?” we asked. Answer: Very closed.

    This led us straight into one of those humbling rites of passage as a newly-ish married couple. We backed our rig into a stranger’s driveway to make a 180 degree turn. Remember when I mentioned taking driving for granted? There’s no quicker ego check than pretending to stay calm while your husband maneuvers 35 feet of trailer backwards with surgical precision.

    Eventually, we found the detour, which wound us onto (you guessed it) more narrow roads. By this time, the charm was wearing thin. Potholes rattled the truck and trailer. The pavement eventually gave way to a stretch of dirt road, vibrating us to pieces with relentless speed bumps. Then came the tight squeezes through small towns, where our mirrors practically brushed past mailboxes and parked cars.

    I could feel Chris’s patience stretching perilously with every bump and jolt. The more the road deteriorated, the quieter it got inside the truck. Not the peaceful kind of quiet. More like the no one dares to speak because we both know exactly why we’re here kind of quiet. This had been my call and I was acutely aware of my blunder. From the grand idea of chasing the ocean along a “scenic” back route, I now sat small in my seat, trying not to attract attention.

    Finally, the road opened up to the sweeping ocean view I had been longing for. While they were exactly as I’d imagined, . Only tinged with the knowledge that sometimes, the beauty comes with a price. In this case, the price was every last ounce of Chris’s patience.

    Harbour Light Campground

    We pulled into the campground and stepped into the main office, where we were greeted by the owner, Cameron. Without hesitation, he reached behind him for a basket on the shelf and handed it over. Inside were heaps of plump blueberries.

    “Here ya go! Fresh picked just yesterday morning,” he said with a cheerful grin.

    The voice rang a bell. It was the same man who’d taken our reservation over the phone! Sure enough, our site was ready – the very site he’d told us about during our first conversation. Somehow, without checking a single note or phone screen, he remembered not only our names but also where we were from and what we were towing. Impressive.

    No sooner had we finished introductions than Cameron launched into what the longtime seasonal campers later described as his “50-question interrogation.” Apparently, it was his way of showing he liked you. I believed it.

    One of his questions was about which route we’d taken to get to the town of Pictou. And there it was—the dreaded question. I admitted, a little sheepishly, that we’d taken Route 6.

    “Oh no, that’s the long way ‘round,” he chuckled. “Never mind what the GPS tells ya. The highway looks longer, but you’ll be moving faster and straighter.”

    I could feel Chris nodding his agreement. I, on the other hand, avoided eye contact. Cameron caught the silence. “Ah, you two fight on the way here?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

    Busted. I scrambled for a response that wouldn’t give us away completely.

    “Well,” I said, “I admit I made a navigational mistake. Let’s just say that the inside of the truck got very quiet.”

    Cameron burst out laughing. 

    “That’s worse! But hey, you made it, and it’ll all be better now that you’re here.” Then he added, almost as an afterthought: “Don’t prepare supper!”

    Chris and I exchanged a quick, confused glance, but exhaustion had gotten the better of us. With the Bus still to set up and bags to unpack, we simply nodded, thanked him, and headed off to our site.

    We tuck ourselves into a row of RVs, each lined up neatly beside the next. It feels busy here, a little buzz of activity with families setting up chairs, kids pedaling bikes, and the smell of the nearby ocean drifts through the air. Everything is tidy and cared for, which makes the bustle feel inviting rather than overwhelming. The best part is the beach: Just a short walk down from the site, where you can dip your toes in the water or simply sit back and watch the waves roll in. It’s the kind of place where you feel part of a bigger camping community, yet still get to enjoy the calm of a small coastal town.

    Once we’d finished tidying up around the campsite, we couldn’t resist the pull of the ocean. Neither of us had ever stood on this side of the Atlantic before, and its mystery tugged at us. What would it be like? Were there sharks, jellyfish, or other strange creatures lurking out there? Like any curious couple, we knew the only “sensible” thing to do was to get in and find out.

    The path to the beach starts simply enough: Winding under a canopy of tall trees, the ground shifting from gravel to scattered rocks. Sunlight filters through the leaves, flickering on the trail as we make our way down. Soon, the trees open onto a sandy walkway bordered by tufts of tall grass swaying in the warm breeze. That very first step onto the sand feels like pure bliss.

