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We're psyched to be hosting our first community presentation next month in our home town of Whitehorse, Yukon! We'll be inviting local bike families and cycling enthusiasts to come hear and see our stories over the years and across the continents - and get inspired to plan their own active family adventures this summer and beyond! Tickets are available on Eventbrite: click here . Virtual presentations coming soon - meanwhile, here are more details about the Whitehorse event on January 26th: Got kids?* Got bikes? Got dreams of exploring the world together and making unforgettable family memories?  Join us on January 26th at Mt. Mac’s cozy Grey Mountain Room for a Sunday afternoon virtual ride through the years and across continents with the Gillis-Land-Murphy family - Ed, Jocelyn, Heron and Sitka, who have cycled together from Cuba to New Zealand to Norway, from toddlers to teenagers - and are now celebrating the launch of our second book, Bike Touring with Kids: Europe Epic . Your $15 ticket includes $5 off the purchase of Europe Epic at the event, signed by the author. Activities for the kids, snacks and refreshments for a winter afternoon dreaming of your next family adventure! *Having children not required - this event is for all cycling / travel enthusiasts irrespective of family status!

“Hey Dad, look back across the bay. I can still see that boulder island we were hiking on two days ago!” “Yeah, Sitka, you’re right. And now, over there, at that point in the distance, I think that’s where we’re camping Wednesday night.” “What?” pipes in older brother Heron, deftly twirling his hiking pole in his recently un-casted left hand. “It’s really gonna take us three days to walk only to there?” It sure did. For a family accustomed to cycling a hundred kilometres or so a day on our bike tours, we’re used to the landscape changing pretty quickly. Even during our two treks by foot through the Alps this summer, we would always feel like we’d covered a lot of ground over several mountain passes before supper time.  Now, as we backpacked the north coast of France along the Grande Randonnée 34 in Bretagne, tracing the ever-undulating contours of the jagged shoreline with our boots, our daily 15-20km of hiking seemed startlingly sluggish - especially when gazing out over the open Atlantic Ocean and all its hidden bays, nooks and inlets. One day, we turned inland along the Léguer River and walked 18km before emerging back to its mouth, 50 metres across from where we’d left it. Slow progress. But for all the moments we wished we had two wheels to get us farther faster, we also found a different kind of magic that left us in awe of this vast, vibrant region, that we would never have known as well if we weren’t on two feet instead. For starters, we rarely saw road - or paved anything, in fact. Most of our ten-day hike from Saint-Brieuc to Morlaix on the GR34 trail was on the very edge of the continent - along sandy beaches, through village harbours, or high up on rugged cliffs, with dramatic front-row views of obstinate land meeting insistent sea in their eternal, ferocious dance.  The Bretagne coast (Brittany to the Brits across the Channel, and Breizh to the native Bretons, descendants of ancient Celts who still see their language on sign posts) is famously dotted with stunning magmatic statues - pink granite boulders sculpted by the sea in infinite shapes like cumulus clouds, piled dozens of metres high in often impossible stacks.  Some, near charming Perros-Guirec, are accessible and explorable from the beach, with tourists scrambling through and over them for a day’s-worth of stroll. Others are far offshore, like bobbing whale heads in the distance.  The ocean floor here is strikingly shallow - in some bays for a mile or two out to sea - so that the tides reveal incrementally new bits of islands in artistic formations, then hide them slowly away again. At first, this makes for some less inspiring coastal views throughout the day, with dozens of boats marooned in expansive mud flats, like an apocalyptic pre-tsunami movie scene. But a few hours later, the azure water is back in, so clear on a sunny day that you can see the brown peaks of those stone statues barely, momentarily submerged. One must choose one’s swimming breaks carefully, or face a mile-long hike out for a dip. Not like that would have stopped Sitka anyway. Like our mountain treks, the climbs and descents could be steep and strenuous. But with a maximum elevation of 98 metres above sea level, the challenge is only ever five or ten minutes long before reaching payout in splendid views over the next bluff. Exploring by foot rather than bike also affords us more opportunity to talk to our teens. Our foursome is in near-constant conversation on all topics under the bluebird sky: among others the latest happenings on the Tour de France that we’ve been following religiously, plans for this fall (spoiler alert: biking), opinions on Canadian and US politics, and every plot twist of the novels we’re currently devouring (except Ed, whose snail pace has him