Top Off The Fuel - Part 2

12,155km

Red Buff Lake Provincial Park, Granisle, B.C.

I woke from a deep slumber to the sound of crows cawing loudly outside my tent for, evidently, no other reason than to wake otherwise soundly-sleeping adventure motorcyclists. Sticking my head outside the tent and rubbing tired eyes, I could see the sun was already beginning to dominate an azure sky. I would have to get back on the road soon to reach Prince George by dinner.

Driven by this realization, I decamped in record time--a fact that was helped by skipping breakfast. Not that I had much choice in the matter, anyway, because the route through the lush and rural hills of The Skeena Mountains to get to this campsite at Red Buff Lake yesterday evening had not included any of the road-side conveniences that come with the civilized world - like, for instance, convenience stores at which to purchase a tin of stew to heat up for dinner or milk to have with cereal and tea this morning. Of course, there were always the ready-to-eat-meals I had stashed in the top box; but the thought of going hungry was still preferable.

So it was that, light headed from lack of food, I wound my way back down through The Babine Range to The Trans Canada in search of the first establishment that offered morning sustenance in the form of juice, coffee, eggs and toast. As simple as this may seem, simple it was not; for even The Trans Canada was still pretty desolate up this way. The luck of the Irish was with me on this day, though; and, within a few kilometers of rejoining the highway, I discovered The Country Kitchen Diner.

The Country Kitchen had obviously been a pump-and-dine at one time as evidenced by the concrete, oval island in the middle of the parking lot. Beyond this, however, there was little more to welcome patrons than dirt and wind-provoked dust dervishes that danced endlessly in front of the place. A tiny bell rang as I opened the door.

Inside, the restaurant was half-full of sleepy-eyed voyagers like myself, occupying booths and tables and murmuring to one another or gazing into newspapers on a mission to understand the world in which they found themselves on this morning. I sat down at an empty table and became one of them. Seconds later, there was a cup of coffee in front of me, steam curling into the atmosphere, the source of which, I soon realized, was a brown and yellow uniform that contained within it a lanky waitress--“Shelly” according to the clip-on name tag.

Shelly welcomed me to The Country Kitchen, and rested her weight on one leg as she poised a pen she had retrieved from somewhere in her hair in a hand ready to write down my order on a small pad of paper. The words, “breakfast” and “special” became the focal point of a short discussion; and, minutes later, Shelly returned and soon I was tucking into eggs, toast and freshly-sliced tomatoes all buried under an avalanche of home-fries.

Turning my attention away from the consistency of the egg yolks, the brownness of the whole wheat toast and the smell of the grease that glistened over the home-fries, I became subtly aware that something was a bit odd about the place... Was it the music that was playing? No, there was something about the decor... Looking around, fragile consciousness assembled a pattern. Pigs! There were pigs everywhere: Pictures of pigs framed on the walls; piggy banks by the dozen; stuffed, wirey-haired hogs; a pig envelope holder; a pig toothpick holder by the cash register; and dozens of pig figurines (pigurines?) occupying the surface of every shelf and nook.

You need to understand, I was still a bit light-headed from lack of food; and, if I had been feeling like Alice before, I now felt as though I'd hopped aboard The Wonderland Express. I had to ask.

“The land the restaurant is on used to be a hog farm,” Shelly told me. “It was run by a woman who used what's now this restaurant to sell hog produce to the local community.”

Over the years, so the story goes, patrons would bring all kinds of pig-related doo-dads, such as pig figurines and plaques to the hog farmer. When the restaurant was established, the present owners kept them on display for posterity. Travelers stopping off for a bite to eat would send back pig-themed additions after they arrived home, thinking the owners collected pig-themed brick-a-brack. From there, the collection simply grew.

“We have loads of 'em in the back—there's just not enough space to put them out,” Shelly concluded.

My curiosity satisfied, I returned to my breakfast.

Suddenly, a heavy-set man burst through the door and made a beeline for the checkout counter where a short, balding man was organizing bills in the cash register drawer. A flurry of conversation ensued; and, while I couldn't quite make out the conversation, it was clear the heavy-set man was brimming with angst. The man behind the register continued counting bills, and was shaking his head. The heavy-set man grew louder, distinct desperation in his voice. The man behind the register grew louder as well; and now I could hear better:

“Look, we don't have any gas here; this is a restaurant only.”

“Well, how far is it to the next gas station?”

“Houston, 20km up the road.”

“I'll never make it; I'm below empty now, the heavy-set man said. “Come on, don't you have some gas out back or something?”

The man behind the register, who did not seem to be used to repeating himself, was becoming visibly irritated. As I watch the scene unfold, gears inside my semi-awake head suddenly clunked into place and began to turn. The jerry can! Why, this was my chance to finally crack the seal of those five liters of fuel I'd been carrying for an emergency that never materialized.

I took a sip of my coffee and cleared my throat.

“I've got some gas you can have,” I said calmly, doing my best Clint Eastwood impression while continuing to focus on my eggs and toast.

Both men turned and looked over at me in bewilderment, having not noticed me until now.

“I've got a few liters on the back of my bike,” I continued.

“Really?” the heavy set man asked in disbelief.

“Yeah, come on; let's get you fixed up,” I said, getting up from the table. Damn, I wish they made motorcycle boots with spurs.

Outside in the parking lot sat the man's car. It was a massive, boat of a mid-90s Pontiac; brown, with rounded corners—a “jelly-bean” car from a time when automakers had invested gobs of money on new AutoCAD technology, and auto engineers rounded everything, partly because they could; but more because of an innate desire to keep from wasting the gift of technology that had been bestowed upon them.

As I untied my jerry can and transferred its contents to the car's gas tank, the man thanked me profusely. His name was Ray, and he was from Albuquerque, New Mexico. His story? He was on his way through to Anchorage to meet with family; and this was his first lesson on the desolation that lies between gas stations up this way. He hadn't learned the Top Off The Fuel mantra yet.

Once Ray's gas tank was 5L closer to being full, he thanked me again; and offered to pay me for the gas.

“That's ok,” I said. “Don't worry about it.”

“Well, at least let me pay for your breakfast,” he persisted.

“Nah,” I said. “Maybe you can help out someone else up the road and pass it on. Just remember to top off the fuel whenever you get a chance.”

We shook hands and Ray got into his car. Back inside The Country Kitchen, I sat down to continue taking on my own fuel. From outside came the whirring of a starter motor followed by the roar of a V6 starting and an enormous man in an enormous car barrelling off up the road.

There's an unspoken code among the travelers of these roads. It's the code of wagons moving West along Route 66; it's the code of the Coureur Du Bois; of hippies heading for San Francisco. The source of this code is not the people who travel the road; but to the road itself; it's embedded in the asphalt and dirt and gravel. Once you're on the road, whether on motorcycle, car, truck, RV, bicycle or on foot, you get sort-of munged together with it, along with everyone else; and then you are no longer traveling alone, because the road has connected you to everyone. Was my investment in the extra 5 liters worth it? I think it was—not because I needed it; but because Ray did.