Pets are special. Keep them clean, feed them, house them, love them and they're yours. There's a permanent connection, a committed relationship. Billy's bike is like that. It's his inanimate pet. He gives it the attention and affection accorded a loyal animal. He keeps it clean, feeds it with whatever substance it needs, and I swear I've even heard him talk to it. It responds by looking good and behaving well in public.

Billy's pet is seasonal and is hibernating now. As the cold winds whistle around us he takes comfort in knowing that his treasure is cozy in its winter hidey-hole, keeping company with other luxury travel vehicles. This gives us time to pay attention to my seasonal pet-my wood stove. I, too, keep it clean, feed it and talk to it. It returns my affection. It and the teakettle are my nourishment, my winter joys. The bike and wood stove are special, but despite how much we love them, they have no anima, no soul. Recently I met a woman who impressed me enormously. She is a delightful woman of soul and character.

Freda is somewhere in her 80s. I met her at a public meeting. When I introduced myself to her, she remarked that she knew a bit about me. She learned it from the biker articles in Saltscapes. Her next comments made me think that she, too, was a biker-she mentioned things like wind in the face, sights, smells, sounds. At my suggestion that she go for a toot on the back of Billy's bike, she politely refused; said she would stick to her horses.

Since that meeting we've spent time together. We share a love of nature, we share a lake, we share a desire to protect what we have for the future. Freda doesn't have inanimate pets like motorcycles and wood stoves. She has a yard as big as her heart, full of things that need to be fed and watered and loved-plants, dogs, cats, horses.

Freda's horse was her vehicle of choice years ago when she went camping along the route to the Annapolis Valley. I watched her face, her lively eyes, and I heard the spark in her voice as she relived the trip. She was there, with her daughter, camping under the stars on clear nights, or under barn shelter in the rain. Her horse was her guide; together they knew when to stop for a meal, a rest, or a night.

I saw parallels and differences in our choices of travel, Freda's and ours. The bike is our acceptable identity, our entrée to meeting people. Our side-of-the-road, eating spots, and campground stops always attract bikers, or biker wannabes. So, too, with Freda. Strangers offered her horse the comfort of a paddock or a barn. Freda, like us, was only part of the baggage. Some of these strangers are now friends of long standing.

We know when the bike needs to be fed…the little gauge tells us. Freda needed to be more in tune with her travel companion, more considerate of its need for food and water. As she talked, my imagination took me to a nearby stream-the horse resting and drinking, maybe a fly rod quenching its thirst, too! Billy sees the road and watches for impending dangers. From the back of the bike I see off-road sights. Through our helmet devices Billy hears my oooo's as we pass a special vista, and my long wistful sighs as we cross a river. In my mind I see great numbers of fish lying in wait for a Dark Montreal or a Blue Charm! These are fleeting feelings as we move on. We enjoy our motorcycle travel; Freda savours hers. She can touch that overhanging branch, the clover stays with her longer. She hears the brook, she smells the earth. Her eyes can fill to the brim with on- and off-trail beauty. She has time with her senses.

Given a few more miles and inches of grime, the pets we bring home after our trips are much the same as when we left. We aren't. We're still the keepers of our pets but we're richer in our souls for having ridden with them. So am I for having met Freda and travelled along with her memories. I yield to her and her horse, they have the right of way.

And now it's back to my pet. It has no gender. It's crying out for food and poking. I need it to keep me warm and I want the comfort of its company 'til next we meet.