still reading the same book since June). Hiking has its own challenges, of course. On bike, we pass through many towns - and pass many grocery stores, snack shacks and patisseries - each day, easily detouring off-route if needed. On foot, we could go a couple days without fresh food stops - which would have to be near or directly on the trail - meaning heavier packs and grumpier packers. And being in France, of course, sometimes shops were on a hours-long midday break for sieste , cafes closed on the one day we were happening through, and campgrounds full because, well, summer weekend. These dilemmas were inevitably exacerbated by Ed’s chronic underestimation of each day’s predicted distance (GPS maps are great at measuring road routes - less so with coastal walking paths). At one point he responded to Heron’s innnocent inquiry about the number of kilometres left with an exasperated shoulder-shrug and a defeated shoulder-slump. “I have absolutely no idea.” But we all toughed through the rough bits: Heron is still lugging the majority of the family’s food and gear in his over-heavy pack, sometimes way ahead of the rest of us, seeing it all as training for ski season. Joce is silently enduring a fresh set of foot blisters that remind her with each step and require vigilant care. And Sitka has grown and inch or three this summer, so has joined the family club of hitting our heads on every low-hanging branch and ceiling. He finds this less funny than he did when it was Ed and then Heron. Still, we’re feeling rather spoiled on this route, once voted France’s favourite of all its Grandes Randonnées . We’ve stumbled on more-frequent-than-expected ice cream stands and gluten-free blé noir (buckwheat) galettes stuffed with cheese and other savoury toppings. On several occasions, our campgrounds have hosted galette or pizza food trucks on just the day we arrived. And we’ve had evening tournaments of mini-putt, pétanque and outdoor ping-pong - just as we like it. And we even finished our trek a day early, in Plougasnou, where we indulged Ed’s inner history geek with a boat tour out into the Baie de Morlaix to visit the Chateau de Taureau - a Renaissance-era fortress built by the locals to fend off English pirates, fortified by France’s Sun King Louis XIV and then used as a water-bound prison for embarrassing aristocrats and counter-revolutionaries. True story: you could write to the king about an insolent (adult) child, drunk sibling or creepy uncle, and have them imprisoned on this treacherous island, so long as you paid their costs - we know you’re thinking of just the family member you’d choose right… now. Then we walked (without packs!) to la Plage Trégastel and rented a sea kayak from, essentially, a vending machine, and explored the boulder statues up close in excitingly choppy waves. *(Also spotted: actual vending machines for baguettes and pizza! Ah, Europe.) And to top it off, we happened past a jazz concert in a secluded garden near our campground. It took us a quarter-hour to find the entrance, by which time the band had wrapped up its soothing set. But when they spotted the curious Canadians emerging from the raspberry bushes, they generously resolved  to play one more. The initimate audience were delighted by our appearance as well, clearing four chairs for us to take in the full experience among the lilacs. “A toast to new friendships!” mused the pony-tailed host and his wife. A sweet end to a summer we’d never planned on. Indeed, just the day before, as we sweated up and down the steep cliffs for four hours contouring into Plougasnou, we looked into bay to the northeast and saw the faint outline of that same boulder island Sitka had pointed out on Monday - the one we’d climbed the last Friday afternoon.  It was the following Wednesday.  We pivoted our necks and saw all the glorious coastline we’d seen up close. Every nook and every inlet. Maybe seeing the world on two feet isn’t so bad after all. That said: as we arrived at our final campground, Ed gasped as he realized he forgot to take out the extra cash we would need for the next day’s boat tour. The last ATM we passed was six kilometres back - over an hour on foot each way.  Big problem.  Desperate, he glanced around and spotted, leaning against a camper-trailer… a bicycle. “Maybe I’ll borrow a bike from another camper,” he dreamed out loud while checking in. “I’ll lend you my bike, no problem!” offered the elderly camp host, who led Ed to her musty old barn with an old granny contraption in the back.  Flat tires, cobwebbed spokes, gunked-up chain and rusty brakes - this was still nirvana for a guy who hadn’t pedalled in two months. He pumped up the tires and gave it a whirl, whisking freely with the wind in his hair… Okay, maybe an exaggeration. Ed has no hair. But still, the old clunker did its job, delivering our hero to the ATM and even a grocery store for extra chips and Orangina to celebrate. “You know what solves all problems?” he quizzed Joce with a joyous hug on his return. “A bicycle.” Yes, we thoroughly enjoyed our summer on two feet.  But deep down we’re still a family on two wheels.

