Short Version:
Birds, beasts, trailer parks, a candidate for "World's Best Uphill Trail," and a toilet accident
Long Version:
Morning at Forest Lake started in bright sunshine, but clouds soon rolled in and the temerature plummeted. A flock of 30+ tiny waterfowl were floating, clustered together in front of our campsite, and mad/hungry/terrified fish continued to hurl themselves out of the water to significant heights. The sun reaeared at intervals throughout the morning, which we spent in camp, reading and writing, before heading in to town for a ride which started with a not-on-the-map haul up a hill through a trailer park.
We saw many trailer parks at Williams Lake, with huge variation in appearance between them. This one was by far the nicest, and it's entirely probable that if not for the sign saying "Trailer Park," we would have thought it a pleasant community of small but well-cared for homes with well-maintained gardens. Some of the others were not so nicely turned-out, and we were pleased to be viewing them from the highway rather than at close quarters, from our bikes.
Once through the trailer park and the neighboring construction zone, we found ourselves at a an intersection where several trails met. Unfortunately, it was the intersection at the bottom rather than at the top, so we turned left and rode along the powerlines access road, for a long time. In actual fact, the steep grovelly climbs and banal uncomfortable flat sections of this gravelly roadway were interspersed with some pretty excellent traverses and downhill sections on bike-specific trails - including the first few instances of what was to become a familiar happenstance for both of us on this ride: flying off jumps at speed to find ourselves very near direct-line trees to be struck or near-missed. At the northern edge of town the trail turned east and started to climb. Best uphill trail we've struck so far on the trip, and I can't for the life of me think of a better one in NZ either. Switchbacks, ramps, logs, roots - everything was there, and everything was rideable. It had great flow to it, which is mighty unusual in an up, and which when it does apear is usually killed off pretty quickly by shortcutters (the "Upland" trail at Woodhill is a prime example). Once at the top we had a rollicking good time blasting along an undulating ridgeline, with occasional views out over town and lake, and then a really sweet downhill run with a bit of everything thrown into the mix - including more mid-air "Surprise!" trees - back to the construction site.
A quick stop at the bike shop to check a modern map (we'd been riding using an old one, dished out as "current" by the Information Centre), then hauled back out to Forest Lake, where we saw deer at roadside on the way in. Back at the same campsite, the leaping fish continued to amaze and delight, but the real treat came when we heard a non-standard splashing, and found a young bear swimming not far from our spot. He walked out of the lake, shook himself vigorously, and then proceeded to tussle with another bear about his size; siblings, we surmised. The two of them wandered off into the woods, and we went back to reading, but it wasn't long afterwards that a chance glance along the shoreline showed one of them only 5m away and getting closer at a fair clip. Using my best Gandalf voice, I told her she would not be passing, and should go back. She did. Fast. Once again Nene's after-the-fact clap incurred both a speed increase and some reproachful backwards looks, and the closeness of the encounter had both of us hyper-aware of noises from the woods for the rest of the evening.
Next morning Janine attempted to ride her bike to the toilet, but fell off and scraped her knuckles. Staring fixedly at the mist on the lake surface, the jumping fish, and the proliferation of tiny birdies was great cover for stifled laughter, as was a scientific analysis of the bear poop on the edge of our camp: Judging from the presence of large quantities of whole berries, we hypothesise that someone's not chewing their food properly. And is, therefore, probably male.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Bear, Fish, Fish, Moose, Fish, Bear, Bear, Bear, Bear (Fish)
Short Version:
We ride in the forest, get clean, and have wildlife encounters.
Long Version:
Williams Lake has networks of cross-country mountain-bike trails on all sides. The bike shop mechanics had recommended hitting all of them, which was no help when it came to picking which to ride first. They did give me a hand-drawn map of the Southside trail network access points though, so we decided to start with that one, and two and a half hours of some pretty nice, slightly too-wet dirt base trail riding later, we felt pretty good about the choice. Nothing too steep - although the options were there if we'd wanted them - and lots of technical challenges, mainly involving tight turns around trees, off-camber traverses, and some tough but rideable switchbacks. One broken chain repair (success!) and one instance of sitting on ground instead of on bike (FAIL!), and then back to the van, where we ran into our Lake Tyax camp-neighbors (Hi Doreen and Robert!), who'd stopped to shop at the big Canadian Tire store before hitting the long road homeward to Bella Coola.
We made our way to the big Recreation Centre, with grand designs on swimming some lengths, soaking in the hot pool, and showering, but they'd closed all pools and shut off the hot water for month-long maintenance activities. Bastards. The folks at the local gym let us use their showers, though, and being clean felt really really good as we hit the road out to the highly-recommended free campground at the Blue Lake. Which was closed.
So we made our way to the campground at Forest Lake, where we found unheralded and surprising loveliness. The place was near-deserted, and we nabbed an isolated spot at the northern extreme of the camping area, right on the lake shore and surrounded by trees on three sides. The lake level was down from normal here as well, but not as markedly as at Brunson Lake (and certainly without the noxious odour!). Looking lakeward we had views out across the main body of water and the forests on the far side filling most of our field of view, with a small arm of the lake in to our left. The woods on the far side of this cove provided the first of what would prove to be many wildlife sightings at Forest Lake; a young black bear prowling the tree-line in the last of the sun, then swimming a 20m loop before hauling herself out of the water, shaking herself off, and disappearing into the trees. In what was to become standard fare for the place, fish - some of them huge - were leaping with abandon, some of them hugely. A moose appeared, near where the bear had wandered away, and spent some time standing in the shallows, drinking from the lake. Mooses are big.
We were sitting at our site's table, reading, when at the same time Lovely Wife heard, and I smelled something new and interesting. We turned as one to see a BIG black bear twenty metres away, on the fringes of the dense woods, and heading our way. We stood, waved sticks, and made noise, which had the desired effect of causing it to wander off, but not before its equally-large companion appeared and looked at us curiously. With the sun gone from our side of the lake, the temperature was dropping fast, and we were near packing it in for the night when we spied yet another bear, heading our way along the shoreline from about ten metres. He had his head down, intent on the ground in front of his paws, and seemed to get a heck of a fright when we used our big voices to tell him he should go elsewhere. He was already running when Nene clapped her hands, but when she did he put on a suprising burst of speed and disappeared into the forest after a couple of what looked very much like disapproving backward glances.
Encroaching darkness was reducing our confidence in our ability to spot bears before they got closer than was comfortable, so we locked ourselves away in the Reaper and huddled up against the cold.
We ride in the forest, get clean, and have wildlife encounters.
Long Version:
Williams Lake has networks of cross-country mountain-bike trails on all sides. The bike shop mechanics had recommended hitting all of them, which was no help when it came to picking which to ride first. They did give me a hand-drawn map of the Southside trail network access points though, so we decided to start with that one, and two and a half hours of some pretty nice, slightly too-wet dirt base trail riding later, we felt pretty good about the choice. Nothing too steep - although the options were there if we'd wanted them - and lots of technical challenges, mainly involving tight turns around trees, off-camber traverses, and some tough but rideable switchbacks. One broken chain repair (success!) and one instance of sitting on ground instead of on bike (FAIL!), and then back to the van, where we ran into our Lake Tyax camp-neighbors (Hi Doreen and Robert!), who'd stopped to shop at the big Canadian Tire store before hitting the long road homeward to Bella Coola.
We made our way to the big Recreation Centre, with grand designs on swimming some lengths, soaking in the hot pool, and showering, but they'd closed all pools and shut off the hot water for month-long maintenance activities. Bastards. The folks at the local gym let us use their showers, though, and being clean felt really really good as we hit the road out to the highly-recommended free campground at the Blue Lake. Which was closed.
