Vanderhoof, British Columbia

Distance: 55 miles (total 62 miles)

Climb: 1500 feet

Wow! Level Ground Coffee Roasters Colombian Coffee is delicious. And I am a bit of a coffee snob. This is the real deal.

I wasn’t always like this. It is an acquired snobbishness. My first cup of coffee was with my Uncle Roy somewhere in northern Indiana when I was about 14 or 15. He and I used to work for my father installing fire protection and burglary alarm systems. While traveling across Indiana, we ate at inexpensive restaurants. My uncle would drink coffee with the meal, and then a few cups afterward. I felt a little left out after my hot chocolate was gone. So one day, I ordered coffee, doctored it with cream and sugar. And hated it.

I don’t recall exactly when I started drinking coffee, but by young adulthood, I remember loving my stepmother’s percolator coffee. I would drink whatever coffee, strong or weak, offered by my hosts, available at the restaurant or hotel, or in any country I visited.

In Pakistan, local people drank chai—the Asian word for tea—and I loved it, particularly doodwalli chai, or milk tea, which has now become popular in the West as chai tea (literally tea tea). Europeans visiting South Asia, on the other hand, frequently drank instant Nescafé with milk, water, and sugar. Once, sitting in a guest house in Kabul during the Taliban rule, a European man made a thick version with two spoons of Nescafé, half milk, and half water with lots of sugar. I fell in love with the drink, and still drink a light version of it today. My daughter makes fun of me for calling it milk coffee, and I make fun of her for using the term chai tea (tea tea). But after all, café latte is literally milk coffee.

At some point over the years, I became more and more snobbish about coffee. At home, I drink two cups of strong dark roast each morning, followed by two cups of milk tea.

A few days ago, a Black UPS driver was dropping off a package in Pennsylvania in a white, upscale neighborhood on a hot afternoon. Several teenage boys had a homemade slip-and-slide in their front yard and invited the driver to join them. And he did. The video shows the boys and the driver running and sliding in unison, getting up and laughing and delivering high-fives all around.

That is the type of reconciliation that this world needs more of. If you are reading this, I challenge you to do something kind and fun like this. Send me a story in the comments below or at my email (Craig_Davis@PeaceBridgeSolutions.com) about something you did. We are better because of it.

This morning, I was up at 4 am before my alarm went off to prepare to leave at 6 am on this monster ride. I was anxious, unable to land on the most productive use of my time because of competing priorities. I started with the coffee, which was certainly the priority. Then wrote in the PeaceBlog, but I then switched to trying to fix my internet problem, because I needed internet to ride today: 55 miles and 1500-foot climb didn’t require internet. I know that 25 years ago, I could have made it with absolutely no internet. I do ride west on Canadian Highway 16—a branch of the Trans-Canada Highway—never veering off even once. But I self-motivate by checking and rechecking the distance covered vs. distance to cover, elevation to climb, temperature, winds, messages, and so on. So I needed to get it fixed.

Despite the message on the Aililo app that service was still out in Canada, Brazil, and elsewhere, the Aililo AI asked me to check to make sure my eSIM ICCID # on the phone was the active one for Canada. I almost told it yes without checking. Of course, it was the correct one. I used it a few days ago, right?

But I did as asked and checked. Sure enough, it was wrong. Once I went into settings and changed it, the service worked fine. Probably most of you know about eSIMs and how to set them up. But I didn’t. My own AI, “Olive,” explained them to me and helped me get set up when I traveled to Colombia a few months ago. Since then, I have become a convert.

I transferred some of my video from my Insta360 camera to my Photos to free up space, and got Lucy pushed out the door 30 minutes late: 6:30 am.

When I dropped off the key with a bright-eyed and optimistic Elke, I thanked her.

“Thank you for encouraging me.” She had told me that the route to Vanderhoof was not that hard, not that hilly, that I could make it with no problem. “I once rode with a group 500 kilometers in two and a half days. That was Bavaria.”

I assume she was much younger than I am now. That she was not carrying 50 pounds of saddlebags and backpacks, and that she was in much better shape than I am. But her point was valid.

I could do this.

I immediately took to the road, pedaling with quite a bit of energy. It was in the mid-40s, so I had dressed appropriately. I tackled the first huge hill with the confidence of The Little Engine That Could. I was enjoying myself.

About ten miles in, I came across a Dodge Ram truck on the opposite side of the road, pulling a trailer, with its hood up. I thought about stopping, but what could I offer to the old man? He probably had better cell service than me. Probably was a much better mechanic than me. Probably had a local mechanic on speed dial. What could I offer?

So, I passed him. Didn’t even wave because he wasn’t looking in my direction.

Then I thought, “This guy is having a bad day. You can at least shake his hand and try to make his day just a little better.”

So, I swung around to the eastbound lane and rode back.

“Hello,” I said, startling him a little.

Chris is 78 and a half years old. A retired fisherman and firefighter. He was hauling chipped wood in the trailer to his wife’s garden when his truck overheated. He had burned his hand trying to take off the radiator cap and dropped it down into the bottom of the engine. There was water spilled all over the road.

“Now, I am going to pull up to a drier spot and crawl under there to find that cap,” he said. He had filled the radiator and felt that he could make it to his home in Prince George if he could get the cap back on.

