There is nothing more vulnerable then being in the wilderness and losing your tent.

There is nothing quite as humbling as doing it twice.

After 52 days I am now on my fifth tent. Here is the story of the first three

I cried the day two weeks after receiving my third tent the morning I lost it. And it was the only time I cried  in Newfoundland. This one just quietly fell off the back of my bike. Still with five days to go I would be like a sacrificial lamb to the blackflies, mosquitoes and horse flies. And I loved my new tent.

I asked a kid on a dirt bike to look. I asked a man on an ATV to search. Nothing. It had been lost and it had been found by someone probably happy with their new find, an ace new tent. Things were looking rather dismal when I pedaled into St Fintan and went into the small convenience store. I told the ladies working there my story. They must have shared it with the locals who came in. 

It was sometime later when an old pick up truck pulled up to me and a man with a grey beard and blood shot eyes motioned me to come over. He stepped out of the truck and said nothing as he handed me a new four man Coleman tent now with tears in his eyes. It was huge and it was heavy and I wasn’t sure how I would strap it to my bike but I was full of gratitude. I gave him a hug and held his sad eyes in mine as I said thank you. He said bless you and drove away. I went back to the store and told the ladies there what had happened.

They told me his 19 year old daughter had died a year ago. Then one lady said, ” there are still good people in this world.”


I know that day I met a sad saint. I know that day I met the saint of St Fintan.