Stories
1.
Layering For Winter
2.Blistering
Choices
3.Bear Essentials
4.Walking From Canada
To Mexico In A Day
5.As Good As It Gets
6.Soaked To
The Skin
7.The Desert Strikes
Back
8.Eating Dust
9.Cycling The Trans Canada
Trail Across British Columbia
10.Cycling From
Victoria To The Yukon - Part 1
Trip Reports
'From
sea to sky the best way to experience British Columbia is by cycling it.'
Mission Mountain pass, Seton Lake – My legs felt like rubber as
I struggled upward through a cloud of rain. I scanned the road ahead for
signs that I was nearing the top. I remembered reading something Chief
Justice Begbie, BC’s ‘hanging judge’ once said. He had
just crossed Seton Lake and looking at the rough terrain around him remarked,
“The mountains come down on it so steeply [ . . . ] that I should
consider a road out of the question!” After struggling uphill for
two hours, I had to agree with him. However, with the promise of a hot
shower and meal awaiting me in Lillooet, I pushed on.
Growing up in Victoria, I had always been fascinated by stories of BC’s
north country. I wanted to experience the unique landscape and culture
for myself. With that in mind I plotted a cycling route from Victoria
to the Yukon. My hope was to explore a back roads route that would offer
me a view of urban, city and rural life. In the past year I have cycled
about 700 km from Victoria to 100 Mile House. Along the way I have biked
through some spectacular scenery and had some amazing experiences.
One of the communities I visited was the tiny fishing hamlet of Finn Slough
on the south arm of the Fraser River. Dating back over a hundred years,
this original Finnish settlement had built their homes on wooden pilings
in the river. Planked walkways and bridges connect the neighbors to each
other. This collection of faded shacks and cabins stand in stark contrast
to the California style townhouses being built a few kilometers away.
The community even boasts its own schoolhouse. Its like ‘Little
House on the Prairie’ meets the ‘Beachcombers” TV show.
Crossing the lower mainland’s network of biking paths provided me
the chance to see a wide variety of wildlife. These green spaces are home
to Great Blue Herons, coyotes, deer, and much more. Every once in a while,
a bear or cougar makes its way into a residential neighborhood for some
additional food. In fact with the encroachment of new development throughout
the lower mainland, many animals have learned to adapt to their new surroundings.
One of the more curious has been the great Canadian goose. These large
birds live year round in the city, rather than risk the arduous flight
South. Instead they find shelter in parks, vacant lots, and even the tops
of buildings. It is not uncommon to be woken up in the morning by a pair
of amorous geese enjoying the view from atop a nearby high-rise.
Vancouver is a big city with over a million people. Living here for the
past 15 years has been great. I have seen some really great things over
the years, but certainly of the strangest was the day I rode through on
my bike. I was on route towards False Creek, one of the city’s trendiest
neighborhoods when I stumbled upon an accident scene. Fire trucks, squad
cars, and rescue vehicles were parked around the base of a tree next to
the Burrard Street Bridge. The top of the tree stood as tall as the car
deck 10 meters above it and was about three away from the railing.
It was early Sunday morning. There were a few other curious bystanders
watching the proceedings. At first I could not make out what the rescue
crew was doing. They were perched on a fire truck ladder cutting away
branches. As they moved away I saw the lifeless form a man hanging upside
down. I was quite startled for a moment as I realized what I was watching.
It turned out the unlucky tree climber was a young lawyer. He had been
out with friends the previous evening having dinner and drinks. According
to a close friend of his, they often used the tree as a short cut. Being
quite fit, it was easy for them to step out from the bridge deck and take
hold of the fragile branches before climbing down. I found out later his
blood-alcohol level was quite high, so he must have misjudged it this
time. What an awful shame I thought. It was foolish perhaps, but it was
also very bad luck too. I rode away and within minutes found myself amongst
the throngs of Vancouverites enjoying themselves on Granville Island.
I imagined that if he had not fallen to his death, he too would very likely
be amongst the crowds taking in the sights and sounds of that sunny Sunday
morning.
My first serious biking challenge was the 30 km grind between the towns
of D ‘Arcy and Seton Portage, northeast of Pemberton. The locals
refer to it as the ‘High Line’ route. It is driven mainly
by repair crews to maintain the power lines alongside Anderson Lake. Earlier
in the day one of the locals in D’ Arcy warned us about its steepness.
My biking partner John smiled and brushed aside his comment. He told the
old man that he had cycled all over the world and had never once pushed
his bike up a hill.
The old fellow replied, “Well, today may be your first.”
Almost immediately east of town, the gravel road became decidedly steeper.
I was huffing and puffing, doing my best to keep up with John, but he
was soon around a turn and out of sight. I shifted to my lowest gear,
but to no avail. I came to a dusty stop only one kilometer into the day’s
ride. Good grief I thought. This was going to be a long day.
John fared better than I, but he eventually fell victim to the steepness
of the ‘Highline’. I mused out loud about the old man back
in town. He was probably sitting in the shade on his porch at that moment
relaxing, sipping a cold drink and smiling at our foolishness. The 30
km ride took and exhausting 6 hours to complete. We reached Seton Portage
hot, tired and in desperate need of a good meal. We relaxed that evening
unaware that the real challenge still awaited us.
We rode out early the next morning into a rainstorm. To reach Lillooet,
we needed to cycle over Mission Mountain. The rain soaked us in minutes.
