A selection from Karl’s journals that cover CANADA

Thursday, 13th February 2003. Canada

This morning Ruth drives everything back up to exit 379. After our goodbyes I am finally off, once again only 19 miles short of Canada. It feels good to be back on the move. A pleasant day, just a little over cast. A bit of a cold side possibly, but not that bad. I just don't want it to rain, not with the crap waterproofs I now have.

The day goes well and ends with a climb over some small hills before dropping down into Sweetgrass and the immigration crossing point. On the US side they have an idea who I am and what happened, so I don't have a problem leaving without a visa. And again there're no problems on the Canadian side, and having asked if I can have an extended visa because of the expedition and the walking etc I'm given one year. Just over the border is the small town of Coutts. As the sun sets I find myself a small restaurant and I'm allowed to sleep above an extension they're having built at the moment. I'm happy about this as I hate the tent I have at the moment even though I've never used it.

Friday, 14th February 2003.

This morning a thick layer of snow lay on the ground and it was definitely still in the air. A lot colder than yesterday, I'm forced to don my new plastic waterproofs. It's driving sleet and snow for a good number of hours.

Saturday, 15th February 2003.

I find this area windy and just so bloody bleak. The flat landscape is depressing in someway. Out in this open world I find it a real problem even trying to have a pee in private, there's just nowhere to hide away from the traffic, no dead ground.

By the end of play I cross a river then find a culvert where I can hide under the road. I scoop up some clean snow to melt for water. Happily I don't have to use the tent. In the darkness I listen to the coyotes howling close by. I have a mouse running around my kit, a noisy little bastard. I click on my torch to find the mouse sitting right by my head, but the bright light right on top of him does not seem to worry him at all. He sits and nibbles on an empty food wrapper that he's stolen from my food bag. He's at it all night.

The wind picks up and howls through the tunnel.

Sunday, 16th February 2003.

Filling the pot with snow from the snow bag, I fire up the stove. Christ, I hate mornings. It's so damn cold, so hard to force yourself out of the sleeping bag, shake off frozen stiff iced clothing and then climb into it... shivering violently for a few minutes. I mutter to myself a lot nowadays needless to say. I gather my rubbish into a pile, set it on fire then start to pack. It takes time to get onto the road nowadays, especially with these cold starts. It snows a bit today and there's a bitterly cold wind, colder than normal, as if that wasn't cold enough.

Thursday, 20th February 2003.

Bleakness is the name of the game today. It's quite simply cold and boring. There's a bitter wind that burns my face and leaves ice around my nose and mouth as my breath freezes instantly. Luckily I have a spare woollen hat in which I cut holes for my eyes and mouth in an attempt to limit the amount of exposed skin. The wind chill factor is below -40ºC today, and obviously indicates that winter has arrived.

With the wind still blowing hard at the end of play I stop at a farm to ask permission to sleep behind their hay bales in order that I can use them as a windbreak. Later, as I settle in for a chilly night, the owner turns up in a pick-up and asks me to join him and his family for dinner. Needless to say it doesn't take me long to accept and I end up sleeping at the home of this generous Mormon family.

Friday, 21st February 2003.

As I leave the farm this morning I'm handed an envelope from the family. I did not open it until later when I find it contains $100. Blow me! A hefty donation for sure! I push on through the cold until I reach Medicine Hat where I crash at a motel for the rest of the day.

My major concern at present, and let's face it I always have one, is crutch rot, for want of a better phrase. I've had it for as long as I can remember, but this time it's different. Normally I'm able to clean it up without too much trouble as it came then went, but for so long now I've had a persistent, vicious form, a deep red sore covering the whole area around my groin and it's not getting any better. If anything it’s slowly getting worse. Not only does it smart all day, but it itches all night, keeping me awake. I may well have to seek medical attention soon as this is making life miserable. We shall see.

On crossing the border my intention was to make it up to Calgary, however I'm throwing in a bit of a deviation to my route and making my way to the north- east, to the small town of Suffield. Here is BATUS, (British Army Training Unit Suffield). Basically this is a small unit that maintains a large number of tanks and armoured personnel carriers kept at this location, plus maintaining the firing ranges, for British Army units to use when they come to Canada for training. There are no large open areas in the UK or Germany where whole 'battle groups' of armour and infantry can deploy and train together in live firing exercises. Tank units, from Germany for instance, can now simply leave their tanks behind and 'borrow' the ones at BATUS for the length of the exercise. Given the state of my kit at present and the weather etc, my father thought it might be a prudent idea to drop in on these guys as a boost to my morale if nothing else. He consequently fixed up my visit and got me some contact names.

Monday, 24th February 2003.

