I discovered trail angels are real and a source of incredible kindness on a cross-continental trek

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This First Person column is the experience of Lorianne Coursol, who lives in Calgary. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

I could feel the sweat running down my neck as I crept like a tortoise up the hill from Colorado’s Stagecoach reservoir. I was in a low gear, biking slowly under the burning sun when I was surprised by the sound of crunching gravel behind me.

It was an older man on an e-bike, who gave a cheerful greeting, chatted for a bit with me. As Big Jim raced ahead, he called out, “When you get to the top, I’ll have a surprise for you.”

That led to one of the strangest and most touching moments of my epic solo bike trip. As I got within earshot again, he whipped out his harmonica to serenade me to the top.

I’m an adventure hound with a “let’s see if I can do it” attitude. In my 20s, I dropped out of college to join the Royal Canadian Navy so I could travel. In my 40s, I quit the navy to study ecotourism and outdoor leadership at Calgary’s Mount Royal University.

That’s how I found myself with a whole summer free and a cross-continental dream to bike from Calgary to the Mexican border.

Before I left, I knew vaguely about trail angels — people who stock water and treats especially on famous hiking routes. But I had no idea there were so many of them, and how much they would come to mean to me.

I left Calgary in June 2022, aiming to pedal 50 to 75 kilometres a day. The weather was scorching hot and I hadn’t trained, so my still out-of-shape body begged for respite.

The first trail angels I met were just regular people looking out for each other. On my second night, I hadn’t realized Chain Lakes campground in Alberta no longer has first-come, first-serve sites.

I was frustrated, tired and sore waiting on hold for customer service. Then a couple driving by asked, “What’s up?” and offered space behind their trailer.

A man wearing a hoodie stands beside a minivan with a bike pump in his hand. — On Highway 22, about 17 kilometres from Lundbreck Falls south of Calgary, Coursol was surprised to see a stranger pass her, pulled over and set up a mini aide station. He said his name was Scotty and posed for this photo. (Submitted by Lorianne Coursol)

Heading out the next day, it was pouring rain. I was pushing my bike up a long hill and, to be honest, really hating my life choices when a couple with a bike rack on their car stopped, hopped out and offered me a ride. They offered three times, but I stuck to my trek heartened.

Then later that day when I was cold, wet, exhausted but finally rolling downhill, I watched a minivan pull to the side of the road ahead of me. A young fellow hopped out, opened the sliding door and proceeded to set up an aide station.

Thinking he was supporting a rider that must be behind me, I was taken aback when he called out to see if I needed anything — a cold drink, a snack, air in my tires?

A woman has a shocked expression as she points to a tiny bike beside a huge dump truck. Both are lime green. — Coursol took this photo of her bike, which happened to be the same colour as the Sparwood dump truck. When she got to Sparwood, B.C., from Calgary, she officially joined on the Great Divide Mountain bike route, which runs from Banff, Alta., to Antelope Wells, N.M. (Lorianne Coursol)

The efforts of these trail angels appeared when I least expected them. Like when I was changing a flat tire in a stranger’s driveway and he ran to grab a Gatorade for me, or when I reached the Colorado River and a rafter pulling out his boat offered a ride back up to the plateau in his truck on the other side (I accepted that time).

The best was when I cleared the top of a climb in Wyoming and found ice cold water in a cooler with a log book in the bushes along the road.

I have no idea why that particular trail angel makes it their mission to stock a cache for strangers.

But Big Jim told me why he used the harmonica to be my one-man cheering squad. He was 89 and using the e-bike to relive the days when he was a professional mountain biker. He said he loves to encourage people who love the sport as much as he does.

A woman with her bike stands in front of a sign that says Red Rock Pass. — Red Rock Pass was the point where Coursol finally left Montana after a 23-day slog. This photo was taken by a motorist who saw her struggling to set up a good selfie with her camera on a fence post. (Submitted by Lorianne Coursol)

In the end, I didn’t actually make it to the Mexican border. I made it to Breckenridge, Colo., before running out of time and flying home for university. I biked 2,883 kilometres.

The ride made me realize that my body can do a lot more than my mind ever thought was possible. And when I reflect on that, and all the people I met along the way, I am left with this sense of gratitude. I can’t shake it.

I am always looking for ways to pay it forward to other touring cyclists.

These days, I give riders a wide berth on the roads, carry my bike pump, extra water and snacks in my car, just in case I come across a rider who needs a boost. I’ll finish my ride to Mexico some day, and I also want to be a trail angel. I’ll camp somewhere in the middle of nowhere and be that oasis for riders who are dreaming of a cold drink.

Telling Your Story

This First Person piece came from a writing workshop hosted by the Calgary Public Library in Forest Lawn. Read more about CBC Calgary’s workshops at cbc.ca/tellingyourstory.

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