My bike chain clogged up with mud making shifting almost impossible. A
few vehicles passed us, its occupants staring wide-eyed at the crazy fools
on their mountain bikes. John quickly left me behind as he disappeared
into the mist. I was still sore from the previous day’s ride and
this was turning into a much tougher slog. My heart pounded as I wheezed
and gasped my way upward.
Good grief I thought, where is the summit? After 15 km of constant uphill
riding I finally reached the top, to find John hunched over his bike munching
on an energy bar. I was completely soaked to the skin, and we still had
about seven long hours of riding ahead.
We passed numerous rockslides on our way down towards Carpenter Lake and
Lillooet. The wind quickly cooled our overheated bodies and by the time
I arrived in the valley below I was shivering with cold and feeling nauseous.
It was a great relief to finally reach Lillooet. The town was having a
fair, but I was far too tired and ill to enjoy it. We found the train
station and there I sat until it arrived, wondering about the next stage.
A few weeks later I returned and began the long arduous climb out of the
Fraser Canyon. I headed East towards Clinton on what turned out to be
a very long, hot day. However, I was so impressed with the scenery that
I hardly noticed the 10% grades. The sky and countryside opened up. As
the day unfolded, the light and shadow danced across the rock and skyline.
At one point I came across the remnants of a roadhouse, a reminder of
the gold trail that carried people and supplies to the gold fields of
the Cariboo.
I reached picturesque Pavilion Lake late in the day and cooled off in
its crystal blue waters. I swam, floated and explored amongst the reeds
as two curious loons paddled towards me for a closer look. Later that
night I watched a dazzling display of thunder and lightning ignite the
valley below with color. The setting was perfect.
One of the risks of sleeping under the stars is that other night creatures
will often come by for a visit. It was a few hours later when I was startled
awake by the sensation of a mouse’s whiskers brushing against my
nose. Leaping from my sleeping bag, I tripped and almost fell head first
into the lake. I grabbed my flashlight and caught a number of the annoying
rodents scattering in all directions. I must have camped next to their
lair. I was too tired to find a new place to sleep, so I crawled back
into my bag and cinched up the drawstring closing myself in. It felt claustrophobic,
but at least I was able to get some needed sleep.
I returned in late October for my final bike trip of the year. My route
would take me from Clinton to 100 Mile House, a country I had never visited
before. The landscape was still awash in a beautiful palette of gold’s
and yellows. I had reached the official start of the Cariboo Wagon Road.
There were many routes leading to the fabled gold fields of the Cariboo
and Highway 97 is probably the most famous. Visiting the museum in Clinton
I learned about some of the gold seekers who risked everything in pursuit
of a dream. These men had suffered deprivations, the inherent dangers
of the wild, and loneliness in pursuit of a dream.
My route took me along Dog Creek and Gustafson Lake. Temperatures dropped
to –15 degrees Celsius overnight exposing the limits of my tarp
as a shelter. My water bottle became one big ice cube. The ponds were
covered in ice. I rode over hills covered in pines and aspens. The scenery
was amazing. The cold air stung my lungs, but I felt great. At each break
I would build a small fire to warm my hands and feet.
By the time I reached 100 Mile House, the skies had changed. Heavy snow-laden
clouds swept in from the north and I braced myself for the coming storm.
By sheer luck I reached the warmth and comfort of town just before the
first snow began to fall. The first leg of my journey was over. When I
arrived home I unfolded my map and began planning for the next stage of
my adventure, the heart of the Cariboo and the wild spaces that lie to
the north.
If you are going:
Purchase a copy of Backroad Mapbook Volume I Southwestern B.C. and Volume
V Cariboo (Mussio Ventures publisher)
For other mountain bike trails check out ‘ Mountain Bike Adventures
in
Southwest British Columbia’ by Greg Maurer, 1999, The Mountaineers
My
bike - nicknamed 'The overlander'
My mountain bike is very ordinary. I salvaged it a few years ago from
a shop going out of business. It does not have any special shocks or ‘extra
wide knobby’ tires. I did purchase a couple of nifty things for
it though . . . just to satisfy my ‘gear lust’. I added a
bike computer, a cushiony soft saddle, and a neat looking purple bell.
The saddle though is by far the best purchase I ever made . . . period.
Anyone who has sat in the saddle for hours on end will agree with me on
this one. Don’t skimp when it comes to this modern marvel of bicycle
technology. I can do without the 21 gears, the high tensile aluminum frame,
the V-brakes . . . but I cannot live without my extra soft bike seat.
When it comes to camping gear, I take with me all the same stuff I would
on a backpacking trip: stove, water bottles, shelter (in my case a tarp),
sleeping bag, extra warm clothes, rain gear, first aid kit, camera, book
(that I never seem to find the time to read), and food. The bike related
stuff is a small repair kit. I will not kid myself that I can manage any
major repairs out in the field, but I certainly can pump air into a tire
and tighten some loose nuts. All of my gear gets crammed into two rear
panniers and a small daypack. I think the most important thing to remember
is that mishaps occur, but that’s okay. In fact, if not for the
misadventures, I probably would have stopped sleeping on the cold, hard
ground years ago. For me it is the unexpected that draws me back each
time; the weird and wonderful things that seem to happen when you leave
the comforts of home for the great outdoors.