Updates from the road on WTKF 107.1FM - Mon, Wed, Fri 8:05am

Pedal 4 Wildlife updates will be aired live from the road beginning August 3, 2009. Each Mon, Wed, and Fri at 8:05am, I will call into the Talk Station. Be sure to tune in.

A journey begins

On the eve of first pedaling from the Pacific I wondered why I pondered this scene. It is of Lake Mistassini, the largest in Quebec. I have had the good fortune of paddling its massive waters at the start of long trips into the Cree wilderness. It lies at about 50 degrees north. The typical paddler leaves the Cree post of Mistassini and travels north on a slender bay. Then the lake abruptly gapes open. An inland ocean, it shows up on the world globe. To the north, the view goes on forever. The lake’s tentacles bend to the horizon. Its waters arc poleward into a seeming vast unknown. Sure, maybe it’s familiar territory to the modern traveler that can peer down on the land from a jet, or check it out on the internet. But when you paddle a canoe or pedal a bike, life slows down. It brings you back to the ground, which isn’t a bad thing in the modern era. Everything boils down to the lake or road beneath your feet. The rest is a ‘great beyond,’ made up of many faraway hills and rivers to cross.


I think over again my small adventures,
My fears-those small ones that seemed so big.
For all the vital things I had to get and reach.
And yet there is only one great thing,
The only thing,
To live to see the great day that dawns,
And the light that fills the world.

Inuit proverb

Reflections and anticipations

Soliciting donations through my cross continent bike ride to benefit the Outer Banks Wildlife Shelter (OWLS, right) made me reflect on how I got here. Indeed, I wrote some people that I had not seen in decades but were nonetheless instrumental in shaping me when I was at a plastic age. I trust that the people that have devoted energy in guiding me feel a return on their investment. This is also a return on my three decade-long investment in myself: tens of thousands of solitary laps in the pool, endless push-ups in stairwells and airports, on boat decks and parking lots, and long runs on empty streets when most folks were sleeping or watching TV. This commitment to fitness has given me an opportunity to do something most people might only dream of. It has set the table for me at an age where I can harness my energy for the better good. I am sage enough to know that in life there are trips and journeys, and sometimes the two have a different meaning.

I have derived great satisfaction out of giving back to my community by volunteering at the Outer Banks Wildlife Shelter (OWLS). OWLS treats thousands of patients every year. Many of their wildlife patients are injured as a consequence of the increasingly greater human footprint on the Crystal Coast; patients arrive to OWLS because of cars, boats, fishing line, and habitat destruction. What makes the Crystal Coast a special place to live and visit is the very same wildlife that OWLS treats as a result of us humans being here.

The president and the North Carolina governor, among others, have recently called for citizens to give back to their communities. There are a couple of ways that you can give back to the Outer Banks and the Outer Banks Wildlife Shelter. One way is to volunteer your time to them. Volunteer opportunities include working on their grounds, animal care, and education/outreach. Another way to give back to the community is to donate to OWLS through my charity ride (www.pedal4wildlife.og). Funds that you donate will be used to rehabilitate and release wild animals back to the beautiful southern Outer Banks.

A tribute to Lance

I marvel at Lance Armstrong’s ability at age 37 to not only compete in the Tour de France but to excel. Almost half way through the 2009 edition of the most difficult sporting event in the world, Armstrong sits a mere eight seconds back of the lead. Opponents and naysayers will hope that the next biking phenom, another litany of hecklers, or convalescing legs will cause him to fall out of contention. I, however, am hoping that he can turn back the clock of father time and add one more chapter to his unique legacy.

What do Lance Armstrong and I have in common? Likely a couple things. Besides a love for biking, we are both riding for a cause, I for the Outer Banks Wildlife Shelter and him, of course, for cancer research and awareness. We are both aware that long bike journeys that test the mind and body are attention grabbers by which the public can become aware of issues far more important than ourselves alone.

Will the 2009 Tour de France end with Lance Armstrong as champion again? Today, nobody knows. But Armstrong’s legacy is already cemented. His lung busting climbs over steep mountains on France have conjured up the following image in my own mind...

At the base of the last long hill you peer over your shoulder. A few of the world’s best riders and there with you, ready to put their last bit of energy into destroying your chances for victory this afternoon at Sestriere. This is the race of truth. A first place finish here might cement your bid to win not just any tour, but the Tour de France.

You peer over your shoulder again. The next long minutes of your life will tell you whether the toil of winter training rides will bear fruit. How many bitter rides through unrelenting rains brought you to this race and a climb where the maillot jaune could finally be yours for good. You breathe hard. Your face shows the fatigue, but your competitors do not feel so well either. Their grimaces tell a tale of 213 punishing kilometers cycling through the heart of Europe’s high peaks.

Now you see who will crack. It might be you. You push the stakes higher. You leave the saddle and go. Beltran is the first to fall from the group. Then Escartin is dropped. Two rides dropped, two to go.

The grade steepens and you sense you’ve opened a gap. Another peer over your shoulder to gaze at your competition would just rot your own precious strength. So you focus straight away. You envision the world’s last two drops of energy trickling down into your two massively tired legs. Pain is your only companion. Your vision becomes narrow. The world becomes small, just your legs turning tiny wheels up the jagged road. At the crux of the climb Gotti falls off the pace. The climb boils down to your and Zuelle.