There's a clear but cold sky as I move out of town. On the road I watch as a TV crew in a van pass by, it's a fair bet they'll be back. Sure enough they return and there's a quick roadside interview, even though the cameraman can hardly hold and operate the camera in this climate.

The long, flat and straight road goes on and on, but I make good progress. Soon enough, right out in the distance, I see Suffield. It's like someone waving a chequered flag so I push on, reaching the town at sunset. It's then that I find that the base is another 6km's down another road. Hmmm... I can spend a night by the roadside or carry on for another hour and at least I'll then be able to crash in the guardroom, I hope. I decide to push on into the darkness, scaring the living daylights out of the few drivers as they catch me in their headlights on a quite tight road.

I arrive, blistered to hell after a 38km day, and find that the civilian staff on guard know who I am, I'm glad to say. They call out the duty officer and REME (Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers) Staff Sergeant Steve Porett arrives on the scene. They have a room set aside from me and so I settle down for the night. Anything that I need Steve sorts out for me and he will become my guide and friend while staying here. The camp is quiet at present with only skeleton manning, some of the permanent staff having been recalled for active duty in Iraq.

The following morning I am picked up by Steve and taken to the garrison HQ where I meet Captain 'DZ' and the RSM, both of whom I had spoken to before on the telephone. I am very well received and given a new set of Gortex waterproofs and an arctic sleeping bag. Moving on to the rest of the camp, it's interesting to be back with the boys again. Soldiers just don't change at all and you can't find this environment anywhere else outside of the military. When together they are a completely separate breed. There is a culture that would be difficult to get on with at times for an outsider. I have to admit that even with my 12 years of service I could never quite click 100% with the junior rank mentality, but I am enjoying seeing it in action again. The first thing I realise, or rather I'm reminded of, is just how much they take the piss out of everything. No one or no thing is sacred. One night in the junior ranks mess and the entire time is spent listening to soldiers taking the piss out of each other and anything they could drum up. I am enveloped in the feeling that I'd never really left this environment, only had a break. Everything is so familiar, the cookhouse routine, the uniforms, somehow I am just happy to be back. I'm in a world that I know, recognise and am safe in. Somewhere that I understand.

The REME workshop agrees to fix B2 and get it back into shape. I also get the chance to look over some of the armoured vehicles, including the Warrior APC. There’s even the chance to play with the Challenger 2 main battle tank. Very impressive. Having been a paratrooper we never really got the chance to deal with these things. The first thing I realise is just how absolutely massive they are. Huge metal monsters, yet somehow graceful in full flow. There is talk at one point of building a new Beast. The engineers think they can do a lot better job and will be happy to do it, so we run with the idea, that is until time became a factor. The boss is willing to do it if it can be done in a couple of days, but it will take at least five days so we have to bin the idea as the workshop has a heavy schedule preparing all the tanks and vehicles etc for the next battle group which is due to arrive soon.

We have a press conference, held in one of the REME workshops, not just for myself but also for other elements of life at BATUS. The hierarchy of the base is here including the CO, then there's the local TV and radio folk numbering eight in total.

I also get the chance to chat to Catty over the net, which after such a long time is a real boost. In yet another attempt she has sent her papers off to the Canadian embassy requesting a visitor's visa and is now waiting to hear from them as to when she can go for an interview in Bogota. I've now got something else to worry about and am emotionally drained by building up my hopes and being let down repeatedly. This is without doubt the last chance she will get... we will get. There is a real fear here and it preys on my mind.

Saturday, 1st March 2003.

I've now been at BATUS for the best part of a week, and it's time to be pushing on. I have to say I've been treated magnificently, and must have put some weight on. As I told you previously I've been given some Gortex waterproofs and an arctic sleeping bag, plus I've completely re-equipped my medical pack and also somebody has lent me a tent. In fact, the one I bought in Helena has near enough been blown to shreds, so I couldn't have gone on with it. Time to leave this little British oasis and venture back into the wider world.

For a while now there have been e-mails flying backwards and forwards between Bill Anderson, my father and myself. Bill lives in Calgary and picked up on the expedition, volunteering assistance when I get there. Father has decided that he and Ben, my stepbrother (12), will be coming out on a short trip to Canada, between the 6th and 13th March. They will be bringing a complete re-supply of equipment and staying at Bill's house for the time they're there. It's also been decided that as I won't be able to walk to Calgary in time I will meet them at a truck stop near the small settlement of Bassano, not quite halfway towards Calgary on 7th March. It's about 116k's to Bassano so I should be there well in time.

Friday, 7th March 2003.

Another absolutely freezing day. The sky is a light grey, which then seems to merge with snow on the ground only a few hundred metres away so that the whole world is white. Now and then there is a flurry of snow. There's a stiff breeze blowing and with the wind chill factor, it's now below -30ºC. I am due to meet my father, Ben and Bill Anderson at a truck stop on the 'Trans Canada' near the settlement of Bassano. I arrive early, get myself a coffee and relish the all round warmth.