Picture yourself lounging on the world’s best sunning rock: moulded perfectly to the curve of your back, with just the right pressure on the sore spots, at the ideal angle for gazing up at the clouds wisping briskly in the blue sky above. Tilt your head left, you see the sky-scraping, scraggy granite peaks that envelop the narrow mountain pass you conquered a half-hour earlier. The nearly-thousand-metre climb began in shady, fragrant conifer-and-fern forest with multiple crossings of rushing mountain streams; then passed by a log-cabin refuge with scrumptious blueberry pie, and later a refreshingly frigid, crystalline alpine lake you leapt into for a break from the mid-July heat; and it ended 2400m above sea level with engrossing, panorama valley views on either side of the rocky saddle. Tilt right: a vast field of enormous, red-hewed sandstone boulders, strewn about by an ancient glacier to form the challenging moraine you’ll have to scramble across when you’re done your rest. Just then, two imposing curled horns appear in your sightline, followed by the stubby snout and long-slit pupils of a bouquetin - the ubiquitous mountain ibex  of France’s Maritime Alps. These muscular, graceful goats mull around with humans like kangaroos in Australia - not especially curious but not afraid either. They mostly seem to be seeking the most mineral-coated stones to lick. “That rock you’re lying on is delightfully salty,” he’s saying with his still glare. “You gonna move on soon or what?”  Reluctantly, you sit up, re-lace your hiking boots and cede your spot. Soon afterward, you’ve crossed the boulder field and are on a tenuous ridge curling around yet another soaring rock face. Then you descend a series of loose-gravel hairpin switchbacks, on a steep grassy slope, dotted with a rainbow of wildflowers, into a verdant farm valley with a constant din of cowbell guiding you to your destination. It’s just one sample day of our family’s exhilarating trek through the Maritime Alps along the Grande Traversée du Mercantour  (GTM) - a gloriously diverse, two-week hiking route in a spectacular parc national  along the France-Italy border north of Nice.  Eleven unforgettable days, not one the same as the others. We’d been wanting to try out one of Europe’s famous hut-to-hut treks since our parental leave in Europe and the South America’s Patagonian Andes, 16 years ago. On a day hike in Argentina with nine-month-old Heron on Joce’s back, we came across a remote alpine hut that served mini-pizzas and lemon meringue pie, and we’ve been craving a return to something similar every summer since. Normally, we’re a family of four on bicycles, but two broken teenage arms thrust hiking onto our summer menu, and we finally realized our longtime dream. But we were admittedly worried about the reality - especially around food. On our first outing this summer, around Europe’s famous Mont Blanc, we learned that two hiking teens consume a lot more food than a single newborn. And Mont Blanc had daily villages and cafes to top up our meal stocks. This time, we were walking into more remote, unknown territory. We knew we could sleep in our tents near the mountain refuges  - we figured we would prefer the fresh air and quiet over packed dorms and snores. But we decided to take the dinners at the remote huts to reduce the amount we packed in - what if their idea of a mountain trekker’s meal wasn’t of the same volume as our boys’? So there we were, in the fruit and vegetable aisle at the Utile supermarket in Isola 2000 - the lone village along the GTM route - unsure which ones to get. If you think it’s a bad idea to shop for groceries on an empty stomach, try it after four days hiking in the Alps with two teens, and another seven more days coming up with no more places to stock up. We bought them all. Well, maybe not all , but certainly far more than we needed, could carry or could eat. Apples, peaches, mango, all types of berries, bananas, peppers, carrots, broccoli, a zucchini and an onion. We also stocked up on enough carbs to fuel a Roman legion: pasta, pizza, bread, chips, tortilla wraps, and several kilograms of chocolate. Plus it was hot, so a couple tubs of ice cream. Three protein bars per day, each, so there’s one full hiking pack right there. Then of course, after our first round of delicious fruit salad, we all felt stuffed. “I think we need a full day off just to eat all this food,” worried 14-year-old Sitka, belly near bursting. “It’s five o’clock and we’re leaving again in the morning, right?” “Don’t look at me - one pizza will be plenty for me,” warned 16-year-old Heron, our new family pack mule and leftover garburator. “We’ll have to carry whatever we don’t eat,” reasoned Ed, who knew the two heads of broccoli were solely for him to eat tonight. “Okay then let’s get started,” ceded Heron, opening up the box of appies. We gorged like grizzlies prepping to hibernate that evening, hoping our fat stores would see us through. Turns out our panicked planning was just right. Each refuge hut ( refugio for the nights on the Italian side) was as different from the next as each day’s hike. Every afternoon we would arrive to a new respite in a unique spot - on an high alpine outcrop, nestled in a glacial moraine, in a valley-side cattle farm, and even at an alpine nunnery where St Anne, patron saint of motherhood, directed a local believer to build a sanctuary a thousand years ago.  