    And then, just ahead, the path funneled wide. There it was, the Atlantic, in all its quiet grandeur. Waves rolled in gently, carrying that unmistakable salty tang. But there was a twist I hadn’t expected. The air smelled different from the Caribbean waters I knew so well. Here, the salt mingled with a faint but present hint of sulfur, like the scent of hard-boiled eggs. When the tide dropped, the smell grew stronger – a strange but oddly endearing reminder that this ocean had its own character, one we grew to enjoy over our stay.

    The heat wave and drought pressing down on Nova Scotia made the day feel almost tropical, heavy with humidity. The air was so warm that the coolness of the water felt less like an intimidating eviction and more like an open invitation. With the sun on our backs and the horizon stretching endlessly before us, it was impossible not to walk in, letting the Atlantic welcome us for the very first time.

    The first swim of the day was perfect; the kind of effortless joy that makes you forget the chill of the water. Later that evening, we returned, thinking a sunset dip would be the ideal way to end the day. But as we waded deeper into the water, something caught Chris’ eye. A sudden yelp, a splash, and he bolted back toward the shore. Odd. What could have startled a grown man like that?

    When I looked down, there were hundreds of tiny, shifting shapes moving beneath the surface. My turn to panic. I stumbled back, laughing nervously as we both realized how ridiculous we must look. A quick scan of the beach confirmed it—no one else was in the water. People were either strolling along the sand or lounging on towels, gazing out at the view. Was this some kind of local secret? Do Maritime waters become off-limits after the tide goes out?

    Curiosity got the better of us, so we crept back in, carefully watching where we stepped. As the ripples cleared, the mystery revealed itself: Crabs. Dozens of little hermit crabs, scuttling over the sand. It must have been the warmth of the shallow water drawing them out. Then we spotted a few larger rock crabs ambling about with far too much confidence. One began making a not-so-slow, deliberate approach toward Chris’ foot.

    Now, I know what you’re probably thinking: 

    “Really? They’re tiny. What’s the big deal?” 

    Fair point. But knowing that doesn’t stop instinct. When that three-inch crab advanced like it had a personal vendetta against Chris’ toes, he let out another yelp and sprinted for dry land. I wasn’t far behind.

    By the time we made our way back to the campground, we were laughing hard, salty and barefoot, grateful for the kind of simple, silly moment that reminds us of how close to nature we really are. Our first unexpected adventure of this trip can be summarized by: Small crabs, big memories.

    Besides our two beach visits, we couldn’t forget Cameron’s parting words: “Don’t worry about supper.” We thought he was joking. Campground owners don’t usually double as personal chefs, right? But as we were settling in, getting our bearings at the site, a truck rolled up and stopped in front of the Bus. The window glided down and there was Cameron himself, grinning from ear to ear.

    With that unmistakable Nova Scotia lilt, he calls out: “Hope you’re hungry! See if you can figure out what makes this different —it’s our county’s special recipe.” And like some sort of culinary magician, he pulls out an oversized pizza box and hands it to us.

    Now, if there’s one thing you should know about us, it’s that pizza is our collective kryptonite. Actually, scratch that, anything with gluten is. So, this isn’t just supper being delivered to our campsite, it’s destiny. We thank him profusely, grab the box like a pack of overexcited kids, and hurry into the trailer to unwrap our prize.

    And she is glorious. Extra large, cheesy, clearly pepperoni, with a crust that hits that perfect balance of not too thin, not too thick. Our first slices disappear at a speed that could set records. So much for savoring the “special ingredients.”

    Determined to do better on slice number two, we slow down. That’s when we notice something different. The pepperoni sausage is smoked, sure, but the sauce… it’s brown. Not red-brown, but honest-to-goodness brown.

    “Is this even tomato sauce?” I ask, baffled. Chris, replies mid-bite with the confidence of a man committed to finishing the slice regardless: “Tastes like tomato sauce.”

    Mystery or not, the pizza didn’t stand a chance. It was gone in under thirty minutes. Later, when we ran into Cameron, he asked if we’d figured out what made it different.