So we made our way to the campground at Forest Lake, where we found unheralded and surprising loveliness. The place was near-deserted, and we nabbed an isolated spot at the northern extreme of the camping area, right on the lake shore and surrounded by trees on three sides. The lake level was down from normal here as well, but not as markedly as at Brunson Lake (and certainly without the noxious odour!). Looking lakeward we had views out across the main body of water and the forests on the far side filling most of our field of view, with a small arm of the lake in to our left. The woods on the far side of this cove provided the first of what would prove to be many wildlife sightings at Forest Lake; a young black bear prowling the tree-line in the last of the sun, then swimming a 20m loop before hauling herself out of the water, shaking herself off, and disappearing into the trees. In what was to become standard fare for the place, fish - some of them huge - were leaping with abandon, some of them hugely. A moose appeared, near where the bear had wandered away, and spent some time standing in the shallows, drinking from the lake. Mooses are big.
We were sitting at our site's table, reading, when at the same time Lovely Wife heard, and I smelled something new and interesting. We turned as one to see a BIG black bear twenty metres away, on the fringes of the dense woods, and heading our way. We stood, waved sticks, and made noise, which had the desired effect of causing it to wander off, but not before its equally-large companion appeared and looked at us curiously. With the sun gone from our side of the lake, the temperature was dropping fast, and we were near packing it in for the night when we spied yet another bear, heading our way along the shoreline from about ten metres. He had his head down, intent on the ground in front of his paws, and seemed to get a heck of a fright when we used our big voices to tell him he should go elsewhere. He was already running when Nene clapped her hands, but when she did he put on a suprising burst of speed and disappeared into the forest after a couple of what looked very much like disapproving backward glances.
Encroaching darkness was reducing our confidence in our ability to spot bears before they got closer than was comfortable, so we locked ourselves away in the Reaper and huddled up against the cold.
It's Getting Cold Up Here
Short Version:
A scenic lake and a stinky one (which is still scenic)
Long Version:
Beaverdam Lake is shallow, with reeds protruding through the surface of the water in many places. From where we were camped we had incredible views across the lake and over rolling farmland with occasional woodlands and idyllic-looking farms, up foothills sprinkled with trees to the lower slopes of the distant mountains, thickly-forested and rising sharply to bare, pale rock at the high peaks. Sunset was spectacular from where we sat, sheltered from the strong wind off the lake by a rather pretty birch tree, but as night fell the wind died, and the ravenous mosquito hordes we'd been promised started to materialise. Seemed like a good reason to go to bed.
We awoke to a clear, still day. The far-off mountains were beautiful reflected in the lake's placid surface, and the sky seemed huge after having been so long in steep valleys and forested areas. We were bathed in sunlight, which was very nice, but there were huge grey clouds visible to the north - exactly where we were headed. The rain arrived as we drove through 150-Mile House, I think. May have been 108-Mile House, or any of the many other [Number]-Mile House townships we passed through. Whichever one we were in when the rain hit had at least two sub-norms in it though - we know because we saw them, riding their bicycles opposite directions along the highway in the downpour.
Williams Lake surprised with its size, and with the scale of its impressive Information Centre, where we stopped to try to steal internet but were thwarted by the fact that they were giving it away. Next stop was Red Shreds Board and Bike Shop for trail info, which they gave in spades, and then we were off up Chimney Lake Valley, to the "most scenic of the area's campgrounds," at Brunson Lake. Which had shrunk due to the long-standing drought, exposing large areas of vile-smelling mud. We checked out Felker Lake, a few kilometres further down the road, but at $14 and right next to the highway we felt it was not right for our band, so we drove back to Brunson and parked the van in a hollow atop a small hill (away from the worst of the lake-mud stench) just in time to watch a thunderstorm roll in.
We'd arrived under a predominantly-blue sky, marred only some small, fluffy, innocuous white clouds. As we set up camp we noted gathering gloom in the northwest, and eventually we figured out that the odd noise we'd been hearing was not trucks crossing a reverberating bridge but thunder rumbling in the distance. By the time we had the van set for the night the storm front was a clearly-distinguishable line of cloud, approaching fast. The thunder was no longer in the distance, and the forks of crackling light playing amongst the clouds had us checking our surroundings for lightning non-death appropriateness. It got very dark very quickly. A breeze began to blow, and strengthened quickly to wind, and then gale. Likewise the rain - which started as light, sparse drops - was soon pelting down, turning to icy hail within minutes of starting. We huddled in the van, wrapped in sleeping bags for warmth as the temperature plummetted, as the darkness was lit by sporadic bursts of harsh white light and the bursts of thunder rolled into one another, creating a barrage of incredibly loud noise that seemed to go on and on uninterrupted.
Soon, though, the trailing edge of the storm became visible, the hail died away to rain and then stopped, and the wind dropped away to nothing. Ten minutes later we were out playing disc golf under blue skies, watching the sun set behind wispy clouds far in the west as the still-thundering storm rampaged its way southeast across the plateau. Mist wraiths danced on the surface of the lake in the last of the sunshine, and the forests on the far side of the water looked clean and new as we traipsed around the fields in pursuit of wayward chunks of molded plastic. Then popcorn in the van and a grand night's sleep despite the chilly overnight temperature.
A scenic lake and a stinky one (which is still scenic)
Long Version:
Beaverdam Lake is shallow, with reeds protruding through the surface of the water in many places. From where we were camped we had incredible views across the lake and over rolling farmland with occasional woodlands and idyllic-looking farms, up foothills sprinkled with trees to the lower slopes of the distant mountains, thickly-forested and rising sharply to bare, pale rock at the high peaks. Sunset was spectacular from where we sat, sheltered from the strong wind off the lake by a rather pretty birch tree, but as night fell the wind died, and the ravenous mosquito hordes we'd been promised started to materialise. Seemed like a good reason to go to bed.
We awoke to a clear, still day. The far-off mountains were beautiful reflected in the lake's placid surface, and the sky seemed huge after having been so long in steep valleys and forested areas. We were bathed in sunlight, which was very nice, but there were huge grey clouds visible to the north - exactly where we were headed. The rain arrived as we drove through 150-Mile House, I think. May have been 108-Mile House, or any of the many other [Number]-Mile House townships we passed through. Whichever one we were in when the rain hit had at least two sub-norms in it though - we know because we saw them, riding their bicycles opposite directions along the highway in the downpour.
Williams Lake surprised with its size, and with the scale of its impressive Information Centre, where we stopped to try to steal internet but were thwarted by the fact that they were giving it away. Next stop was Red Shreds Board and Bike Shop for trail info, which they gave in spades, and then we were off up Chimney Lake Valley, to the "most scenic of the area's campgrounds," at Brunson Lake. Which had shrunk due to the long-standing drought, exposing large areas of vile-smelling mud. We checked out Felker Lake, a few kilometres further down the road, but at $14 and right next to the highway we felt it was not right for our band, so we drove back to Brunson and parked the van in a hollow atop a small hill (away from the worst of the lake-mud stench) just in time to watch a thunderstorm roll in.
We'd arrived under a predominantly-blue sky, marred only some small, fluffy, innocuous white clouds. As we set up camp we noted gathering gloom in the northwest, and eventually we figured out that the odd noise we'd been hearing was not trucks crossing a reverberating bridge but thunder rumbling in the distance. By the time we had the van set for the night the storm front was a clearly-distinguishable line of cloud, approaching fast. The thunder was no longer in the distance, and the forks of crackling light playing amongst the clouds had us checking our surroundings for lightning non-death appropriateness. It got very dark very quickly. A breeze began to blow, and strengthened quickly to wind, and then gale. Likewise the rain - which started as light, sparse drops - was soon pelting down, turning to icy hail within minutes of starting. We huddled in the van, wrapped in sleeping bags for warmth as the temperature plummetted, as the darkness was lit by sporadic bursts of harsh white light and the bursts of thunder rolled into one another, creating a barrage of incredibly loud noise that seemed to go on and on uninterrupted.