Some are smaller and more isolated, bringing in their ingredients once a month by helicopter, or hiking them in on the backs of the guardians (who earn their living on the meals as chef-entrepreneurs, while the alpine societies who built and coordinate the huts get their income from the dorms). Others with easier road access attract larger numbers of hikers on weekend or short-term outings, and so have more access to fresh produce to cook with. All had a little surprise in store: very generous portions, multiple courses, inventive soups, and simple but tasty desserts. We never knew what was coming the next night.  Except we could  rely on great conversation, as each evening we would be assigned a place at a long table with our name on it, and meet new friends and fresh subjects - like French politics, the perilous journey of African migrants in Europe, and why North Americans are crazy for putting our eggs and fruit in the fridge.  The GTM is much less known than the Tour du Mont Blanc - especially in the more remote first half before the stock-up town of Isola 2000 - so meals were more intimate and the trails more peaceful. The daily hikes, challenging and even grueling as they could be at times, made us endlessly grateful that we’d stumbled upon this gem of a summer adventure: we love touring on two wheels because it offers dramatically different views and experiences every day. Now we’ve discovered the same can happen on two feet as well. The 17-stage route normally starts in cozy Entraunes, 120km northwest of Nice at the confluence of the Var and Bourdous rivers. But we only had an 11-day window to catch the Grande Arrivée of the Tour de France on the Mediterranean Sea (and to get Heron’s cast removed on a weekday morning when French doctors are available), so we began with a two-hour bus ride up from Nice, winding through deep canyons to the village of Saint-Étienne-de-Tinée.  From there, we climbed three hours straight up through shady forest to meet the main trail on a stony ledge over steep valley walls, hugging an undulating rock face for another hour, through several blasted tunnels, to our first alpine refuge perched above sublime Lake Rabuons. We pitched our tent on its scrabbly shore and took our first frigid dip of many on this trip - certainly not a swim - to rinse off the sweat of the day. On another day, up to Italy’s Pas de Colle Longue , we climbed into the most splendid, green, vast alpine meadow - how a hiker might picture heaven, with an undulating, pristine stream rushing down the middle, spotted with vibrant larch trees and rainbow splashes of wildflowers, and surrounded on all sides by dramatic limestone cliffs.  Even our one rainy day was memorably cool, over the Baisse de Druos, as we sheltered from a hailstorm in the ruins of a two-storey Italian barracks from World War I, then walked through a barren, misty mountain cirque (huge bowls dug out by ancient glaciers leaving small lakes behind amidst the limestone boulders) along a conspicuous rock road that was laboriously engineered for a hunt-happy Italian king but felt eerily like a scene from a J.R.R. Tolkien novel - with sixteen-year-old Heron our guiding Gandolf and forty-something Ed our bumbling Bilbo Baggins struggling to keep up. Later, on our day up to the Pas du Mont Colomb , we packed away our poles and were grappling up fridge-sized boulders with both hands all morning, then trudged through snow fields with crampons up to the sky-high saddle,   only to reach the tiny wedge of the pass and stare seemingly straight down into the abyss-like moraine below.  It was labeled a “technical” descent in the guidebook, which in our home the Yukon has two meanings: to parents, it means “treacherous, use extreme caution.”  To teenagers, “technical” translates roughly into “awesome!” It was both. “We’re not trying to rush you,” explained Heron. “Yeah it’s just that you’re kind of slow,” followed Sitka. And then, with nerves frayed and (Ed’s)  ankles gnarled at the valley bottom, we climbed back up beside a 20m-high dam to the expansive Lac de la Foux, surrounded 300 degrees around by steep slopes and towering waterfalls. We dropped our bags (but refrained from setting up our tents - in France, the rules of bivouac  say no pitching until 7pm) in a postcard alpine meadow, bathed in a waterfall pool, and read the afternoon away under the supervision of a couple dozen chamois  - the ibex’s slightly smaller, more curious cousins. As we approached our tour’s end in Sospel, we thought we’d seen it all along this strikingly varied route - until we reached La Vallée des Merveilles , where ten-foot iron poles marked spots on the rock where our prehistoric ancestors engraved images of ibex, faces and village scenes using some of the first human tools - like neolithic emojis. And the next day, we marveled over a series of ruined old forts from the days of Napoleon in Authion - including an intact summit lookout at the Pointe des trois communes that was the scene of World War II’s last liberating battles. Sure, we’re keen to get back on our bikes soon, since Heron’s cast was successfully removed the day we arrived back in Nice, and Sitka has been eagerly performing his wrist rehab for a week now. But now we’ve tried the hut-to-hut approach to exploring places inaccessible to cycling. And it’s got the same “new awesome every day” feel. And yeah, our packs (on our backs instead of our racks) were very heavy at first, as we carried a week’s worth of breakfasts, lunches, snacks, and emergency freeze-dried meals from home (but no broccoli) in the remote wilderness of the Alps. But every day, they got lighter. And every day, we dreamed up new places we could do this: Corsica, Slovenia, the Italian Dolomites (Sitka’s next target with more intense Via ferratas ). We’re kind of hooked on the hut-to-hut. Especially if there’s a perfect, salty rock to rest on.