Not too long after Bill's pick-up arrives with my three visitors. Dad has brought a digital camcorder, loaned by the BBC, in order that I can make self-documentaries as I move further north. Bill stands back with this camera and videos the reunion. It's been four-and-a-half-years since I last saw my father, and yet within a couple of seconds it's as if it was only last week. Ben, of course, has shot up. It's even longer since I've seen him and that really does emphasise just how long I've been away.

Nobody wants to spend too long outside, so we make for the shelter of the cafe. There's a chat and a couple of coffees, then we load B2 into the back of Bill's pick-up and head off for Calgary. To take advantage of Dad's relatively short of time in Canada I've decided to spend a couple of days at Bill's place.

Bill has a workshop at the rear of the house, and although it remains cold for the next couple of days there's bags of room (and a heater) in the workshop to get myself comfortable. Dad and Ben are sleeping in Bill's study. I'm made extremely welcome by Bill's family, with the chance to wash some kit.

Now comes Christmas. After the theft of all my equipment in Montana I have been given a complete re-supply by The North Face UK. Tent, sleeping bag, waterproofs, fleeces, gloves, balaclava etc etc. There's so much in fact that my father decided to bring it out himself rather than try to post it. Spreading this kit out takes up the best part of the living room floor. I can now bin most of the stuff I'd been wearing up to this point, I'm back in the major league again.

Being a bit of an outdoorsman and walker as well, the following day Bill takes us around the city to meet some of the people that he knows who run outdoor equipment shops. It's here that I can pick up new goggles and other small bits-and-pieces that make life on the road a touch more bearable.

Sunday, 9th March 2003.

Dad hires a pick-up and we head off back to the truck stop where I'd been picked up. Apart from getting me back onto the road the intention today it is to use the opportunity to do some filming for the BBC. So for a couple of hours or more I'm walking up and down the highway, waiting for the next big truck to pass so that I can mysteriously appear out of the swirling snowdrift etc etc, all very professional. Apart from the fact that every 10 or 15 minutes we have to nip back into the cafe to warm up, (well, my un-acclimatised 'camera crew' need to). It's amazingly cold today with a wind chill factor of -47ºC. Working in these temperatures drains the batteries and on entering the humid atmosphere of the cafe a layer of ice instantly forms on the frozen camera.

We finish off the day with a meal, then I make my way across to the motel, while Dad and Ben head off back to Calgary. In the luxury of my warm but basic little room I undertake yet another reorganisation of my equipment. This new box is basically a winter version, being a good deal larger than the last box. Obviously at this time of year, and in this climate my total equipment is far more bulky, hence the larger box.

Tuesday, 11th March 2003.

Another bitterly cold day, but this time with little wind. I push on at a good pace, watching the traffic coming towards me as my father and Ben are coming out to join me on the road today. Sure enough they arrive in due time and it's good to see them again. This time they're in a jeep that my father had hired to take a trip up into the Rockies. We sit in the warm cab of the jeep, have a hot drink and talk about the preceding days visit to the mountains. We do some more filming and then it's time for me to head off to a small gas station and cafe on top of the hill some four miles away. Ben decides that he will walk with me for the hour that it will take and has the chance to pull the Beast. Dad drives ahead to meet us at the Cafe. At the cafe we have a coffee break and get a chance to talk things over for a while. Soon however it's time to push on and I say my final goodbyes to Dad and Ben as they will be flying back to the UK tomorrow. I make good progress, reaching the small settlement of Gleichen by the end of play. On my way in I'm stopped by a policeman, curious as to where I'm going. He explains that there is only one cafe here and gives me directions. Next I'm stopped by an English woman who now lives in Gleichen. She had noticed the Union Jacks on the Beast and is curious naturally enough. I find my way to the cafe, sit down and order myself some food. No sooner have I done this than the English woman, Janet, a teacher, returns and invites me to spend the night with her and her husband at their place. I except the kind invitation and as soon as I've finished eating, pack up and move around to the address I was given, which is only a block or two away. It's here I meet Janets husband Keith. Mature people, they are very pleasant and I'm in good company. Friday, 14th March 2003. The weather remains relatively warm, but over the next couple of days begins to get wetter. By the time I make it to the outskirts of Calgary the rain has started to turn into a heavy snow. This, unlike its powdery counterpart, sticks to me and I'm plastered in a deeper layer. Calgary, being a large city, has the usual heavy traffic, however I'm able to mostly avoid this by using the plentiful and spacious walkways. On the way in I give Bill Anderson a call and he and his daughter brave the bleak weather to come out and meet me a few blocks from their home. When I see them from a distance I believe at first that it's a camera crew as Bill has set up his camera on a large tripod.