Soon, though, the trailing edge of the storm became visible, the hail died away to rain and then stopped, and the wind dropped away to nothing. Ten minutes later we were out playing disc golf under blue skies, watching the sun set behind wispy clouds far in the west as the still-thundering storm rampaged its way southeast across the plateau. Mist wraiths danced on the surface of the lake in the last of the sunshine, and the forests on the far side of the water looked clean and new as we traipsed around the fields in pursuit of wayward chunks of molded plastic. Then popcorn in the van and a grand night's sleep despite the chilly overnight temperature.
Wet River, Dry Valley
Short Version:
A long drive, hammocks, a long drive, a short ride, bear-stalking, a long drive
Long Version:
The drive out from Goldbridge to Lillooet took us east along the shore of the Carpenter Reservoir, rather than south up and along the Hurley ridgeline (Hi Hurley Clan!). We were quite pleased about that. Halfway along the reservoir we saw a vast quantity of floating wood - fallen trees and branches - and a wooden bridge - which had been washed down streams into the lake and had floated east with the current until trapped behind a floating boom. There were many signs warning of falling rocks, and we saw a small one roll down the hill and across the road, joining a decent-sized pile of its fellows, some of which were baby's-head size. Scary. At the eastern end of the reservoir was another boom, then the dam, which we drove over and through the tunnel on the far side, just because we could. We then had to play "Excuse me. No, after you. No, I insist," with a truck carrying a digger, which defied my predictions of impending disaster and slipped through the tunnel like it was greased instead of bringing the whole mountain crashing down.
We drove through a pretty river valley with signs warning of flash-floods in the event of dam issues, then climbed and then traversed the face of a steep hill, with a number of spots where huge chunks of road had fallen away down the cliff, leaving single-lane sections and a distinct sense of unease behind them. Eventually, we made it to Lillooet, where it was incredibly hot and dry. We had chores to do, including acquiring delicious foods and trail info (success and FAIL, respectively), and then we rolled a few km south, to the Seton Dam campground, where we set up camp and lay in our Mexican hammocks reading books and eating quesadillas until bedtime.
Next morning we spent some time talking to camp-neighbor, a professor from the nearby Thompson Rivers University, who then set off with his wife for a leisurely bike ride, spaniel safely-ensconced in bike-basket (except for when it leaped out, setting in motion a non-optimal chain of events). We hit the road south down the Fraser River Valley, 40-odd km along a progressivly-more-crap gravel road, to the Della Creek Logging Road, which we rode up. For ninety minutes. In the incredible heat. Halfway up we paused to admire the band of wild horses - three adults and a foal - which were eating at roadside, and at the top we had a clear view of fire aftermath on the neighboring mountain, where patches of still-thriving green trees, protected by vagaries of geography, stood out among their black-trunked, brown- or no-leaved neighbors. No real surprise that there had been fires through, as the area was incredibly hot and dry, despite the large river running through the bottom of the valley. It looked like all the water in the region had been concentrated in the river, leaving nothing for the hills around it. Secondary effects of the fire were evident on the hill we were on, with the downwards trail (once we found it!) newly-altered to go around areas where fire-breaks had been created. This meant we had some issues with navigation where the packed-down established trail disappeared under a pile of deadwood or other bulldozer detritus, and a few sketchy sections where sweeping downhill curves had been replaced by a steep straightline drop. Still, most of the ride was great fun - it was one of those trails which you knew you'd ride twice as fast on a second run-through - and we were sad when we reached the end, 3500 vertical feet and forty-five minutes after setting out from the top.
The drive out was punctuated by some vehicular bear-stalking. He looked quite young, and very hot, and very much like he wanted to be left alone. Instead, he had a big white van pulling up parallel with him, 10m away, with a couple of stupid humans ogling him. So he'd haul himself to his feet and walk resignedly, jaws agape, until he had a tree or bush between himself and the van. Then he'd plonk himself back down on the ground with a thump - much like the dogs were doing towards the end of the Stawamus Chief hike. We'd then inch the van forward into a clear viewing corridor, and the whole process would start over. We felt a bit sorry for him, and drove on, leaving him to rest in the shade in peace.
Not long afterwards, we were in Clinton (Hi Clinton!). We entered unremarked, and were gone again before anyone noticed.
A long drive, hammocks, a long drive, a short ride, bear-stalking, a long drive
Long Version:
The drive out from Goldbridge to Lillooet took us east along the shore of the Carpenter Reservoir, rather than south up and along the Hurley ridgeline (Hi Hurley Clan!). We were quite pleased about that. Halfway along the reservoir we saw a vast quantity of floating wood - fallen trees and branches - and a wooden bridge - which had been washed down streams into the lake and had floated east with the current until trapped behind a floating boom. There were many signs warning of falling rocks, and we saw a small one roll down the hill and across the road, joining a decent-sized pile of its fellows, some of which were baby's-head size. Scary. At the eastern end of the reservoir was another boom, then the dam, which we drove over and through the tunnel on the far side, just because we could. We then had to play "Excuse me. No, after you. No, I insist," with a truck carrying a digger, which defied my predictions of impending disaster and slipped through the tunnel like it was greased instead of bringing the whole mountain crashing down.
We drove through a pretty river valley with signs warning of flash-floods in the event of dam issues, then climbed and then traversed the face of a steep hill, with a number of spots where huge chunks of road had fallen away down the cliff, leaving single-lane sections and a distinct sense of unease behind them. Eventually, we made it to Lillooet, where it was incredibly hot and dry. We had chores to do, including acquiring delicious foods and trail info (success and FAIL, respectively), and then we rolled a few km south, to the Seton Dam campground, where we set up camp and lay in our Mexican hammocks reading books and eating quesadillas until bedtime.
Next morning we spent some time talking to camp-neighbor, a professor from the nearby Thompson Rivers University, who then set off with his wife for a leisurely bike ride, spaniel safely-ensconced in bike-basket (except for when it leaped out, setting in motion a non-optimal chain of events). We hit the road south down the Fraser River Valley, 40-odd km along a progressivly-more-crap gravel road, to the Della Creek Logging Road, which we rode up. For ninety minutes. In the incredible heat. Halfway up we paused to admire the band of wild horses - three adults and a foal - which were eating at roadside, and at the top we had a clear view of fire aftermath on the neighboring mountain, where patches of still-thriving green trees, protected by vagaries of geography, stood out among their black-trunked, brown- or no-leaved neighbors. No real surprise that there had been fires through, as the area was incredibly hot and dry, despite the large river running through the bottom of the valley. It looked like all the water in the region had been concentrated in the river, leaving nothing for the hills around it. Secondary effects of the fire were evident on the hill we were on, with the downwards trail (once we found it!) newly-altered to go around areas where fire-breaks had been created. This meant we had some issues with navigation where the packed-down established trail disappeared under a pile of deadwood or other bulldozer detritus, and a few sketchy sections where sweeping downhill curves had been replaced by a steep straightline drop. Still, most of the ride was great fun - it was one of those trails which you knew you'd ride twice as fast on a second run-through - and we were sad when we reached the end, 3500 vertical feet and forty-five minutes after setting out from the top.
The drive out was punctuated by some vehicular bear-stalking. He looked quite young, and very hot, and very much like he wanted to be left alone. Instead, he had a big white van pulling up parallel with him, 10m away, with a couple of stupid humans ogling him. So he'd haul himself to his feet and walk resignedly, jaws agape, until he had a tree or bush between himself and the van. Then he'd plonk himself back down on the ground with a thump - much like the dogs were doing towards the end of the Stawamus Chief hike. We'd then inch the van forward into a clear viewing corridor, and the whole process would start over. We felt a bit sorry for him, and drove on, leaving him to rest in the shade in peace.
Not long afterwards, we were in Clinton (Hi Clinton!). We entered unremarked, and were gone again before anyone noticed.
