The plane landed shortly before sunset at a small airfield on the "Big Island" of Hawaii. It had been a somewhat bouncy ride on the little Cessna. Not quite so rough as to bring up the peanut butter sandwich I devoured before boarding, but the rapid roller coaster style fluctuations in altitude made me wish I'd visited the little boy's room before leaving Honolulu. The craft hadn't exceeded 10,000 feet elevation during the 30 minute flight. I derived this tidbit of information by peering over the pilot's shoulder at the instrument panel. The inflight anouncements customary on the large commercial airlines were conspicously absent but not particularly missed. Like most seasoned travellers, I had long since developed the ability to tune out such trivial information along with the preflight safety lesson.

The reason the altitude struck me on this particular flight was not because it was less than one-third the normal cruising altitude of the large jetliners. The salient detail in my mind was that we were significantly lower than the 13,679 foot peak of Mauna Loa - a volcano which makes up most of the big island's land area. In a matter of days, I would be hiking to an area roughly 50% higher than the median altitude of the flight. This thought seemed to amplify the remoteness of my chosen destination. Somehow the peak seemed higher and more distant now than it had from across the Pacific Ocean when I'd been planning my trip.

I quickly dismissed this notion and set myself to the tasks at hand. My immediate priorities were to assemble my mountain bike and find a place to camp out for the night. A handful of rambunctious kittens scurried around my feet and sniffed at my various belongings as I laid them out on the ground in front of the tiny airport terminal. By this point I was becoming fairly adept at dismantling and reassembling my bicycle in order to meet the airline baggage requirements. The bike had actually made this last journey on the two rear seats of the Cessna since the cargo hold in the wing was only large enough for small handbags.

Although the assembly had become almost routine, it was still a fairly time consuming process as there was always a certain amount of fine tuning to get everything just right - adjusting the seat height and the mirror position, tweaking the brakes, aligning the headlight. Then came the various touring paraphernalia - three water bottles, front and rear racks, flashing front and rear safety lights, cyclometer, tent and sleeping bag. Finally came the seemingly impossible task of jamming all my clothing and equipment into the panniers - making sure the weight was evenly distributed, that important items were packed into relatively waterproof areas, that everything fit snuggly so that nothing would bounce around or dangle into any moving parts when hurtling down a mountain road.

At some point during this process of packing all my worldly possessions into a lumbering locomotive monstrosity I lost the battle against the dwindling daylight. As I finished putting the assemblage into something which at least gave the appearance of being able to roll forward, I began scanning the surroundings for a suitable place to camp out. Most people opt for hotels or other paid accommodations when on vacation but I shun such extravagance. I'm content to sleep in the great outdoors regardless of whether there are any nearby campgrounds (there usually aren't). Experience has taught me certain basic rules about choosing a spot to sleep - whether spending the night in a tent on a cycling trip or crashed out in a car during a driving trip.

• Rule #1 - Keep out of view. No matter how remote the area might seem, if you are even slightly visible to anyone driving by than it is inevitable that the police will arrive sooner or later to get rid of you. Being aroused from one's sleep at two o'clock in the morning by bright lights and drawn handguns isn't much fun. Trust me - I've had it happen to me more than once.
• Rule #2 - Never forget rule #1.

In addition to the previous rules, I also sought the added benefit of wind protection on this particular evening as there was a rather forceful breeze blowing from the northeast at about 35 or 40 knots. I didn't feel like wandering around the countryside after dark in search of a decent spot so I eventually settled on a ditch at the end of the runway. The airport was now closed and it's lone employee had left for the night. He was sort of a one-man support staff in charge of air traffic control, baggage handling, security, and various janitorial and groundskeeping duties. There wouldn't be any activity at the airport until the next morning. Although technically I would be trespassing, I used situational ethics to justify my decision. After all, I wouldn't be in anyone's way and nobody would be able to see me (not until daylight at any rate) so the police could concern themselves with more serious criminal matters like conspiracy to remove mattress labels or disorderly flatulence.

That decision made, I still had to figure out how to get my rolling headquarters over to this ditch. There was a break in the fence which was just wide enough for my slim profile but there was no chance of getting a fully loaded bike through such a narrow offering. Hoping I might be able to find an alternate path to my humble hotel, I threw my right leg over the saddle and struggled to get the load rolling down the dark road. The neighbouring property seemed to offer some chance at reaching the ditch. The building was dark and quiet so I started down the drive assuming I could slip past undetected. The silent night air erupted into a cacophany of barks, yelps, growls and sundry canine noises. I made a quick u-turn that might easily have warped my front wheel and landed me on the pavement but lady luck was on my side. My heart resumed beating when I realized there were no fangs nipping at my heels. As I pulled back onto the highway, I noticed the sign which I had somehow missed when turning in. It was the local SPCA animal shelter.

I glanced around furtively to see if my cover had been blown. Forunately, the airport is fairly remote and there didn't seem to be anyone in the area who might have been aroused by the commotion. I turned back into the airport property as the barking died down and made my way back to the gap in the fence. One by one, I removed the bags I had so carefully packed onto my bike and passed them over the barbed-wire fence before finally heaving over the bicycle itself. I then transported my belongings past cactus and an assortment of debris to my chosen sleeping spot. It wasn't so much a ditch as a small bank of rubbish at the end of the runway (plywood, paint cans, airplane parts, corrugated tin). Still, it afforded me the desired wind-break which would allow me to sleep in relative comfort. The ground covering vegetation, whatever it was, had a nasty tendency to trip me up when walking but was surprisingly soft to lie down on - albeit somewhat itchy on the back of the neck. I threw down a small tarp and put on an extra layer of clothing. I wanted to be out of there quickly at first light so I didn't bother unpacking the tent or sleeping bag.