After drying off and cleaning up I make myself at home in Bills workshop. Although not particularly luxurious it's quite snug and I have an old gas heater that keeps the place warm. Having said this, I spend most of my time in the house anyway.

Around this time, Catty is making her way to the UK, and staying at my father's in Hereford. They arrange to visit the Canadian embassy in London on the morning of 31st March. Everyone at this end is optimistic that this plan will work believing that having gained a UK visa, and having my father there to speak for her, that this should swing it. Needless to say we are all devastated when once again she is denied a visa outright. Catty and my father were never allowed an interview, even though they had initially handed in a whole wad of paperwork backing up every claim. The faceless bureaucrats at the rear simply stamped a big negative in her passport and handed it back.

I couldn't believe it and the next week was grim, slow and cold. Catalina is now stuck in the UK and obviously very upset, although putting a brave face on it according to my father.

I myself am going through a roller-coaster of emotions. Being all but out of options and ideas, I struggle to come up with anything. The only chance I have of making any difference or getting anyone to change their mind is to somehow involve the press. If we can go to the public, make a stink and get some coverage, maybe we could just make some one sit up and take note. However, I have little hope of being able to pull it off. I'm simply a nobody with a story that no one will have any sympathy for. Christ! After all, this whole mess is my own doing. Just why should anyone go out of their way to help? One thing for sure though, my friends here take up the sword. Bill and his wife Judith pool their resources, come up with contact numbers and names, then help me put together the paperwork and press releases etc. This takes another week or two until I am sure we have done all that's required. I take advice from a friend of bills, who works as a company PR, on the best way to go about it and also the best time to have a press conference. Just a week ago a story made the news about an elderly woman in the US who was dying and wanted to spend her last days with her sisters in Canada. She also had been refused a visa. The story caused an outcry and the resulting stink, kicked up by the front pages of the national newspapers was enough to get the decision reversed. Although our case isn't as deserving, there is still a chance that this kind of stuff is newsworthy at the moment and this could help us. In total we contact 20 local media outlets, from TV to newspapers, knowing of course that we wouldn't get that many turning up. The press conference is arranged to take place outside a government building down town, the main office of the local Immigration Service. The whole build-up leaves me tense and somewhat stressed. After all, if this fails what then? Submit to defeat? Lose my girl?

In March 2003 Karl was visited by Keith and Ben who brought with them a complete re-supply of equipment, to be followed by the eventual arrival in Calgary shortly afterwards. But overall that chapter documented Karl's constant struggle to get Catty to join him and, needless to say, it was littered with disappointments. The chapter ended with Karl's prolonged stay in Calgary as a number of people took the fight to the Immigration Service. Once again there was another body blow and the chapter closes with Karl saying his goodbyes to some good friends before heading off west towards the Rockies.

Thursday, 24th July 2003.

After half a day of buggering about trying to finish off what I could not get done last night I'm almost set to go. There's a quick dash over to Bill's place to drop off the Colombian present I had forgotten to hand over. On the way back to Mark and Kelly's I stop to pick up a new set of headphones. As I'm paying for them, Kelly finds a neat lightweight wind-up radio with short-wave. Just the sort of thing I'd been looking for.

Back at the house everything is good to go. Literally as I've got my kit on we receive a call from Mark's mother. She wants to donate $500! At first I say no, feeling somewhat embarrassed, but Kelly jumps on me for it and will not take my no for an answer. Kelly hands over the cash and Mark's mother can write her a cheque later. As if these people had not done enough for me already!

It's a teary goodbye but then I'm finally on the move. Tracing a planned route out of town, I find that B2 is very heavy. This is a cause for concern as I'm on route to the Rocky Mountains. It's a warm day, with just enough cloud to keep the sun from doing its thing. Just right for walking in fact. I know that I'm in for a kicking, having been static for so long, this is going to hurt. I didn't have to wait long for it to kick in either. The roads up to Calgary had been mainly flat but as I leave town this quickly changes. Not big hills, just rolling, but by God, did they hurt. And so it went on, to the accompaniment of high-pitched squeaks from the gophers along the roadside. A road kill coyote, the biggest I've ever seen.

Today's aim is a gas station about 30k's out of town that the chaps in Calgary had told me about, but as the day drags on it appears to have fallen off the edge of the world. Just as I'm about to quit for the day, it makes its appearance just on the other side of that last hill, the last one I could handle that day that is.

Friday, 25th July 2003.

As I stumble out of the culvert this morning I feel as though someone has savaged my legs with a pickaxe handle. I pack my gear away and then move tortuously over to the gas station for breakfast. Mother of God, I'm in pain from the neck down. Some coffee and food brings me around slightly, but as I move off I must still give the appearance of Frankenstein's monster.