Accurate Signage (With Bears)
Short Version:
We camp by a lake (with bears), go for a run (with bears), hit another big ride (with bears), and see some bears. Up close and (very) personal.
Long Version:
We spent three nights camped on the shore of the lake variously known as Tyax or Tyaughton*. We arrived at the Friburg/Freiberg/Friberg** Recreation Area, sweaty and hungry on the back of a 2.5 hour run/walk up Gun Creek, to find a group of English picnickers spread across two of the three campsites, which was irritating, but once they left we were pretty chuffed with the spot. The lake water was warm, but the wind was chilly and was picking up as the day wore on, so we skipped the swimming and read books instead, as the fish leaped and the loons played call-and-response from opposite ends of the lake. Their cry is mournful and wild, and sounds very much what loneliness and isolation would sound like, had they a sound. Especially so with the echo effect from the hills surrounding the lake.
Rain arrived overnight, and was still there when we awoke in the morning, so we backed the van down close to the shore, opened the rear doors, and spent the morning in bed, reading, writing, sculpting, playing cards, and drawing pictures. Mist swirled in random patterns on the surface of the lake, and hung like scraps of gauze on the tree-covered slopes of the hills. The rain stayed all day, varying in intensity from almost-nothing to serious thunderstorm. The latter included a massive downpour along with some big boom and crackle. Our new camp-neighbors had arrived just before the storm hit (Hi Doreen and Robert!), and for a while there were two vans, each containing a couple, battened down and with water sheeting off them. Then one of us went out for a run while the other read her book, and the symmetry was ruined. Running in the gloom of a cloud-covered forest just after hearing a bunch of bear stories was a marvellous adrenaline-fuelled experience, especially when I stood on and snapped a stick, provoking a frenzy of activity not five metres away as a bear took off in the opposite direction.
Lake Tyax/Tyaughton is the home base of the float-plane we'd seen on Spruce Lake, and it was in and out several times during that first day (less on subsequent days as the weekenders departed), so we were quite surprised the next morning when our breakfast was punctuated by a beaver cruising past the campsite, slapping the surface of the water with its tail periodically. It made a surprisingly loud, booming splash, like a big stone dropped into a deep pool. It cruised back past the other way about fifteen minutes later, with less tail-slapping activity, then dived and didn't resurface just south of the campsite, near a pile of sticks and mud we spied later and speculated might be its lodge.
We rode from the campsite up the road we'd driven with Tim the other day, to and past where we'd parked his truck, and on to Taylor's Cabin. No other people around this time, so we took some time to explore the cabin and its surrounds before heading up and out of the basin, west over Camel Pass instead of north to Windy Pass. The view from Camel Pass was pretty spectacular, as was the descent on the other side down into a basin even more full of blue and yellow flowers than Taylor's was. Similar riding to what we'd had coming out from Spruce Lake, but the rain had settled the dust (and reinvigorated the flowers!) and the trail was in pretty much perfect condition. Which wasn't much help when we came to climb the ridge over to the next valley, which was too steep and mud-slippery for riding, so we walked in the clearly-visible pawprints of several bears of various sizes up to the ridge and again up and out of the next valley over.
And then we started down the Lick Creek Trail, which had some awesome sections at the top end, but became steep and precipitous enough to be called hair-raising in places, unrideable in others. Not the most fun we've had on our bikes, although the bit where we stopped to watch the bear cub scramble up the tree was pretty cool. Spotting Mama Bear watching us intently from a spot just in front of the base of the tree was mildly totally scary - especially given that she was light brown like many grizzlies - but she never stopped eating, which we took as a sign that she wasn't particularly concerned with our presence. We left anyway.
The downhill flattened out and became more fun, and then we hit old logging roads, which enabled high speeds, except whenever we remembered there could easily be an enormous bear around any one of the many blind corners. Then we hit the trail I'd run the day before, rode across the partially-collapsed bridge we'd had a crack at repairing during the previous evening's walk, and were swimming in the (surprisingly shallow) lake soon after.
Next morning our departure preparations were interrupted by a young (ie Nene-sized) bear, foraging his way along the lake shore towards our camp. I was off doing what bears do in the woods*** at the time, so it fell to Lovely Wife to inform it of our presence, which she did by speaking loudly and clapping her hands, causing it to: a) notice her standing 5m away, waving a stick; and b) run away fast. The escape path it took brought it right past me, which was a surprise for both of us.
* = Depending on which map or sign you choose to believe
** = Depending on which map or sign you choose to believe
*** = In case you were wondering, yes, they do. And on roads, and trails, and in meadows, and pretty much blimmin well everywhere. And judging from the size of some of the piles we've seen, there are some REALLY BIG BEARS around the place.
We camp by a lake (with bears), go for a run (with bears), hit another big ride (with bears), and see some bears. Up close and (very) personal.
Long Version:
We spent three nights camped on the shore of the lake variously known as Tyax or Tyaughton*. We arrived at the Friburg/Freiberg/Friberg** Recreation Area, sweaty and hungry on the back of a 2.5 hour run/walk up Gun Creek, to find a group of English picnickers spread across two of the three campsites, which was irritating, but once they left we were pretty chuffed with the spot. The lake water was warm, but the wind was chilly and was picking up as the day wore on, so we skipped the swimming and read books instead, as the fish leaped and the loons played call-and-response from opposite ends of the lake. Their cry is mournful and wild, and sounds very much what loneliness and isolation would sound like, had they a sound. Especially so with the echo effect from the hills surrounding the lake.
Rain arrived overnight, and was still there when we awoke in the morning, so we backed the van down close to the shore, opened the rear doors, and spent the morning in bed, reading, writing, sculpting, playing cards, and drawing pictures. Mist swirled in random patterns on the surface of the lake, and hung like scraps of gauze on the tree-covered slopes of the hills. The rain stayed all day, varying in intensity from almost-nothing to serious thunderstorm. The latter included a massive downpour along with some big boom and crackle. Our new camp-neighbors had arrived just before the storm hit (Hi Doreen and Robert!), and for a while there were two vans, each containing a couple, battened down and with water sheeting off them. Then one of us went out for a run while the other read her book, and the symmetry was ruined. Running in the gloom of a cloud-covered forest just after hearing a bunch of bear stories was a marvellous adrenaline-fuelled experience, especially when I stood on and snapped a stick, provoking a frenzy of activity not five metres away as a bear took off in the opposite direction.
Lake Tyax/Tyaughton is the home base of the float-plane we'd seen on Spruce Lake, and it was in and out several times during that first day (less on subsequent days as the weekenders departed), so we were quite surprised the next morning when our breakfast was punctuated by a beaver cruising past the campsite, slapping the surface of the water with its tail periodically. It made a surprisingly loud, booming splash, like a big stone dropped into a deep pool. It cruised back past the other way about fifteen minutes later, with less tail-slapping activity, then dived and didn't resurface just south of the campsite, near a pile of sticks and mud we spied later and speculated might be its lodge.
We rode from the campsite up the road we'd driven with Tim the other day, to and past where we'd parked his truck, and on to Taylor's Cabin. No other people around this time, so we took some time to explore the cabin and its surrounds before heading up and out of the basin, west over Camel Pass instead of north to Windy Pass. The view from Camel Pass was pretty spectacular, as was the descent on the other side down into a basin even more full of blue and yellow flowers than Taylor's was. Similar riding to what we'd had coming out from Spruce Lake, but the rain had settled the dust (and reinvigorated the flowers!) and the trail was in pretty much perfect condition. Which wasn't much help when we came to climb the ridge over to the next valley, which was too steep and mud-slippery for riding, so we walked in the clearly-visible pawprints of several bears of various sizes up to the ridge and again up and out of the next valley over.