Exhausted from a long day, I stared briefly up into the clear night air to marvel at the astonishing multitude of stars before drifting off to sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night I was awoken by the pitter-patter of raindrops on my eyelids. I was too tired to consider this anything more than mildly annoying so I pulled a bandana out of my pocket and draped it lightly over my face. I'm not known for snoring so I figured that the odds of inhaling it and choking were pretty slim. In seconds I was drifting back into dreamland again.

Somehow dreams seem more vivid and memorable when I'm travelling. At home, I usually wake up with absolutely no recollection of my dreams - nor any desire to remember them. I've always been more of the daydreaming type when at home - preferring to allow my conscious mind to guide me to the imaginary destinations of my choice. I guess when I'm travelling I get so consumed with the reality of my surroundings there's no time to imagine myself anywhere else. My subconscious must take this as some type of signal that it can crank into overdrive at night. Still, these dreams never stray too far from the conscious reality of my surroundings.

The next morning I headed south along Highway 190 toward Mauna Loa. The semi-arrid wilderness which had formerly been prime cattle grazing land unfolded before my eyes as I rolled along the blacktop. The sun felt warm and reassuring on my bare arms. My legs pumped on the pedals, struggling under the heavy load. I should have done more training to prepare myself for this trip.

There was very little traffic but the cars which did pass by were moving unnervingly fast and didn't leave me much room at the side of the road. A truck appeared in my mirror. It was still about a mile behind me but I kept my eye on the mirror as it approached.

Trucks are a particularly troublesome menace to a cyclist. Aside from their imposing size, the dynamics of the air movements around their hulking masses requires some defensive riding skills. When the cab of the truck passes, you tend to get pulled into the draft. This requires a quick lean away from the truck to avoid being sucked in towards it and ending up under the wheels of the trailer. No sooner does the suction end than you are thrust violently away by the turbulent air the truck leaves in its wake. Another quick lean in the opposite direction is required to counterbalance this force or you will end up battered and bruised at the side of the road. The effect is even more dramatic on a fully loaded touring bike which presents a greater surface area to ill winds of any variety.

I prepared myself for the approaching truck - keeping one eye on the road to ensure I was holding a straight and predictable line and the other eye on my mirror to monitor the truck's trajectory. The engine grew louder as the mechanized beast drew closer. Although there was no oncoming traffic, the truck made no attempt to pull towards the center of the road and afford me some extra room. To the contrary, it was virtually touching the solid white line at the right side of the road. Did the driver not see me? Was he unaware how close he was to edge of the road? There was barely three inches of pavement to the right of the painted line - not nearly enough considering the width of my packs. I glanced at my speedometer - 25mph; less than half the speed of the truck but still too fast for the rough gravel at the side of the road. Still, better to take my chances offroad than get rear-ended by an eighteen wheeler. The truck roared as I veered to the right. I bounced skittishly over the uneven surface for a few metres before the front wheel planted itself in a pothole.

As my legs flew up to meet the sky I became aware of a peculiar yet strangely familar sensation. It wasn't the upset sense of gravity as I somersaulted over the handlebars. Nor was it fear of the inevitable injuries I would suffer in this most ungraceful dismount. In a matter of nanoseconds, my brain began to process the thought patterns presented to it - struggling to pull information out of its memory to explain this sensation that seemed so familiar and yet so foreign. Of course! It was the disorientation one feels when awaking in a strange bed - the momentary confusion as one casts off the shackles of the subconscious and struggles to come to grips with unfamiliar surroundings. "There's no truck," I thought to myself. "It's just a dream."

"So why can I still hear the roar of it's engine?"

I pulled the bandana from my face and screamed as a plane hurtled toward me with landing gear extended. It touched down a few feet from my head and left me gasping for breath and staring up into the dim pre-dawn twilight. Though the sky was clear again, my shirt felt damp from sweat and rainfall. I was thankful I hadn't wet my pants in the brief horror of the landing plane. My panic turned to relief and then to anger. Surely the airport wasn't open yet. This pilot had no business landing on a dark runway before dawn with no guidance from the tower.

Seeing as I was trespassing in a restricted area, I wasn't about to debate the subject with him. I crawled along the ground dragging my bags and doing my best to stay out of view. After squeezing the narrow items under the fence and hurling the larger ones over it, I returned for the bike. I peeked over the embankment to see if the coast was clear and glanced back towards the highway to be sure no cars were approaching. The stars were were rapidly fading into a sky which was gaining a deep blue hue. I took a deep breath and then made a quick dash for the fence, swung my bike over top and then braced one hand on a shaky wooden post as I jumped after it.

"Well, at least I didn't get snagged on the rusty barbs," I thought as I began loading my belongings onto the bike from behind the cover of a clump of cacti. Relatively speaking, that was a pretty good night for me considering some of the circumstances I've found myself in during various trips. It's no wonder I travel solo most of the time. My friends usually think I'm nuts when I tell them about my travel plans and I do a good job of confirming that hypothesis with the stories I tell when I come back.

I tightened the straps on my panniers and chuckled at the memory of my close encounter. I thought for sure that plane was going to land on me, and it might well have done so if the headwind providing the wings with additional lift had slacked off in the last few moments. I can picture the accident investigators trying to piece that one together. "There was only one guy in the plane, so I don't know where all the extra body parts came from. And what's the deal with that charred bicycle wreckage there?"

I set off south down Highway 190 towards Mauna Loa, vaguely intrigued with how similar the scenery was to that which I had imagined in my dream.

Copyright 2000. All rights reserved.