I would love to say that the pains ease as I warm up, but unfortunately I can't. The day starts hard and simply gets harder. The Rocky Mountains to my front look pretty close, but unfortunately don't get any closer. The clouds of yesterday have gone, but it's not that hot as I have a pleasant wind in my face. Water becomes a concern as I do not have enough and I'm putting it away at some rate. The air is just so dry out here. After each hill I'm in real need of water and it looks as though I'm running quite short. Luckily enough, just as I'm about to run out each time some point where I can top up comes my way around the next corner.

Come the end of play I find a good place to hide up, away from the road which is now unfenced. I don't think I have done my full 30k's, but right now I'm looking for any excuse to stop.

Sunday, 27th July 2003.

After breakfast I set off for Banff. The day goes well and quite quickly so it seems that it isn't long before I reach town. It's very warm today as it has been for a few days, but I have the beautiful scenery of this part of the world to take my mind off it. I now have to track down a certain hostel. Here I am to meet an independent journalist, Kisha Ferguson, who has been commissioned by the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, (CBC), to put together an item for one of their radio programmes.

I eventually find the place and meet up with Kisha, to find she has got us free board at the hostel. Life in the hostel reminds me of those places in Central America, full of young travelling folk, where it was hard to shake off the feeling that I was on some sort of a holiday. Since then I'd never used a hostel again as I would rather avoid them. Call me fussy, but I like my own space when I've paid for a place so that I can sort myself out and not be crammed into a dorm with a whole bunch of hippies I don't know. Still, this time it's free, and I certainly can't afford any of the other accommodation around here.

Kishas' plan is to walk with me until we reach Jasper, a good walk of about 300km. She had been an editor with a Canadian magazine called 'Out Post', which had run an article on me not so long ago. This had been Kishas' inspiration for approaching CBC radio with the story. We sit, eat and talk until late. I'm very relieved to find that Kisha is easy to get on with, as I held some trepidation about walking a long distance with someone else. I am now going to be walking with a woman ... but not the woman I had planned to or dreamt it might be. Somehow I feel as though life is mocking me.

Thursday, 7th August 2003.

The ground around the huts is very rough and as we leave the hostel this morning I find it easier to push B2 rather than pull it. It starts me thinking about these other people walking around the world and how much easier it is for them pushing their pram like set-ups. What if, at the end of the day, they feel so much better than me because as well as pulling I'm also carrying a good deal of weight. Not just in my rucksack but the weight of the Beast pulling down on my shoulders. By the time we get to the road it occurs to me just how much easier it has been to get down here, how about seeing how it copes with the road. I've never even thought about turning B2 around and just pushing, it doesn't look as if it could be suited to such a thing.

However, over the next few hundred metres I'm absolutely amazed at just how easy it is. In fact the more I push and think about it, the easier it gets. Well I'll be damned! I'm almost in shock. Kisha finds this puzzling.

" You mean you've never tried this before?"

" No, not at all!"

Despite being built with pulling in mind it moves very easily when pushed, all the weight being on the wheels. All I have to do is lift the two shafts and tip the box forward until the centre of gravity shifts to directly over the wheels. It then moves effortlessly and balances so well that I can almost hold it in place with just one finger while I walk. More importantly, I can place my rucksack across the two shafts and B2 can now carry this extra weight with seemingly no extra effort from me...and downhill! It's almost pulling me along. Oh my God, I feel sick. It means that after four-and-a-half years I have at last realised just how much easier the thousands of miles might have been. Four-and-a-half shagging years, it's hard to get my head around it. Possibly B1, with its different configuration, may not have worked like this, but on the other hand it might well have. I continue to push B2 for the rest of the day.

A pick-up truck pulls up on the other side of the road. The man driving, clearly a Brit, sticks his head out of the window and hails me.

" Karl... Karl Bushby" he shouts, " It's Morland Sanders from the BBC."

I have been expecting them for some time now. Accompanying Morland is his cameraman Joe. They are here for three days, filming my intrepid exploits for a news documentary programme called 'Inside Out'. Although a national programme, it is split into regions and this particular item will be shown by BBC North. I get on with these two guys straight away, excellent lads, and filming begins in haste.

Wednesday, 13th August 2003.

Jasper……Meanwhile I find that the hostel is an interesting place to be stuck. I've not had a lot of experience in hostels and the last one I was in, before the Banff area, was in Quito, Ecuador. Unlike that one, here they have a very fast turnover with no one hanging around long at all, one or two days max. These places are just too expensive to hang out in and folk on vacation have limited time. They will rush in and dash about, before shooting off on a bike ride, a walk or rafting etc, cramming in as much as they can in the time they have. With each turnover of occupants this place takes on a different feel. Some nights it's a continual party with everyone really chatty, then other nights it's dead. Full of people, but dead, with everyone just sat around reading.