And then we started down the Lick Creek Trail, which had some awesome sections at the top end, but became steep and precipitous enough to be called hair-raising in places, unrideable in others. Not the most fun we've had on our bikes, although the bit where we stopped to watch the bear cub scramble up the tree was pretty cool. Spotting Mama Bear watching us intently from a spot just in front of the base of the tree was mildly totally scary - especially given that she was light brown like many grizzlies - but she never stopped eating, which we took as a sign that she wasn't particularly concerned with our presence. We left anyway.
The downhill flattened out and became more fun, and then we hit old logging roads, which enabled high speeds, except whenever we remembered there could easily be an enormous bear around any one of the many blind corners. Then we hit the trail I'd run the day before, rode across the partially-collapsed bridge we'd had a crack at repairing during the previous evening's walk, and were swimming in the (surprisingly shallow) lake soon after.
Next morning our departure preparations were interrupted by a young (ie Nene-sized) bear, foraging his way along the lake shore towards our camp. I was off doing what bears do in the woods*** at the time, so it fell to Lovely Wife to inform it of our presence, which she did by speaking loudly and clapping her hands, causing it to: a) notice her standing 5m away, waving a stick; and b) run away fast. The escape path it took brought it right past me, which was a surprise for both of us.
* = Depending on which map or sign you choose to believe
** = Depending on which map or sign you choose to believe
*** = In case you were wondering, yes, they do. And on roads, and trails, and in meadows, and pretty much blimmin well everywhere. And judging from the size of some of the piles we've seen, there are some REALLY BIG BEARS around the place.
Nipples Lubed, Ready For Action
Short Version:
We ride up a mountain, play in the snow, and eventually reward ourselves with beer
Long Version:
Tim's an engineer. Based on other engineers we know (Hi Robin! Hola Craig!), that meant we felt we should be ready to roll when he arrived. So we got up early and got our gear packed, and prepped the bikes for a day-long adventure* up and over Windy Pass to Spruce Lake. First, though, we had a vehicle-drop to execute, beer to stash in the river nearby, and miles and miles of gravel road to drive to get to the trailhead.
Eventually, though, we were underway, and - surprise, surprise - riding up a hill. Bah humbug.
Still, the trail was wide and mainly flat, but held enough occasional technical challenges to keep us interested for the whole two hours it took us to get to Taylor's Cabin, which is in Taylor's Basin, high on the shoulder of a snow-capped orangey-red mountain. We'd have been there sooner, but I'd stopped to chat to the chap in the All Blacks jersey riding back the other way (Hi Marty!), and gas-bagged for so long that Lovely Wife found it necessary to ride back down the hill to fetch me. Unimpressed Wife. Even the fact that Marty was wrapping up his Canadian trip and therefore had no further need for his Mountain-Biking in BC guidebook, which he generously donated to the Nene and Puppet Tour, didn't put me back in the good books.
Taylor's Cabin is in good condition, and looks like it has regular occupants - certainly there were a couple of groups of bikers eating lunch there when we passed by. The basin in which it sits is beautiful: forested areas interspersed with wildflower-festooned meadows; clear, cold streams; spectacular sheer-sided mountains on all sides. The only drawback was that to get out of the basin we were going to have to ride up and over something tall. Rats. Twenty minutes later I thought we'd cracked it, and was doing a little victory dance atop what I thought must be Windy Pass, which was quite windy. Forty minutes later we were atop the real Windy Pass, which was much windier and colder, and had had a much longer and steeper approach. No dance this time - too cold. Not as cold as Nene, though, who'd fallen off her bike into a snowdrift. The climb to the pass had been steep enough that we'd all - even Janine - hiked some parts, and it had taken us across an area where the hill face had had a crack at sliding off its rock base and down the slope. We heard some incredibly loud, piercing cries, which I initially thought were originating with the wheeling predator birds but which turned out to be coming from marmots, which seemed largely unconcerned by our presence, meandering away from us and into their burrows with no real haste.
The run down from Windy Pass to Spruce Lake was fantastic - a fast blast down a steep (but not too steep) path so deeply worn that it was a foot-deep trench in places. The corners were great fun, with minimal braking required, and as we descended down past the tree-line and into the woods the trail became generally less steep and more technical, giving us a new set of challenges to keep us charged all the way to the lake shore, where we stopped for a snack and watched the float-plane land to drop gear to one of the groups of riders we'd passed on the way in - they were planning to camp at Spruce Lake for the night and then ride out the next day. We still had a ways to go, though, so checked out some dilapidated cabins and then hit the trail down through the Gun Creek Meadows, which looked like it must have been wall-to-wall wildflowers a week or so earlier and which was an excellent downhill run, marred only by the dust we were kicking up as we sped through. Variable gradients and trail widths, with some steep technical sections and stream crossings, especially once we left the meadow and entered the woods. During one steep, rooty downhill my handlebars twisted through 90 degrees, which made riding rather interesting. Which idiot didn't tighten bolts properly when replacing the fork?
The next hour saw us flying along flattish trails through forest like a smaller version of Endor, dropping sharply to bridged river-crossings, then climbing back to flat sections on the other side. Occasional rock gardens provided serious tests of technical ability, as did some of the tight turns between close-set trees. We reached the trailhead where we'd left the Reaper (and the beer!) six or so hours after we'd set off, and with a now-familiar mix of elation (Yay! Beer!) and disappointment (Boo! No more trail!), and sat and chatted about bears and other trails in the area while enjoying delicious nutritious beverages. Then we hit the road back to where we'd left Tim's truck via the Goldbridge Hotel for delicious foods. It was closed. At 7pm. On a Friday night. So we collected the truck and convoyed to Gun Creek, where we cooked and ate delicious foods. Tim set off to drive to Whistler, ready to ride the Bike Park in the morning, and we hit the hay. No pink moon action this time - I was too tired to take up the physical comedy opportunity.
* = This included putting lubricant inside the spoke-nipples on the Stumpjumper in an attempt to forestall further broken spokes.
We ride up a mountain, play in the snow, and eventually reward ourselves with beer
Long Version:
Tim's an engineer. Based on other engineers we know (Hi Robin! Hola Craig!), that meant we felt we should be ready to roll when he arrived. So we got up early and got our gear packed, and prepped the bikes for a day-long adventure* up and over Windy Pass to Spruce Lake. First, though, we had a vehicle-drop to execute, beer to stash in the river nearby, and miles and miles of gravel road to drive to get to the trailhead.
Eventually, though, we were underway, and - surprise, surprise - riding up a hill. Bah humbug.
Still, the trail was wide and mainly flat, but held enough occasional technical challenges to keep us interested for the whole two hours it took us to get to Taylor's Cabin, which is in Taylor's Basin, high on the shoulder of a snow-capped orangey-red mountain. We'd have been there sooner, but I'd stopped to chat to the chap in the All Blacks jersey riding back the other way (Hi Marty!), and gas-bagged for so long that Lovely Wife found it necessary to ride back down the hill to fetch me. Unimpressed Wife. Even the fact that Marty was wrapping up his Canadian trip and therefore had no further need for his Mountain-Biking in BC guidebook, which he generously donated to the Nene and Puppet Tour, didn't put me back in the good books.
Taylor's Cabin is in good condition, and looks like it has regular occupants - certainly there were a couple of groups of bikers eating lunch there when we passed by. The basin in which it sits is beautiful: forested areas interspersed with wildflower-festooned meadows; clear, cold streams; spectacular sheer-sided mountains on all sides. The only drawback was that to get out of the basin we were going to have to ride up and over something tall. Rats. Twenty minutes later I thought we'd cracked it, and was doing a little victory dance atop what I thought must be Windy Pass, which was quite windy. Forty minutes later we were atop the real Windy Pass, which was much windier and colder, and had had a much longer and steeper approach. No dance this time - too cold. Not as cold as Nene, though, who'd fallen off her bike into a snowdrift. The climb to the pass had been steep enough that we'd all - even Janine - hiked some parts, and it had taken us across an area where the hill face had had a crack at sliding off its rock base and down the slope. We heard some incredibly loud, piercing cries, which I initially thought were originating with the wheeling predator birds but which turned out to be coming from marmots, which seemed largely unconcerned by our presence, meandering away from us and into their burrows with no real haste.
