Prologue "I'm not usually into the bike-naming thing," I said as daylight faded across the lake behind Relais Gabriel, "but the Africa Twin seems to be acquiring one on its own. It's already taken out several small animals in the few months I've owned it. I barely had it any time at all before it killed a bird that somehow got nailed by the right handguard -- I felt bad enough about that one that I turned around and went back to see if I could find it. I did. Dead as a doornail. And then today there was that critter on 389. What was that, a frigging groundhog or something? So this bike shall henceforth be known as the Critter Killer. CK for short." "Awesome," said David, who as the baby of our group at 29 took a lot of ribbing for his generational affiliation. "Mine's got me as captain and Chewbacca as copilot, so of course it has to be the Millennial Falcon." (He did indeed have a small Chewbacca action figure riding shotgun.) "My Tiger is orange and bouncy. Tigger, obviously," said Mark. And so it came to be that three guys who usually laugh at people who name their bikes found themselves swallowing their pride. This trip had come together almost as organically as our bikes acquired their names. David and I had both bought Honda Africa Twins over the summer and were dying to try them out somewhere remote and gravelly. Mark had traded his Tiger 800 roadie for a Tiger 800 XC after last year's adventure and also wanted to get out there. David and I had been to Labrador and Newfoundland before (three times in my case), but not in four years, and Mark had never been but wanted to go. Riding up north through Gaspé and along the St Lawrence last year had put the desire in both of us to head up to Labrador, and frankly, that route never gets boring. So this trip was kind of a no-brainer.