Words and Photos by @ry.liewaters and @baby.ogre.motor- @rollingtides.rt
2025.10.06
TRISTAN-
The Great Divide Mountain Bike Route (GDMBR) is no joke. I sure am happy to not have raced it. Every year, bikepackers from around the world gather to pedal till they drop in a self-supported race spanning 4,400 km- The Tour Divide. I'd highly recommend reading Quinda Verheul's experience on the route.
All that to say, I tip my helmet to all you self-supported racers out there, you're tougher than nails (because in my experience, when you hit nails kinda crooked, they aren't all that tough).
Montana was a long stretch, and it was fabulous. What felt like endless trees finally opened up into vast rolling hills, a welcome change of scenery. The perfect Autumn riding weather that had been holding for weeks finally relented, and valley fog cloaked the surrounding peaks. Finally, this would be a test of my setup's waterproofness. The important electronics live in bombproof Hyperlite stuff sacks, the rest have to settle for Ziplocks. Seconds before the skies unleashed upon me, I frantically donned my rain gear and shuffled things around in my bags to make sure everything was snug as a bug. Honestly, I was kinda stoked, type 2 fun was for sure incoming.
After a few days of wetness, I was less stoked. My cold toes were definitely contributing to my mucus-clogged nose. I thought of renaming my bike "Snot Rocket", but figured I wasn't going fast enough to deserve the name. Luckily, I was taken in yet again by wonderful hosts. Helping reset my body, mind, and gear.
Taking a deep breath, I looked out at the sprawling landscape ahead. Barren. I was completely alone, save for the deer, the elk, the rabbits, the grasshoppers, snakes, cows, trees, and flowers–so I guess I wasn't as alone as I thought. It was just so calm, and there were no humans for hundreds of kilometers. Then a batmobile-looking thing ripped by me, revving the engine and skirting into the distance. Ahhh nature. I know those UTVs are probably hecking fun to drive, but man, do they ever feel like a disturbance of peace when you're on a bike. A violation of my eardrums and nervous system. I can only imagine how the wildlife feels. And the root systems, the mycelium, how are they affected by the vibrations?
It's been a month since I left Banff, and a week since I hopped off the Great Divide, forging my own path South. The time I gain riding fast pavement, I lose in getting turned around by closed roads or hauling my bike over barbed wire fences. I now find myself in Utah, over halfway to San Diego, where Rylie and I will meet. It's wild to think that I've gotten here by my own energy and the strength of my trusty Surly Ogre bicycle. But at the same time, it feels completely natural. I've had the time to soak in every stretch of road, every climb, every corner. It feels human. It's the cars that seem unnatural to me now. You can take a nap while someone else is on the wheel and wake up a world away–talk about teleportation. With the luxury of time on my side, I prefer the bike way. Sure, I'm sore, cold, and perpetually hungry. But I wouldn't take any mile back, no matter how grueling it was in the moment. The reward is simply too great. I get pumped with endorphins as I let my bike fly down the backside of climbs. Wind rips through me, and I let out a "Weeeeew!" confirming that yes, this is freaking fun. We can let go.
It has felt a bit like a race against time this month. First, I was pushing to arrive in San Diego on time. As I grew stronger and started putting in more miles, that concern was replaced by a much more real-time crunch: Winter. Snow nips at my tail, and I've been lucky to squeak through unscathed. Now in Utah, I'll generally be staying at lower elevations, other than a few higher passes. I'm stoked to be here in such a unique landscape. I had a lovely time passing through Park City on my way to meet Fischer (@fishskidesigns) and stay with the Olpin family. What a fun gaggle of humans to spend the evening with. Fischer was one of the first supporters of our journey, drawn in by the lure of towing surfboards. He's done his fair share of quirky adventures. If you're not familiar with his work, check him out!
I've joined forces with a Spaniard named Martin (@nomadmartin) in Provo, UT - a coincidental Warmshowers meeting. Martin is also on his slow way to Argentina, and we've planned a special few weeks together in the heart of Utah. Things are about to get even more silly.
RY
It's been a week since I flung myself to the other side of the Pacific. I had to know what the warm salt water would feel like as it rushed over my head. I had to understand the distaste for pedaling in the heat. Would the satisfaction of reaching the surf, pedal-powered, be enough to soothe my out-of-sorts bikepacking aches?
The patterns as I rode up the East of Bali and down the West of Lombok became comforting. Each town with similar snack and petrol stands. Wooden shade shelters where Indonesians chain-smoked and soaked in the sacred shade. Lastly, a convenience store chain called Alfa Mart, which became my known refuge several times, when the heat or the traffic became too much to continue pedaling. In the stretch before the ferry terminal over to Lombok, I hit a euphoric pocket of pedaling, the tempo, the gradient, and the jaw-dropping scenery aligned. My face beamed into the hot wind.