The run down from Windy Pass to Spruce Lake was fantastic - a fast blast down a steep (but not too steep) path so deeply worn that it was a foot-deep trench in places. The corners were great fun, with minimal braking required, and as we descended down past the tree-line and into the woods the trail became generally less steep and more technical, giving us a new set of challenges to keep us charged all the way to the lake shore, where we stopped for a snack and watched the float-plane land to drop gear to one of the groups of riders we'd passed on the way in - they were planning to camp at Spruce Lake for the night and then ride out the next day. We still had a ways to go, though, so checked out some dilapidated cabins and then hit the trail down through the Gun Creek Meadows, which looked like it must have been wall-to-wall wildflowers a week or so earlier and which was an excellent downhill run, marred only by the dust we were kicking up as we sped through. Variable gradients and trail widths, with some steep technical sections and stream crossings, especially once we left the meadow and entered the woods. During one steep, rooty downhill my handlebars twisted through 90 degrees, which made riding rather interesting. Which idiot didn't tighten bolts properly when replacing the fork?
The next hour saw us flying along flattish trails through forest like a smaller version of Endor, dropping sharply to bridged river-crossings, then climbing back to flat sections on the other side. Occasional rock gardens provided serious tests of technical ability, as did some of the tight turns between close-set trees. We reached the trailhead where we'd left the Reaper (and the beer!) six or so hours after we'd set off, and with a now-familiar mix of elation (Yay! Beer!) and disappointment (Boo! No more trail!), and sat and chatted about bears and other trails in the area while enjoying delicious nutritious beverages. Then we hit the road back to where we'd left Tim's truck via the Goldbridge Hotel for delicious foods. It was closed. At 7pm. On a Friday night. So we collected the truck and convoyed to Gun Creek, where we cooked and ate delicious foods. Tim set off to drive to Whistler, ready to ride the Bike Park in the morning, and we hit the hay. No pink moon action this time - I was too tired to take up the physical comedy opportunity.
* = This included putting lubricant inside the spoke-nipples on the Stumpjumper in an attempt to forestall further broken spokes.
Goodbye, Civilization!
Short Version:
We head north, on some awesome roads. We meet some natives and are quite helpful. The moon is pink, or isn't.
Long Version:
My fork came back from the warranty repair place. Finally. So I toddled on down to the bike shop and borrowed tools, stand, and overseers - everything I needed to put it back on the bike. Took about twice as long as it would have if the guys in the workshop had done it, but they only had to rescue me from disaster thrice, which is way less than it could have been.
And then it was Thursday, and we had a mad scramble to try to get all our chores and trip prep done before departing northwards, especially with the insurance stuff for the missing bag thrown into the mix. Our original proposed late morning departure was always doubtful, and we missed a couple more forecast times before finally getting on the road late in the afternoon for the run through to Goldbridge, in the Southern Chilcotin region.
Mr Google told us we had 100-odd km to drive after Whistler, but didn't mention just how absolutely appalling the condition of 60-some of them. We stopped to assist some local First Nations* women who had a flat tyre on their enormous pickup truck - they'd torn a gaping hole in the massive tyre's thick rubber, which we figured meant they must have been driving pretty bloody fast. They'd managed to get the jack in place and work it fine, but couldn't crack the wheel-nuts free of the wheel. I jumped up and down on the tyre-iron until the seals broke.
"I never thought of that," the fat one said.
"No shit," I thought. "If you'd thought of it, you'd have tried it, and you look like you weigh more than me despite being shorter than the women in Janine's family" (Hi Rhona and Diane and Susan!).
She was already dusty from getting the jack in place, so the jobs involving rolling around on the ground stayed hers. This may not have been the smartest disavowal of responsibility I've ever made, as it meant that she lay back down on the road on her side, reached up above her head, and etched indelibly onto my brain the sight of her belly lying on the ground next to her, exposed to air and sight by the riding-up of her shirt, and covering a good square metre of ground. It lay there, quivering slightly, looking for all the world like an enormous blotchy pink thick-walled balloon full of porridge. I felt violated.
At least the fat one had a clue, though; she'd figured out how to use the jack, and had even put rocks under the rear wheels to stop the truck rolling away in the event of brake failure. Her slim companion, on the other hand, was totally useless. She said she'd had to change out of her white dress in order to assist with the tyre-change (ie stand around, smoking). I really wanted to ask why on earth she'd picked a white dress to wear on a mission to deliver beer and cigarettes to their father, who was hiking out over the 20-million cubic metre Meager Creek landslide to meet them, but I was a bit worried about what the response might be. As Janine remarked later, it was nice that both of them had made such an effort with their appearance before heading off on their rescue mission, even if what that meant was applying purple eyeshadow with a trowel.
Our road and theirs diverged shortly afterwards - theirs dead-ended 50m past the turn-off at a "Road Closed" barrier** - and we found ourselves on the Hurley Forest Service Road (Hi Hurley Clan!), which bore the same sort of similarity to an actual road as a wheelchair does to a modern automobile. I found myself reminiscing fondly about the gravel- and dirt-roads of NZ's Coromandel, or East Cape. It was pretty bad. And we had forty-something kilometres to drive on it. Sigh.
As icing for our awesome-road cake, we found that the rearrangement of our possessions into different containers had worked well for increasing available space in the Reaper, but had invalidated everything we thought we knew about how to stop stuff shifting during maneuvres, so we had boxes and the contents thereof flying around in the back of the van every time we dodged a pot-hole or a protruding rock. Which was often.
Still, we made it to and through Goldbridge, and found the Gun Creek Campground just before dark, where we ate delicious foods and settled in for the night with the sound of the very-full river acting as white-noise-maker for our sleeping pleasure. Which was handy for getting back to sleep after Janine woke me up to demand that I look at the moon, because it was pink*****.
* = Canada's native peoples are now collectively referred to as being First Nations peoples - an umbrella term which has replaced "Indians" in the accepted, politically-correct vocabulary. This has not been universally-accepted; we've met folks who think it's a bunch of arse, and a waste of everyone's time and effort, and who contine to refer to them as Indians. There's a raft*** of controversial pieces of legislation around Federal dealings with First Nations groups, many of which have their roots in the exemption of First Nations folks from pretty much all Provincial and local governmental legislative efforts, so long as they're ensconced on their Reservations... which are mostly within Provinces**** and often sit smack bang in the middle of a Municipality or District. Recipe for conflict? Absolutely
** = Which I assume they were planning to ignore and somehow circumvent
*** = Not a group of otters
**** = As I understand it, what used to be the Northwest Territory is now Nunavut, a separate Provincial-level First Nations entity
***** = It wasn't. But I did feel it necessary to make sure there wasn't a bear doing some nose-to-window snooping before I went back to sleep.
We head north, on some awesome roads. We meet some natives and are quite helpful. The moon is pink, or isn't.
Long Version:
My fork came back from the warranty repair place. Finally. So I toddled on down to the bike shop and borrowed tools, stand, and overseers - everything I needed to put it back on the bike. Took about twice as long as it would have if the guys in the workshop had done it, but they only had to rescue me from disaster thrice, which is way less than it could have been.
And then it was Thursday, and we had a mad scramble to try to get all our chores and trip prep done before departing northwards, especially with the insurance stuff for the missing bag thrown into the mix. Our original proposed late morning departure was always doubtful, and we missed a couple more forecast times before finally getting on the road late in the afternoon for the run through to Goldbridge, in the Southern Chilcotin region.
