Chris Nadovich's 2009 Transamerica Bike Tour.

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Dunnville, ON -- Rock Point Provincial Park Campground

At long last we had a chance to touch the great Lake Erie. We camped in another provincial park and our campsite was very close to the beach. The water temperature was in the 60s, and there was a stiff wind tossing up two foot breakers.

We actually hadn't planned to camp at the park. We pushed to reach Dunnville (you know: we'll be done in Dunnville) and stay in one of the motels listed on our maps. This was not to be.

When we rolled into town, I saw an old man, maybe near 90, standing on a median strip between two busy roads. He walked with a cane and occasionally stopped to pick up and study one of the stones piled up between the curbs of the median.

Careful not to disturb his investigation, I waited till he was on the move, rolled up to him, and asked my question.

"Any motels in this town?" I asked.

"Not that you'd want to stay at," he replied.

I pressed him for directions anyway, and he supplied them. After riding a mile in the direction he suggested, I decided to double check and asked a mom walking on the sidewalk with her young daughter. The mom said there was no motel, but the little girl chirped in that she'd seen one. "Not that he'd want to stay at," the mom said.

When we reached the motels and saw them -- yeesh! We decided to ride on and camp at the Provincial park.

The park was very nice. Again it was 32 bucks -- steep for primitive camping, but the park had hot showers and an excellent beach. From that perspective, it was worth it.

The park was pretty crowded with people, but there were other inhabitants. During the night, I was awakened to hear Gary yelling "Some @#$&(&@* stole my Oreos!" Apparently, a critter had found a way into Gary's food pannier. The next morning, I met what surely was the culprit, a small raccoon sniffing around the dumpster.

We both think it's remarkable that we never had a single problem with animals getting our food as we camped in the true wilderness of Montana. Yet in a crowded beach campground not 60 miles from Niagara Falls, we are raided.

This shaft of grass has been on my fender for weeks. Where did I pick it up? North Dakota? Minnesota? I don't know.

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