The words "back home" rouse a longing for what's been left behind, something at the core of your innards. Being back home is different than being home, or even the offer to make yourself at home.

That back home feeling is something you can't shake, no matter where you go or for how long. Its recipe remains the same…familiar, comfortable surroundings, and the kind of people you want to be around. The mix might include the beach you explored as a kid, the paths you hiked and biked, and the youthful dreams shared with friends. It's curious what stirs the memory, brings it to a boil. Family names, special places and familiar smells often evoke pleasant memories. Back home might simply be your own bed and the smell of your own shampoo. Whether it's time off for a day or two, or a lifetime away, when home beckons you gotta go back, even if it's only in your imagination.

Most of us have a special piece of geography associated with that back home feeling. It could be a downtown street, a stretch of river, a neighbourhood, or a view of the ocean. Such a place might not be vast, exotic, or brutally wild. It needs only to be a place whose sight, smells and sounds are forever in your soul. It's your own private back home. It can't be bought, it has to be lived as a blend of heart and blood and bone. It has to be there, in you, like your lungs or your elbow or your birthday.

Billy is part of my own back home make-up. He was the boy next door, the object of my fantasies from crib time through high school. We daisy chained for 40-some years-brushing together, then apart, keeping abreast of the rhythms of each other's life. When we re-connected a few years ago, some of my back-home blues were blown away. Together we've resurrected memories and reconstructed our lives. Now we're knit together by shared passion…a lust for his motorcycle!

Billy's an old hand at navigating the by-roads back home; I'm new to this mode of travel. We both delight in the people and places of the East Coast. We keep on the motorcycle move while visiting old haunts and homes, and creating new ones. Now that the weather is chilly, we're warmed by reminiscences of our summer experiences.

When in New Brunswick in August we stopped at a by-road B&B near Millville, just northeast of Nackawic. My cousin Penny had suggested that, after a long day on the road, we might welcome the warmth and friendliness of David and Marianne, the proprietors of Larsen's Log Lodge. She was right! It is one of those rare places where you immediately feel at home, settle in like the place is your own, and hate to leave when it's time to go. It is plugged into my inventory of treasured back home spots. My Christmas wish list might include a winter jaunt there to explore the cross-country ski trails, then back to the lodge to sip wine in front of the fireplace. I recall the delicious meals, the private hot tub, and the comfy bed-of course I want to go back! (Larsen's Log Lodge made its way onto two Saltscapes' wish lists this year. See also Ana Watts' story of winter wonderland dreams of R&R on page 60, ed.)

On another trip with friends George and Kimberley, we stopped at a campground where the Bartibog River meets the mighty Miramichi. Here we met two-year-old Lauren Whiteway. Her immediate friendship and trust confirmed that she's a native Atlantic Canadian. The gap of many tens of years in our ages was erased as Lauren overwhelmed us with her excitement and fascination for our motorcycles. Her own small version of a bike travels with her as she camps with her grandparents. Lauren is one of those people who brush against you like the wind…she touches you and she's gone. But she left with us an image that we still treasure-a biker chick in the making. I suspect that her own back home fantasies will include a motorcycle!

The bike is now tucked in its winter hidey-hole. The snow and ice are on the way so it's time for other things. This is the time of year for dreams, for planning, for fantasies. It's also the time for lists-mine include what I have, love, enjoy, and treasure. Sort of a list of life's leavings and distractions, the dreams and fantasies.

• Number of houses and apartments I've lived in during my life: 18.
• Number of houses and apartments I consider home: four.
• Back roads, waterways, special places I want to revisit: too many to list.
• Number of fly rods owned: seven.
• Flies and fish stuff: too much.
• Daughters: 0, sons: four.
• Number of fly rods they own: 0.
• Billy's daughters: two, sons: two.
• Number of fly rods they own: 0.
• Number of computers owned by our children: 6.
• My grandchildren: 6, all potential fly fishermen.
• Billy's grandchildren: 6, all potential fly fishermen.
• Books read since 1985: about 300, maybe 10 of which have taken firm root in my imagination.
• Number of fish caught in my lifetime: hundreds.
• Number of fish kept in past 15 years: none.
• Friends I want to spend time with: lots.
• Time enough to spend with friends: not enough.
• Dreams involving Billy, biking, fishing: at least five a day.
• Number of East Coast trips filed away in my head: too many.

Often it takes only a sniff of fog, or the play of sun through spruce boughs to send me into a dream, into some fit of remembrance. My special fantasy trip includes the camping gear packed in the bike, the fishing gear in the side saddlebag, and my four-piece fly rod strapped on top. In my dream I listen for the sound of fast water, the bike is parked, the leather chaps turn into hip waders, and I start walking, fly rod in hand. Billy, my non-fishing soulmate, has his dream list of compact techie stuff. In my fantasy trip, he sets up his teeny computer and enters that nether world of the Internet while I engage in pursuit of natural wildness. Then we return to our campsite, reconnect with each other and friends, enjoy a camp dinner, and retire to the little orange tent to dream of the smells and sights of tomorrow.

Over the next months we'll gather with friends to plot our jaunts for next year. These sessions require out of the way places, good food, and good friends-and maps and holiday schedules too! Maybe we'll each open a treasure of the season to find a gift of a few days at Oceanstone Inn, down near Peggy's Cove. This will be a perfect place to flesh out the details of our next bike trips. A cabin on the beach, the sound of the waves, maybe some salt spray on the window, the flick of the lighthouse light balanced by the inside cabin warmth of friends, cheer of the season, George's guitar and Billy's harmonica. Maybe Ron and Carole, owners of the Oceanstone who understand travel and motorcycling, will join us to make the planning session complete. Who knows? We might see you there! If not, we'll tell you all about the place and the plans in a future issue.

In the meantime, toot when we pass as you're headed back home.