I laid out everything I was taking on my bedroom floor and laughed. I’d packed away an entire apartment in Vancouver, shipped it to Australia and all that was left of my life was this. By the end of the 3500km bike trip, as I would be rolling towards the Mexican Border, I’d be carrying even less.

I had no choice to be out of the country due to an expired work visa and as I watched Canada disappear from view, on the ferry destined for Washington State, I couldn’t help but feel anxious. I turned to the front of the boat in time to see the Hurricane Ridge stick its head through the clouds and that’s when the magnitude of the trip set in. I’d previously been enjoying a two month long going away party which did anything but prepare me mentally and physically for seven weeks on a bike – alone.

The first week was hard. Being alone and with so many miles ahead was a hard reality to grasp. I would set up camp on the beach, next to lakes and in forests. My mind didn’t quite turn off those nights. Every snap of a twig or rustling of some leaves brought me back to consciousness and in a heightened level of bear paranoia. Either that, or I was convinced it was some backwater town local coming to cut me up and string me from a tree.

Once I hit the State line which was the Columbia River, crossed the Astoria Bridge and entered Oregon, I instantly felt the feeling of freedom I’d set out to find. Summer time on the Oregon coast is unpredictable. The sea fog can roll in and in no time you’re wet and shivering on a long descent. Next day your sweating bullets up a hill in the blazing sun. It kept me on my toes, which is what I love about cycle touring. There is no Internet, no laptops, no phones, no work schedules. I had no idea what was around the corner every minute of every day. A lot of the times it was a hill or narrow stretch of road but more often than not there would be a beach or cliff or headland that would make you want to stop and spend the next few days exploring.

You’re kind of limited in your choice of food when you’re touring. I was burning around 5000 calories a day and eating round the clock. Apples, Cliff Bars and carrots were eaten on the go and soon enough there was no definition between meal times. I’d eat two to three breakfasts and several lunches. Waking up in the morning was the best time of the day because you got to eat food. Now I asked myself the question, “How many days in a row can you eat oats and trail mix with water, without it growing tiresome?” I’d be lying if I said I could eat it forever. Couscous was another daily staple, solely for the reason that it uses minimal gas to prepare on my Jetboil. I was on a budget and stubborn enough to turn down pasta because of its cooking time. I’d like to point out that these gas cylinders cost around $5.00 and I only used three in the whole trip. In hindsight, the lack of variety wasn’t worth the savings.

The Pacific coast was a busy route for cycle touring. I met some crazy people and rode with a guy from Montreal for a few days up to San Fran. It’s interesting to meet the diverse characters that do these sorts of trips. I was concerned that the busy beaches of LA and San Diego would tarnish my experience of ‘getting away from it all’. So I rode inland for three days, sleeping in orchards and thieving chocolate milk from the fridges of large supermarkets. I turned a bit feral and was itching to get to Yosemite National Park. My sleeping mattress had blown a baffle and a replacement was being sent to the post office in the valley. I hung out there and hiked around the park for five days while it was in postage. It’s a breathtaking place. If you ever get the chance to go, do it. It’s crowded and been developed, can seem slightly removed from nature with its pizza bars and cafes, but this is all widely offset by its stunning backdrops and grand expanses of granite. My mattress arrived and they’d sent an extra small. I was livid, but up against the wall. I continued with the infant-sized sleeping pad that spanned from my shoulder to my hip. As I got into the high Sierras and the overnight temperatures got to freezing, I was cursing the person who’d shipped the wrong item. How difficult can it be to cross-reference an item number on an order form with the item number on stock? I guess we’ve all had those days at work when you just can’t be arsed. Probably the main reason I’m on this trip.

I crossed Tioga Pass at an elevation of 9945ft. The highest I’d been outside of an airplane and one of the hardest climbs. Once I was on the east side of the mountains I would be faced with the hardest challenge of all, the Mojave Desert. It took me about three days to push through this stretch of Southern California. To make matters worse, it was hovering around 40°C and there was the strongest headwind. If you have ever stuck your head out a car window at 60km an hour and heard the wind in your ears then you understand the soundtrack to this ordeal. It was me, my bike, the road and this invisible negative force in the blistering heat all day. I rode before sun up and after sunset to avoid the risk of heat stroke. The middle of the day was spent hiding in the shade of my bike, on the side of the road, fixing punctures. I was relieved to make it back to civilisation on the other side, despite spending that night sleeping in a ditch on the side of the road. Some drunken kids threw rocks at me in the middle of the night, which strengthened my foundation at rock bottom. The last few days on approach to the border were magic. The roads were quiet and in good condition, the views from the tops of the mountains were spectacular and I was experiencing a sense of accomplishment. The heat was so intense in Tecate. The Mexican border was a hot bed of activity. There were huge cargo trucks, a massive police presence and an ill feeling in the air. I posed for a photo with the Mexico sign; it was an incredibly anticlimactic moment. I wasn’t expecting a big parade with congratulatory banners everywhere but I didn’t expect to be ran at by an armed border patrol officer screaming, “You can’t be here! Where have you come from?” I explained my situation and showed my passport and identity. I rode off with my tail between my legs, a little shocked by the whole experience. I rode to San Diego and eventually back up the coast to LAX. I gave my bike away to a baggage porter at the airport to repay the goodwill that was presented to me all along the route in forms of shelter, free food and monetary gifts.

The US is an incredibly diverse landscape, from the wet rain forests of the Pacific North West, to the hot desert of the Mojave. In my opinion, if you want to ‘see’ a country, do it by bike. Everything moves by so slow, you smell the smells and live in the wild. I found I interacted more with people in towns. People took pity on me and were more inclined to offer support, which always boosts moral and restores one’s faith in society whilst on the long lonely road. They say all roads lead to home and as of this minute, I call a converted garden shed behind my parents house in Hobart my home. I am working six days a week as a carpenter, and saving every cent for my next tour. The call of the wild is loud and strong and it’s echoing all the way down to Tasmania. Lets just say this next trip is an epic one; have you ever heard of the Pan American Highway? You may have at least watched Ice Road Truckers. Well, I’m riding from Prudhoe Bay, Alaska to Ushuaia in Argentina. The Americas will be mine.

Images and story by Josh Bergemann