Mr Google told us we had 100-odd km to drive after Whistler, but didn't mention just how absolutely appalling the condition of 60-some of them. We stopped to assist some local First Nations* women who had a flat tyre on their enormous pickup truck - they'd torn a gaping hole in the massive tyre's thick rubber, which we figured meant they must have been driving pretty bloody fast. They'd managed to get the jack in place and work it fine, but couldn't crack the wheel-nuts free of the wheel. I jumped up and down on the tyre-iron until the seals broke.
"I never thought of that," the fat one said.
"No shit," I thought. "If you'd thought of it, you'd have tried it, and you look like you weigh more than me despite being shorter than the women in Janine's family" (Hi Rhona and Diane and Susan!).
She was already dusty from getting the jack in place, so the jobs involving rolling around on the ground stayed hers. This may not have been the smartest disavowal of responsibility I've ever made, as it meant that she lay back down on the road on her side, reached up above her head, and etched indelibly onto my brain the sight of her belly lying on the ground next to her, exposed to air and sight by the riding-up of her shirt, and covering a good square metre of ground. It lay there, quivering slightly, looking for all the world like an enormous blotchy pink thick-walled balloon full of porridge. I felt violated.
At least the fat one had a clue, though; she'd figured out how to use the jack, and had even put rocks under the rear wheels to stop the truck rolling away in the event of brake failure. Her slim companion, on the other hand, was totally useless. She said she'd had to change out of her white dress in order to assist with the tyre-change (ie stand around, smoking). I really wanted to ask why on earth she'd picked a white dress to wear on a mission to deliver beer and cigarettes to their father, who was hiking out over the 20-million cubic metre Meager Creek landslide to meet them, but I was a bit worried about what the response might be. As Janine remarked later, it was nice that both of them had made such an effort with their appearance before heading off on their rescue mission, even if what that meant was applying purple eyeshadow with a trowel.
Our road and theirs diverged shortly afterwards - theirs dead-ended 50m past the turn-off at a "Road Closed" barrier** - and we found ourselves on the Hurley Forest Service Road (Hi Hurley Clan!), which bore the same sort of similarity to an actual road as a wheelchair does to a modern automobile. I found myself reminiscing fondly about the gravel- and dirt-roads of NZ's Coromandel, or East Cape. It was pretty bad. And we had forty-something kilometres to drive on it. Sigh.
As icing for our awesome-road cake, we found that the rearrangement of our possessions into different containers had worked well for increasing available space in the Reaper, but had invalidated everything we thought we knew about how to stop stuff shifting during maneuvres, so we had boxes and the contents thereof flying around in the back of the van every time we dodged a pot-hole or a protruding rock. Which was often.
Still, we made it to and through Goldbridge, and found the Gun Creek Campground just before dark, where we ate delicious foods and settled in for the night with the sound of the very-full river acting as white-noise-maker for our sleeping pleasure. Which was handy for getting back to sleep after Janine woke me up to demand that I look at the moon, because it was pink*****.
* = Canada's native peoples are now collectively referred to as being First Nations peoples - an umbrella term which has replaced "Indians" in the accepted, politically-correct vocabulary. This has not been universally-accepted; we've met folks who think it's a bunch of arse, and a waste of everyone's time and effort, and who contine to refer to them as Indians. There's a raft*** of controversial pieces of legislation around Federal dealings with First Nations groups, many of which have their roots in the exemption of First Nations folks from pretty much all Provincial and local governmental legislative efforts, so long as they're ensconced on their Reservations... which are mostly within Provinces**** and often sit smack bang in the middle of a Municipality or District. Recipe for conflict? Absolutely
** = Which I assume they were planning to ignore and somehow circumvent
*** = Not a group of otters
**** = As I understand it, what used to be the Northwest Territory is now Nunavut, a separate Provincial-level First Nations entity
***** = It wasn't. But I did feel it necessary to make sure there wasn't a bear doing some nose-to-window snooping before I went back to sleep.
Semper Ubi, Sub Ubi
Short Version:
Boats are paddled, a hill is climbed, snoring is heard
Long Version:
After a day or two of walking and running in the forests of North Vancouver, we drove with Pa and Ruth (Hi Pa and Ruth!) to Deep Cove, to the canoe and kayak rental place. We managed to arrive at what was probably their busiest time of day, on possibly their busiest day of the year, so they pointed us at boats and other gear and left us to get on with it. And get on with it we did, paddling around the Indian Arm of the Burrard Inlet for several hours, checking out fancypants houses, a variety of sea-birds, and several groups of seals*, most of whom were sleeping in the sun on privately-owned jetties or on the floating boom around the Deep Cove wharves. Many of them appeared to be moulting, and looked like they were upholstered with Axminster carpets. The big ones were Nene-sized, and the smaller ones were around the size of the tiny cat back on Waiheke (Hi McGee!), as well as exhibiting the same sort of behaviour (ie sleeping in the sun).
Eventually we turned back in to Deep Cove, ditched the boats, and Nene and I cooled down by jumping off the wharf into the sea. A quick drive past where I'd lived as an infant (the house is no longer there - it's been replaced by several far-more-enormous ones, on far-smaller sections) and then home for tea, during which we had a big, hairy visitor. Actually, we had several, but one was a bear, seeking delicious foods in the garbage cans. All the Canadians were blase about its presence - resigned to the post-ursine cleanup to come - but Janine and I were hanging over the fence, enthralled by its enormity and nearness. When we were farewelling guests we made sure we were suitably armed (with a short-handled squeegee) in case it returned.
Next day we hit the road again, back to Squamish with Pa and the dogs, to hike the Stawamus Chief. Last time I was here, 20+ years ago, Pa and his father and I did the hike, and my memory had me prepped for a bloody good walk. Turned out to be substantially more hardcore than I'd remembered, with a lot of steep stuff interspersed with some even steeper bits en route to Third Peak. The dogs managed to climb some rock scrambles I thought we'd be carrying them up, and were thwarted only once, by a steel ladder bolted to a rock face, on our way down from the Second Peak. Even the lure of a naughty squirrel near the base wasn't enough to get the pooches down that one! They weren't shy of cliff faces though - more than once I thought one or the other was going over the edge as they dashed about, heedless of the 200m+ sheer drop. Glad we had no kids with us**. We humans lay on our bellies and inched forward to get a view over the edge and down a long, long way. There were fantastic views of mountains and forests in all directions, with the views from Second Peak even better than those from Third. We skipped summitting First Peak (because we're all grumpy old hermits, and there were people there) and made our way back down to the campground and parking area at the foot of the mountain, where we saw a man FAIL to slide down a rock-face on his feet, ending up with a mouthful of dirt instead. The dogs were pretty knackered after the four-hour expedition, and they were snoozing pretty quick once back in the car. Seemed to me they had the right idea, so I did likewise, and snored all the way back to Vancouver.
* = A group of seals = variously a harem, pod, or herd, depending on which piece of the internets you choose to believe. Likewise, a group of otters = a raft, family, bevy or romp. A group of baboons, fairly unequivocally, is a flange.
** = I now understand a little more why Ma didn't particularly enjoy that time on the not-very-wide ridge above the Devil's Staircase on Tuhua. Sorry Ma!
Boats are paddled, a hill is climbed, snoring is heard
Long Version:
After a day or two of walking and running in the forests of North Vancouver, we drove with Pa and Ruth (Hi Pa and Ruth!) to Deep Cove, to the canoe and kayak rental place. We managed to arrive at what was probably their busiest time of day, on possibly their busiest day of the year, so they pointed us at boats and other gear and left us to get on with it. And get on with it we did, paddling around the Indian Arm of the Burrard Inlet for several hours, checking out fancypants houses, a variety of sea-birds, and several groups of seals*, most of whom were sleeping in the sun on privately-owned jetties or on the floating boom around the Deep Cove wharves. Many of them appeared to be moulting, and looked like they were upholstered with Axminster carpets. The big ones were Nene-sized, and the smaller ones were around the size of the tiny cat back on Waiheke (Hi McGee!), as well as exhibiting the same sort of behaviour (ie sleeping in the sun).