"I'm doing it!!" I said out loud while taking in the surreal experience.
I started down the coast of Lombok and began to feel the punishingly beautiful landscape under my wheels. Volcanic striations of rock shooting skyward where the land meets the sea. It's a miracle they built roads up the steep faces and down the other side. As I climbed in my lowest gear, sweat poured down my face. Scooters crawled past me, even their motors whined as they struggled up the ascents.
It was clear early on that bikepacking here is a rarity, let alone the mere existence of pedal bikes–the tilted head stares, a single bike shop with only busted tires, and the constant harassment to rent a scooter. I'll admit, it's not the prettiest way to get around Indonesia–blatantly impractical–but adventure has never been about practicality. The lack of others understanding just what I was doing here made me feel alone at times. A small gesture like a thumbs up and a smile from a passerby went a long way in my heart. Knowing that I have the privilege to choose challenge or safety was a grounding reminder, and I was motivated to leverage the absurdity of this adventure to spark curiosity and connection with the people here. At the top of the second undulation, I stopped beside a man staring off into the horizon to chat and ask for a photo of my bike and me. He took a hard look at me, clearly not sure what to ask first. I got my photo and the usual questions and started the descent. I didn't look too far ahead, where I could see the next climb. Instead, I raced forward, arms locked on the front of my bars, a sense of free-falling. I thought about the face of a wave, or the sides of a skate bowl, of surrendering to falling, and how holding ourselves back is often what gets us into trouble.
After downing a Coca-Cola, which made me feel superhuman, I made the mistake of cycling through Mataram. Lombok's largest city, which on the map looked quite tame in terms of straight lining it through, rather than taking the time to go around. The traffic was somehow nastier than anywhere in Bali, the whole city had a grim energy to it, half dilapidated, half gentrified. Scooters and cars revved past me in every direction, horns, shouting, and heckling from street stalls made my head spin off-axis. I collapsed at an Alfa Mart in the dead center of the city, bought a pack of cigarettes, sat on the steps, and chuffed one back in tears. After a half-hearted attempt to source a taxi that would agree to lug my bike and me out of the city, I gathered myself, and with a steady breath, snuck out of Mataram on my saddle. I felt as if I had just paddled over a massive approaching set, not quite going over the falls but feeling the threat repeatedly.
In the late afternoon, I hopped on an uncrowded freeway, and I was gunning it to the South, where surf and open ocean were the promised rewards. Young men would occasionally slow down next to me on their motor bikes.
What your name?!
Where you from?!
I started asking for their hand in exchange for my answers.
Give me a boost!
I'd say with the blind faith that they would gently accelerate, and I could rest my legs for a simple blissful second. Most did–and it was blissful.
I'm a world away from my wide-open-spaces backyard of British Columbia. The gratitude I have for growing up there is endless. I'll always be happy to come home, and I have a nagging curiosity to understand radically different ways of life, to see how other cultures connect to the land. It's October now, and as I lock eyes with the locals, I think about what it would be like to never have experienced frost. Instead, they await the wet season, when skies open up for days on end and wash the mats of plastic and packages from the streets into the sea. It's not their fault that the government has neglected proper garbage disposal. It's disheartening, though, and gets my gears turning.
As I finally rolled into the south of Lombok, instead of the colours of autumn leaves, I cycled over an array of human consumption. I met the ocean's edge and caught a boat to an offshore break. Paddling towards the waves, it was tough to decipher. Was that a jellyfish? Or another stray plastic bag?
ON GIVING BACK
It's easy to feel small in the fight to protect the ecosystems that give us everything. We rely on the natural world, and yet the industries with which we are intertwined nullify the importance of protecting our planet. As tree planters (and otherwise self-proclaimed, full-time outdoor recreationalists), we wrestled with this truth and spent a lot of time wondering what more we could do than cut down on our daily consumption.
We both knew we wanted to incorporate an aspect of environmental call to action into this expedition. Curious about fundraising efforts, we looked into land conservation. The pillar that struck us most was the purchase of land for permanent protection.
We have since partnered with Conserve.org to raise funds for global conservation imperatives, which are areas most critical to preventing imminent species extinction. Conserve.org works with local initiatives to fund the permanent protection of threatened biodiversity. Our goal is to spread information on how land conservation can make a big difference for us all, and how a little bit goes a long way when we come together.
Check out conserve.org to learn more.
Head to https://www.rollingtides.net/donate to learn about our current project and donate!