Round the last corner and the finish tape is waving. You sense victory and free your mind for a final glance down the hill. Zuelle is long gone from your wheel. The best riders have been systemically dropped. The sun is drowned by mountain haze but the color is yellow. As yellow as your jersey. Yellow, the color of triumph high atop the slopes of Sestriere.

Dry Run

Deep into the heart of a 150 mile bike ride in Colorado this past weekend I snapped this photo. What you can see is incredible scenery, a smooth road, and a wide shoulder. The temperatures were perfect and the wind was light. Traffic was virtually non-existent. The bike and body performed well in the thin mountain air. I wondered whether I would be so lucky to have these conditions on the upcoming ride for Outer Banks Wildlife Shelter. I wondered whether the sweet smell of cottonwood leaves would still fill the air. I wondered raptors would still be soaring overhead and hunting from power lines. And I wondered whether songs of meadowlarks would still be there to pull me up another hill when the only other sounds would be moving bike parts and my heart pumping through my chest.

Holy Cross

Mount of the Holy Cross is one of the most revered summits in North America. Today I gained its summit. My reflections about this peak follow. It’s a fitting testimonial to my love for wildlife and wilderness.

Holy Cross

The road dead-ended into a clump of spruce at 10,000 feet. Darkness and summer cold brought with it an inevitable uncertainty of what lay ahead. I was a stranger here. On the far side of the continent I had passed rainy winter afternoons dreaming about snows on Holy Cross. Now I would try to climb this majestic mountain myself. Others’ photos would be replaced in my mind by my own memories – memories surely made more enduring by a sudden transition from sea level to the heart of the Colorado Rockies.

The woods were still but for my heart fighting hypoxia. Lightning illuminated mountains in the distance. The Milky Way radiated the sky to the east. Four miles off was East Creek, a place where I would unceremoniously descend to find a few hours of altered sleep. The altitude caused me to waver across the narrow, snowy trail. I made stumps into bears eyeing me from the edge of the trail.

Thursday morning broke cold and wet. Altitude now gave me a throbbing headache and nausea. Weakly I started up the long slope to the summit ahead. How would tiring footsteps become long miles of grueling ascent? I passed the time pondering how many steps might give me the top of Holy Cross.

To a climber in self doubt the day’s first unobstructed view to a summit provides optimism where there really should be none at all. By ten in the morning I was above treeline, and only rock lay ahead. My head pounded with pain but my spirit lifted.

Soon I was fighting time. Forecasts called for storms, and early afternoon brought the first squalls from the west. Fighting vertigo, I stumbled to the summit. It was the first time I stopped to absorb the beauty of the land. The spires of dozens of mountains leapt into view.

A walk off a stunning mountain summit leads to me to ask questions. Did I spend long enough at the top? Did the climb live up to my expectations? Did I give the mountain enough time? Little time is all I had, and many would never get the chance to give Holy Cross any time at all. Swirling storms gave my strides down-slope a sense of purpose.

The Colorado Rockies is a tortured place. Private property and barbed wire have fragmented the land. Disputes have followed: who can cut the trees, tap the gold or hold back precious water from a neighbor below. Nowadays denizens of skiers are deposited on Rocky Mountain slopes to track powdery snow. Indeed, I was jetted here just yesterday, leaving the sands of Carolina to make my own mountain memories.

However, it is entirely possible in the Holy Cross Wilderness to take your mind back to another time, when the Colorado Rockies was untamed land stretching hundreds of miles in all directions. My visit here comes full circle. On my hike out daylight fades to darkness. A wind spills off the mountainside and whistles down the slope. A raven cackles from the ridge below. A thrush sings its sweet melody in the woods beyond. Water thunders from the far cliff and then echoes off a hill faraway.

Riding for owls

Here is a short history and some tidbits about the Outer Banks Wildlife Shelter (OWLS), the group that I am riding cross-country for.

OWLS is the only full-service agency of its kind in eastern North Carolina. OWLS first opened in 1988 by a licensed wildlife rehabilitator. Volunteers worked from their homes during that first year of existence. In 1999 OWLS moved to its present location off Highway 24 in Newport. The current facility consists of the shelter building, three acres of yard with cages for permanent and rehabilitating animals, a pond, and two acres of nature paths. There were 17,000 patients admitted in the first 18 years of operation. OWLS is staffed seven days a week by 60 volunteers. Pictured here are Dinah the barred owl, Phoenix the peregrine falcon, and Gabe the kestrel.

OWLS has a release rate of 40% for previously sick or injured animals. Ninety percent of infant or orphaned animals are returned to the wild. Over 100 species of birds, 17 species of mammals, and 9 species of reptiles have been successfully treated.

Education is a major role in the daily operations of OWLS. OWLS conducts special programs in the classroom area of the shelter for school children and special groups. This includes outreach for school and civic groups, participation in festivals and other local events, and tours of the shelter. OWLS’ income is mainly from private contributions, business and corporate aid, program fees, aluminum can recycling, gift shop sales, yard sales, and a small foundation grant.

OWLS needs roughly $16,000 per month to cover its operating expenses. The average cost per patient is $45. The majority of people who bring animals in for treatment do not make any financial contribution at all. OWLS relies on the financial support of its donors; it receives no financial support whatsoever from any state or federal agency. Please make a contribution to OWLS through this website, and be sure to follow my August cross-country bike tour on this blog site.