At night I wander off back into the wood. This becomes a little creepy. There are elk and deer out here, as well as bears of course. The trick is knowing what it is that's crashing through the bush around your tent at 04:00. If you make a noise, things like deer and sometimes elk will run, but it's worrying when whatever it is does not, but continues to heavily lumber around. Now nearing the end of my stay I will go out on a combat elk patrol. Charge around the bush thrashing, yelling and throwing stones to move the group out of the area so that I can sleep. Unfortunately, they are now starting to breed and will occasionally emit a high pitch screen. Not what you want when you're half asleep at 04:00. I would chase the herd up onto the road and then along it. I am at one with nature, or at least have an understanding with nature... This is my wood, piss off out.

However, a bull elk, in the rutting season, is not likely to be intimidated by the likes of me. One night coming back to the tent, approaching the wood line where it's hidden, I stop dead in my tracks, sure that there's something in front of me... but I'm not sure as to whether it's a tree or simply shapes in the grass. Whatever, it's not moving. The night is pitch black and all I have for light is my small close-quarter torch, with no real beam at all. I walk on for a few more steps, then stop again, something is not right. A car passes on a nearby road and as it turns its headlights sweep across the area to my front. To my horror I'm right on top of a full-blown bull elk. Towering above me, with a full rack of antlers, the monster seems sure that it's going to stand its ground. Luckily the car comes to a halt near by and as all the doors open and close, this beast of the forest decides to move on. Only slowly mind you, and as I stand there rock-like, a group of females, again initially unseen, moves past on my left.

Friday, 3rd October 2003.

There's lots of wildlife out here. Beavers playing about and loping down trees, and early in the morning I had some wolves quite near by. At night I throw a line up into the trees and haul up my food bag to keep it out of the way of the bears. Now you have to be pretty nimble, (as well as keeping your eye on it), to get out of the way of a 30lbs food bag when the thin pine branch snaps and it whistles earthwards. Today I'm not! I'm nearly pile driven into the ground. Causes of injury :-- Bears 0... Anti bear measures 1.

5th, October 2003.

In Grande Prairie I link up with some contacts and find some good friends. With the help of Brian Richter, a supporter of the Expedition, we cut a deal with a hotel and I'll have a room until I go. It's a busy period and there are interviews with the local TV and radio as well as some talks at the schools. I get to meet a lot of people and now have contacts for every town along the Alaska Highway.

As for the solar panel, I’d been a little disappointed. One time I used it on the move to try and recharge my laptop I had little success. It was a sunny day but after a full day in the sun the battery only had about five minutes life in it, if that. Later I fail to get any response at all from a set up and as of late have not had the time, or sunlight, to look it over. I'm a bit dubious with regards to the prospects of an independent power supply.

After a phone conversation with my father, I think it may be worth reinforcing a couple of points. I truly believe people fail to see just how important Catalina is, and will become, to me and the impact this will have on the expedition. I'll ask everyone to be very careful here. It is no longer, nor has it been for a long time now, a simple case of 'I would like to be with Catty'. It's difficult for me to explain just how this is starting to affect every waking moment of my day. There are things I cannot ignore for the fear of where it might take me. As a norm losing someone you love so much hits everyone extremely hard. But given my circumstances, the pressure and the isolation, then the fear of that loss is all the greater. People, it scares the shit out of me, its impact will be huge. I will keep walking, but I'm telling you now, you do not want me going down that particular road. If you are concerned about keeping the Expedition afloat then I'm hoping in some way you can understand what I'm trying to tell you. If people think this is a passing thing and I will get over it then things could start to go wrong, and there are no pills or creams out here for this one. I am on thin ice. You may not see it in the camera lens but beneath the surface I'm struggling. This is not just a distraction from the game, or some side project and people had better understand that this is the game itself. The whole adventure encompasses so much more than head down, arse up, point A to point B.

We need flexibility in this expedition. This is not an event, not a trip. As for credibility, this comes from people's opinions about the Expedition. Just what are people basing their opinions on? Could it be on all the other 12 year continuous expeditions they are following? Or their own experience? Quite frankly, they know only what they are being told, and we are doing the telling. If anyone wants to know the reasons why this expedition is taking the course it is then send them my way, because who knows better. I'm not here to make everyone happy, I'm here because I'm walking home and I will do what I need to do. This is too big to be tightly wrapped and I will not let the politics of this 'business' displace my passion for the adventure. People are following the dream.

I spend a week in GP then the boys take me out and get me drunk, (no one had warned them!). Eventually... after putting my fist through a fruit machine I'm dispatched through the doors of a strip club... by two members of the World Wrestling Federation, landing on my arse in the street.

