Two Wheels on my Wagon by Paul Howard Page A

and the surrounding mountains had created a giant oven in which I was slowly baking, or rather steaming, thanks to the humidity of the impenetrable forest on either side of the track. I climbed steadily for an hour, for which effort I was rewarded only with a rough and frustrating descent. The promised vistas (‘Clearcuts will offer views of the majestic Swan Mountains’ advised the route description) rarely materialised, while the heat and humidity became ever more oppressive. Instead, vertiginous, crowding trees turned the trail into a sinuous prison which continued, according to the map, for another 100 miles. The trees that hemmed in the narrow road were the bars on my window, a window that gave onto a view of trees, trees and more trees. Rarely can agoraphobia and claustrophobia have been so closely intertwined.
    After another hour I could take no more. It was not yet 4 p.m., but drastic action was needed to preserve my sanity and diffuse the panic that was beginning to set in. Closer inspection of the map revealed that I could find food and accommodation in a nearby lakeside resort. The price to be paid for escaping from my mute green captors was retracing my steps 2 miles and venturing another 4 miles off route, a round journey of 12 miles or an hour’s riding. It was an easy decision.
    The resort of Swan Lake proved the perfect antidote. Far from the garish compilation of condominiums I had feared, it consisted of little more than a smattering of houses and a few essential services spread alongside the empty main road: the Swan Lake Bar and Grill; a community hall; a volunteer fire department; a chapel; the Swan Lake Trading Post; and the Laughing Horse Lodge.
    I stopped at the trading post to replenish my supplies, feeling demob happy. If it were possible to have eaten postcards and trinkets I could have filled up for the entire journey. I asked about accommodation.
    â€˜The Lodge is cosy,’ said the proprietor. ‘If she’s got no room, we’ve got space to camp. I’ve got everything you need – hot showers and cold beer.’
    It sounded appealing, but I craved a bed as well. I picked up the local newspaper. The front page picture was of a young grizzly seen roaming earlier in the week.
    â€˜Don’t worry about him, he’s all right,’ I was told, unprompted. ‘It’s the black bears that are the problem here. There’s one who’s been getting into the bins recently. He’d better be careful or he’s gonna get some buck shot in his ass.’
    Peculiarly reassured, I went to the lodge. There was no one home – not even a laughing horse – but a handwritten notice invited new guests to choose a cabin and book in once the owner had returned. The cabins – timber-framed, rustic, delightful – were at the back and formed a courtyard around an idyllic cottage garden full of aquilegia, surfinia, poppies, roses and lupins. I lounged guiltlessly in a chair in the shade and watched with fascination the swallows darting hither and thither. A sign at the front of the lodge explained there were four varieties: the tree swallow; the violet green swallow; the cliff swallow; and the gregarious barn swallow. Between them they produced 60 chicks during their six-month stay from April to September.
    â€˜They’re a bit messy, but we love their electric chatter and voracious appetite for mosquitoes,’ the sign concluded.
    I contemplated the relief I felt at no longer having to pretend I was fearless, even if it was the trees that had got to me rather than the bears. A pair of hummingbirds arrived, seduced by voluminous hanging baskets. From the house next door, a middle-aged couple mounted their Harley Davidson and sped off, helmet free, to enjoy the open road.
    After checking in I rode slowly back to the bar and grill. Happiness, I decided, was feeling hungry and having the means to satisfy that hunger. I ordered my first burger and chips