“I’ll crawl under there,” I told him. He was 13 years older than me, and his mobility had deteriorated. He could no longer slide down the fireman’s pole, I suspect. So, I pushed Lucy back and leaned her against his trailer.

After he pulled up, I crawled under the engine and found the cap easily.

I told him about R4P and he very respectfully told me his views on the tensions between our two countries. I liked him. We could have talked for a long time, but I knew I had another seven hours or so of hard pedaling ahead of me.

Unfortunately, my new wired earphones had wrapped around Lucy’s back sprocket. But I got it unwound and checked. They still worked.

And I was back on my way.

I gotta tell you, there is almost no commerce between Prince George and Vanderhoof. Not even the signage, advertising important fast food, accommodations, and other important consumer items, like we would find in the U.S.

It was cold too. In the 50s most of the way, and 8 mph winds pummeling my face. It was a hard ride.

About halfway, I met Liv, the part owner of Highway 16 Eatery, which was a very welcome restaurant and convenience store. My weary legs really appreciated the rest. While the male cook made my cheeseburger and fries, I chatted with Liv and one of her patrons—a woman about my age—about my mission.

“I love it,” Liv said.

I listened as they expressed very respectful opinions about the tensions between our nations.

The older customer said, “Many businesses are closing because tourists have stopped crossing the border.”

“I know,” I said. “I can’t do anything about that, but I can promote goodwill… There is no country on earth that we have more in common with than Canada. Our biggest trading partner. Similar background and culture.”

When the patron walked back to her table, she left me with this: “We are very friendly.”

But the division and tensions are not just between the U.S. and Canada. Political issues divide Canadian communities, just like they do in the U.S.

I knew this, naturally. While living in Costa Rica 35 years ago, my wife and I became friends with a Canadian couple and the wife’s mother, who had started a bed and breakfast a few blocks from us in San Antonio, Escazú, on the mountainside, just outside of San José. It was during the Clarence Thomas Supreme Court confirmation hearing, when Anita Hill accused the judge of sexual harassment. The family had different perspectives on the issue, as they did about most every other social and political issue. Reminded me of my own family. We land all over the place.

I remember the mother weighed in on the Michael Jackson child abuse accusations, saying, “Where there is smoke, there is flame.”

But the recent real tariffs and 51st-state rhetoric have only deepened the divisions, not surprisingly.

In any case, today, when I asked Liv if she would be willing to volunteer her time to heal her community, she said, “Yes.” She showed me the local artwork all around the Eatery, which she proudly displays for free. A very healthy step in the right direction. She and her partner have so much potential to do more good work. I would love to hear in the future that she undertook new initiatives that helped reduce tensions.

I am glad that I bought another bottle of water because I used every last drop of water in my CamelBak bladder, my CamelBak bottle, my Propel bottle, a bottle of water I bought just outside Prince George, and this last one.

The last half of the trip was a little warmer. The sun came out. The last 27.5 miles held lots of ups and downs, the hills never ceased. Nor did the headwinds. And while my legs felt like I was carrying one-gallon cans of paint on each foot with each revolution, I knew I would make it. I stopped a lot. Here, I think the mental preparation and Elke’s motivation balanced with a patient realization that I was looking at 9 hours helped keep me going. The lack of precipitation helped too.

When I reached the Hilltop Guest Rooms, I was exhausted. I pushed Lucy up the hill. Five older guests checked in right before me. The No Vacancy sign made me realize just how lucky I was.

The Hilltop had donated the room for the night. Kelli, the Mexican receptionist, was exceptionally friendly.

“We really admire what you are doing,” she said. Kelli has been in Canada for two years.

The tensions between Mexico and the U.S. are also very high right now. Tariff talk and “Gulf of America” rhetoric have only harmed relationships.

Dimitri, a Ukrainian, received the R4P t-shirt I awarded the hotel for their support. He worked in Mexico before getting a visa to Canada three years ago.

Both Kelli and Dimitri praised Michael, who fully supports my trip, but also sponsored them to migrate to Canada. I wanted to shake his hand, but he wasn’t here at the time, and I knew sleep was calling.

We took some photos of Dimitri and me for our social media. There is something special about most international travelers, particularly long-term residents. We tend to acclimate, learn cultures and languages, adjust to the social realities of our hosts. We are eager to learn. We become more flexible and tolerant. We are guests in these countries, and we need to behave as accommodating guests, not entitled ones.

Somehow, I managed to shower, book a room for tomorrow night, and talk to Dimitri about finding a driver to take Lucy and me 35 miles to Fraser Lake. That was my destination for tomorrow, but unfortunately all the rooms were booked. Instead, the only room I could find was in Burns Lake, 81 miles away with a 2300-foot climb, which I just couldn’t do. No amount of pep talks by Elke could magically motivate me to make that journey.

At the bottom of the hill lies Pizza Pizza, the only restaurant within reasonable walking distance. The small shop is run by a Sikh family. Ardent Sikh spiritualists are vegetarian, but this business sells meat dishes. I ordered a foot-long, four-meat Stromboli and ate it in silence. I had carried my iPad to write in my PeaceBlog, but lacked energy and initiative.

Back in my room, there was a knock on the door. Dimitri said he would borrow the car of a work colleague who would be in at 9 am, if that was acceptable, and he would drive me to Fraser Lake.

And with that, I was out for the night.