    “The sausage was smoky,” we said. “And is there something going on with the sauce?”

    With that same knowing smile, he replied, “Yep! The tomato sauce here always comes out brown.”

    Brown tomato sauce? That was a first. And as for why it’s that way—well, that part remains a mystery. But honestly, who cares? It was rich, smoky, and absolutely delicious. We’d happily demolish another Acropole Pizza any day of the week.

    Downtown Pictou Village: A Culinary Diary

    I don’t like to call myself a foodie. No shame to those who proudly wear that badge, but I prefer to think of myself as a subscriber of the “I’ll try anything once” philosophy. My former coworkers used to call me the seagull because I’d eat my lunch and then happily swoop in on whatever leftovers anyone offered. Fair.

    Food, to me, is how you get to know a place. It’s the quickest way to understand its rhythm. And here, in the Maritimes, where the ocean writes every menu, each meal feels like a celebration. We’d rolled into Pictou, a sun-swept harbor village that instantly felt like the kind of place where everyone waves, even if they don’t know you. Amazingly, every car stops whenever a pedestrian reaches the crosswalk. This charming little town absolutely delivered!

    Downtown Pictou has that effortlessly cozy, slightly nostalgic small-port vibe. It’s the kind of place where brightly painted storefronts line the main street, locals greet each other by name, and the smell of salt air mingles with fryer oil and the comforting aroma of something cooking just out of sight. The waterfront boardwalk has that wish you were here kind of charm—boats gently bobbing in the harbor, gulls swooping with perfect timing, and a light sea breeze that carries both the scent of the ocean and someone’s order of fish and chips. You can wander past boutiques shops, restaurants, and the Hector Heritage Quay, where a full-scale replica of the ship Hector nods to the town’s proud Scottish roots. There’s something sweetly unhurried about it all; even the breeze seems to take its time.

    On one of our evenings exploring Pictou, we found our way to The Nook and Cranny, tucked right by the water, and grabbed a spot on the patio. It was one of those summer evenings when the heat practically melts off the pavement. So, the first cold sip felt like a personal victory. Chris went for the classic fish and chips—perfectly crispy, golden perfection. I couldn’t resist the fried haddock burger, which was everything you want a coastal meal to be: flaky, tender, and unapologetically messy. Chris’ Moscow Mule was crisp, my cider refreshing, and with the heat, every gulp tasted better than the last.

    We sat there grinning like fools, staring at the harbor, feeling that rare and satisfying kind of contentment that comes when good food, good drink, and a good view collide. 

    On more than one occasion during our stay in Nova Scotia, we gave in to the sweet call of ice cream. Sandy’s Ice Cream Shop quickly became a favorite, with its cheerful chalkboard list of flavors. Cones in hand, we’d wander along the waterfront, the salty air mixing with the scent of waffle cones and ocean breeze. Sometimes, a local musician would be strumming folk songs by the water, his voice carrying softly over the lapping waves. It was the kind of simple, perfect moment that makes warm days feel endless.

    One evening, during one of our passeggiate (the Italian after-dinner stroll Chris and I have adopted as a ritual) we stumbled upon Logan’s Daily Catch, a small seafood market tucked near the marina. The sign promised fresh local fish, and I couldn’t resist. The next afternoon, I rushed back and picked out a beautiful piece of halibut.

    Cooking has always been a joy for me, something grounding and creative all at once. There’s a rhythm to it: chopping colorful vegetables, mixing herbs, feeling the warmth of the pan, and watching everything come together. Maybe my Italian heritage is revealed through my love of feeding others and making the table feel alive. I grew up watching my mom and grandmothers turn ordinary ingredients into feasts. Always from scratch, always with pride.

    That evening, our little picnic table outside the RV looked like a summer painting: bright vegetables, perfectly grilled halibut, and homemade Paloma cocktails glistening in the sun. We lingered through dinner, laughing and shooting at the occasional fly with our ever-trusted salt gun, the air still thick with heat of the day.

    Pictou may be small, but it packs a flavorful punch. From seaside ice cream to market-fresh fish, every bite feels like a discovery and we’re more than happy to play seagulls once again, savoring every last crumb and drop of summer.