I leave Grande Prairie on 13th October and a couple of days later reach Beaverlodge. Here I accept an invitation from some Hell's Angels to do some shooting, and end up getting to play with an SLR, shotgun and Uzi 9mm. From here, and it still nursing my broken hand from Grande Prairie, I head north-west about 100k's to Dawson Creek and the start of the Alaska Highway, arriving on the 22nd October. I overnight in the town but move on the next day and by the 25th reach Fort St John.

13th / 14th and 15th November 2003.

It's been a few days now of steadily dropping and climbing. I've stopped making fires on an evening because it's getting too cold. Let me explain. To combat the night chill I'm forced to get closer to the fire. As I do, small embers are spat from the fire and start to burn holes in my clothing. I suppose I could spend some time building a reflector behind the fire to send more heat in my direction, but to be honest it's just not worth the effort. Mostly, I just want to get into some warm dry clothing, have something to eat and then sleep. The routine now becomes tent up, get in, gas stove on! The tent then rapidly warms up to about 30C, which is heaven after a day of -10C to -20C. Nearing the end of my day on the 15th I stumble upon the remains of a car crash. Clear skid marks lead from the road and into the dirt, gouging deep ruts into the earth. As I trace the events it's clear to see that the car had been travelling at speed. At one point the car leaves the ground, spins through the air, lands and bounces back into the air before finally piling in. Objects from the car are strewn all over the place, personal items and car parts. I find a US passport half buried in the snow, along with business cards and other paperwork which I collected to a pass on, I also find a few things to eat... now we're talking! However his flask is totally shattered.

Thursday, 1st January 2004.

Leaving Fort Nelson was not meant to be like this. It was intended to be a far happier day and going back onto the road alone brought all my fears and disappointments home to roost. However, I leave at about midday and I'm kept occupied and my mind busy by the fact that the air temperature is -40C, or even lower. I eventually come across a house that has a large space at the rear, so I approach the owner and ask if I can camp there. The day ends with them letting me use their camper van to sleep in, which is a real stroke of luck as its bitter outside, in fact, evil would be a better word.

Friday, 2nd January 2004.

Having breakfast with the family I'm asked if I would like to stay for another day. As it's -42C outside and I'm sitting in a warm and extremely comfortable house, it takes some serious motivation to get my arse up and out. As I leave they give me $100, for which I am most grateful, as accommodation costs a fortune up here and I will need all the help I can get.

It's an absolutely horrendous day and one I'd rather forget. To top it off I break my four bridged front teeth while trying to get through a bar of chocolate with a permafrost centre. I look about 80 years old and talk like Sylvester the cat. Plastic items like buckles and clips on the Beast and my equipment freeze into an almost glass like state and begin to break. I just can't wait to get off the road, into my tent and fire up the stove. Once inside my sleeping bag I'm happier, but my God, everything is covered in ice and I mean everything. I have my sleeping bag pulled tightly around my face, except for a small hole that I can breathe through. Lumps of ice rapidly form around this small gap as my breath freezes. However, while I'm warm enough in my sleeping bag, how I hate the mornings.

I normally wake when it's light and then go through the routine of melting snow, cooking and then cleaning everything up. In these conditions it takes far longer than it ever used to. Actually getting started up is the real pain. It's so damn cold the inside of my tent is shimmering with ice, like a Hollywood set. Sticking one arm gingerly out of the sleeping bag I reach for my cooker then turn it on. It takes far too long to melt all the snow I need to cook, drink and then fill my flasks for the day ahead...and too much fuel as well. Within a couple of days I've blown half my fuel supplies, so I need to spend less time with the cooker on. The problem is, I will not be able to dry the clothes I have been wearing during the day and these will be covered in ice when I come to put them on. Admin, survival's all about personal admin.

Monday, 5th January 2004.

Same routine, getting out of my bag at 08:00 as its getting light and onto the road by 10:15. After only 4k's I find a road maintenance camp with people living there, thank God. I crawl in and ask if I can crash somewhere warm in order to dry out my equipment and fix some kit. There's been a lot of cold damage to straps and buckles, with the glued joints on the Beasts box coming apart. The BBC camcorder works once in a blue moon and my stills camera has packed up altogether. I'm given a hanger/garage where the snow ploughs live. It is permanently heated by large gas fan heaters, a little like heaven must be.

My chores complete, I sit around in comfort and take time to reflect. One way or another, I'll be able to sort my kit out, but what's really kicking me is my own personal life. There's not a lot of wind in my ragged sails right now, but I'm moving and don't have frostbite. Just every now and then I get to hear news from around the world, like the earthquake in Iran, where the homeless are burying their loved ones in mass graves while living under plastic sheets in the rubble of their former homes... and I quit bitching.

I will stay here for the day now, get sorted out and move out come the morning.

Monday, 8th March 2004.

I eventually arrive in Watson Lake after a 42k day, very tired but extremely happy to be here at last. I celebrate by sitting down to a cup of hot coffee in a small cafe. Watson Lake is quite a small place, just a cluster of houses, a few shops, library and town hall. Population of about 700-900... and nine crack dealers apparently. Obviously it has its problems. I crash in the cheapest place I can find, but it's not at all cheap at $79. The cheapest places ($45) are in fact all closed, but no surprise there.

I stay for four days and during this time meet up with a group of British soldiers from 'Batus', Suffield. The OC recognises me and at the end of the day they leave me with a box of 10 x 24 hour ration packs. Six of these packs can be carried and the rest are sent by bus to Swift River Lodge to become part of a resupply.

Whitehorse.

A sunny, but somewhat windy day and a 20k stretch before dropping down into the town. My last in Canada. I have decided to set aside a week in Whitehorse, not that I can really afford it, and get myself some space in a hostel. However, I'm interested in the media potential here and the possible TV coverage. I work hard putting out feelers but in the end it doesn't happen, just another seven minute local radio interview. It's hardly worth getting out of bed for.

I receive an e-mail from Catty, who's having a bad day. She's feeling lonely, has not yet got a job and is running out of money. She's had to leave the house she has known for so long and will move to an apartment. At 34 she is more alone then ever now. I start to crash. Anger grows, turns to hopelessness and then just plain despair. I sit for 12 hours just trying to work my way through this bout, while attempting to reason the predicament to death. This is all I seem to do, a constant state of self control, deep breathing and burying the unpalatable facts, somewhere, somehow... just deal with it. So much of my time is spent dealing with it that I have little time to focus on anything else. It consumes everything. If I eat I feel nauseous, a tight knot in my stomach.

I'm back on the coffee, as during these depressive phases I just lose my appetite. I don't eat, just drink lots of coffee. A good downer will last me all day until I can find something to snap me out of it. My emotions turn on a sixpence with absolutely no effort at all. I'm resigned to the fact that I now have to live with this, just managing it and working along. I look around the cafe. It appears to be full of people like me... look at them, each dealing with his or her self contained catastrophe as best they can. " You're not helping me people!!"

As I say, I've accepted that I will have to live with this pain and I don't mind that, but when it comes to hurting those I care for because of the things I do, then I simply cannot justify it. Catty suffers because of my selfish relentless pursuit of a meaningless, worthless goal. My son can be found crying at night because he misses his father. This is the way it is. I simply cannot justify this expedition any more and none of the reasons seem too hold water. No matter what I can invent I'm just too smart to fool myself any longer. The other thing bothering me is a feeling of worthlessness. Everyone back home has worthwhile jobs. The world is at war, the boys are in Iraq, friends and family are doing grown up jobs... police, international security, the armed forces. Everyone seems to be doing their bit. My good friend John, who worked his way up into the lofty heights / murky depths of the intelligence world has now disappeared, probably into MI5 or MI6 and what am I doing? Walking down the Alaskan Highway with a box on wheels.

Wednesday, 28th April 2004.

I find a quarry beside the road. It really could be anywhere along the coast of Peru or Mexico. I'm not sure why I find this place so appealing, but I do and I love it. The effect in fact is very powerful and I stand staring at it, transported back to happier days. Days when all I had to worry about was starving to death, being eaten hollow by some parasite or flattened on the road.

Later in the day I find myself staring down into a running creek. I'd had a bad dream when last in Colombia, one I'm reminded of every now and then, and the kind you don't forget that easily. A scary and vividly real dream about the ice. It's the Bering Straits and I'm trying swim across a broken lead of water. However, the ice floe at the other side is too thick, too high for me to pull myself out. The current is flowing fast and begins to pull me beneath the ice. I desperately try to hang on but bit by bit I find myself being dragged down to a silent death under the ice, never to surface again. This nightmare returns to me as I watch lumps of broken ice being carried down the river, crashing against a frozen area and then being dragged under the surface ice to disappear.

Saturday, 1st May 2004.

I leave for the border, only one day from here. I pass through Canadian Immigration just outside Beaver Creek and continue pushing hard. The mountain's are behind me now, I left them a few days ago. I'm now down into the low lying hills, though still within the same old ocean of forest, that stretches for as far as your imagination will allow it to. There is a certain buzz about the day. And this is not your normal day, but the day that I cross the line into 'Stage 5' of the expedition, Alaska and back into the USA. Almost symbolically just as the US Immigration post appears to my front the Canadian Rocky Mountains disappear behind a hill and are gone like the chapter of a book.

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