Eventually we turned back in to Deep Cove, ditched the boats, and Nene and I cooled down by jumping off the wharf into the sea. A quick drive past where I'd lived as an infant (the house is no longer there - it's been replaced by several far-more-enormous ones, on far-smaller sections) and then home for tea, during which we had a big, hairy visitor. Actually, we had several, but one was a bear, seeking delicious foods in the garbage cans. All the Canadians were blase about its presence - resigned to the post-ursine cleanup to come - but Janine and I were hanging over the fence, enthralled by its enormity and nearness. When we were farewelling guests we made sure we were suitably armed (with a short-handled squeegee) in case it returned.
Next day we hit the road again, back to Squamish with Pa and the dogs, to hike the Stawamus Chief. Last time I was here, 20+ years ago, Pa and his father and I did the hike, and my memory had me prepped for a bloody good walk. Turned out to be substantially more hardcore than I'd remembered, with a lot of steep stuff interspersed with some even steeper bits en route to Third Peak. The dogs managed to climb some rock scrambles I thought we'd be carrying them up, and were thwarted only once, by a steel ladder bolted to a rock face, on our way down from the Second Peak. Even the lure of a naughty squirrel near the base wasn't enough to get the pooches down that one! They weren't shy of cliff faces though - more than once I thought one or the other was going over the edge as they dashed about, heedless of the 200m+ sheer drop. Glad we had no kids with us**. We humans lay on our bellies and inched forward to get a view over the edge and down a long, long way. There were fantastic views of mountains and forests in all directions, with the views from Second Peak even better than those from Third. We skipped summitting First Peak (because we're all grumpy old hermits, and there were people there) and made our way back down to the campground and parking area at the foot of the mountain, where we saw a man FAIL to slide down a rock-face on his feet, ending up with a mouthful of dirt instead. The dogs were pretty knackered after the four-hour expedition, and they were snoozing pretty quick once back in the car. Seemed to me they had the right idea, so I did likewise, and snored all the way back to Vancouver.
* = A group of seals = variously a harem, pod, or herd, depending on which piece of the internets you choose to believe. Likewise, a group of otters = a raft, family, bevy or romp. A group of baboons, fairly unequivocally, is a flange.
** = I now understand a little more why Ma didn't particularly enjoy that time on the not-very-wide ridge above the Devil's Staircase on Tuhua. Sorry Ma!
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Meat Glacier
(Chronologically, it's time for Cheese Action. Click here: http://neneandthepuppet.blogspot.com/2010/08/mmmmmmm-cheese.html)
Short Version:
We watch mad people, eat cheese, hear things, eat cheese, and go for a ride. Then we eat some cheese.
Long Version:
The cheese went into Tim and Janna's fridge (after some rearranging to make that much room) and we went into Alta Lake, and then walked back in to Whistler Village to watch the Slopestyle, which is Crankworx Whistler's signature event. There was an immense and vocal crowd in to watch what is basically a run down through the Boneyard, where a number of stupidly-large jumps have been constructed. Points are acquired by successfully pulling off as many enormous, ridiculously difficult stunts as is possible on the way down the hill. First guy we saw in action mismanaged a backflip off the final jump and landed on his face, right in front of us. It was a lot more visceral seeing something like that in person than it is seeing video footage, and that was true also of the jumps that were landed successfully; especially impressive was the front flip that one guy did on one of the upper jumps.
The walk back to the house seemed much longer than the walk in, despite taking a more direct route. Suspicion is that hunger and thirst played a part there. Once back, it was cheese o'clock, although it turned out that the wheel of cracked-pepper goodness had been wrapped in so much masking tape that it took several of us several minutes to actually get to the deliciousness. When we did, though... Oh, the deliciousness!
Our fellow house-guests for the night were Tim and Kala (Hi Tim and Kala!), and between them and our hosts we learned many interesting things over a wine or three, including who it is that controls Vancouver's port (the Hell's Angels), how best to cook human (planked, like salmon*), the role of lemons in the grass-roots economy of Malawi (primary barter currency, especially in villages where the headman has a prolific lemon tree), and how to scratch-calculate the length of time it will take to double your population (or whatever) given a growth rate which isn't pushing bell curve extremes (the Rule of 72**). Later, they woke us up by throwing the baby off the mezzanine, and then in the morning cooked a massive feast, including French toast, eggs, and muffins made from scratch. Perfect pre-loading for a long ride, which is exactly what we had in mind for the day.
Nene and Whistler Tim and I started out under a not-yet-unfriendly sun on paved bike-/footpaths, through a few variously fancypants lakeside Whistler suburbs. Pretty soon we hooked in to the Blueberry Trail, which was a really cool, surprisingy technical trail through the woods separating a couple of residential areas. Some more paved trails and some highway took us out of town to the north, to Fitzsimmons Creek, where we left the highway and carved our way into the forest on a combination of shady singletrack and exposed and blazingly-hot 4WD tracks. We stopped to eat our packed lunches (thanks Janna!) on the lake shore near Parkhurst, which during its heyday in either the 1930s, 40s or 50s - depending on which guide you're reading - was a thriving logging settlement. It's now a ghost town; all the cabins bar one have collapsed in on themselves, and various whole and part vehicles, appliances and implements lie scattered about the place in various states of decrepitude.
The trail south from Parkhurst traversed the face of some fairly steep hills, and had us climbing (Tim and I on foot half the time) and descending for an hour or so before we reached the Lost Lake trail network, and then Lost Lake itself. Like Alta Lake, Lost Lake had a number of jetties and platforms available for public use, and on this super-hot Sunday it seemed that everyone in town had decided that it was the place to be. We were all hot and sweaty and more than ready for a swim, so parked bikes and headed out along one of the jetties in our undergarments. Tim's amusement was palpable as we got closer to the people already on the jetty, and it became apparent that not only had they shed their outer clothing, but their underthings as well. Not an issue in and of itself, but I do prefer my naked people ever-so-slightly more aesthetically-pleasing than the vast majority of those present. Still, the water was wonderfully refreshing, and just what we needed after having ridden for that long under that sun. And the naked people are a memory we'll never forget. No matter how hard we try.
Back on the bikes, and a half-hour run through some of the Zappa trails took us to the village, where a jug of local ale set us up for the run back to the house, via Alta Lake. And then it was time to thank Tim and Janna for their hospitality, and Tim for the ride guidance, and to head south, back to Vancouver, to get ourselves sorted and ready to head north properly, although not as properly as originally hoped - riding our bikes naked inside the Arctic Circle will have to wait til next summer, or maybe the one after that.
* = http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plank_cooking
** = http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rule_of_72
Short Version:
We watch mad people, eat cheese, hear things, eat cheese, and go for a ride. Then we eat some cheese.
Long Version:
The cheese went into Tim and Janna's fridge (after some rearranging to make that much room) and we went into Alta Lake, and then walked back in to Whistler Village to watch the Slopestyle, which is Crankworx Whistler's signature event. There was an immense and vocal crowd in to watch what is basically a run down through the Boneyard, where a number of stupidly-large jumps have been constructed. Points are acquired by successfully pulling off as many enormous, ridiculously difficult stunts as is possible on the way down the hill. First guy we saw in action mismanaged a backflip off the final jump and landed on his face, right in front of us. It was a lot more visceral seeing something like that in person than it is seeing video footage, and that was true also of the jumps that were landed successfully; especially impressive was the front flip that one guy did on one of the upper jumps.
The walk back to the house seemed much longer than the walk in, despite taking a more direct route. Suspicion is that hunger and thirst played a part there. Once back, it was cheese o'clock, although it turned out that the wheel of cracked-pepper goodness had been wrapped in so much masking tape that it took several of us several minutes to actually get to the deliciousness. When we did, though... Oh, the deliciousness!
Our fellow house-guests for the night were Tim and Kala (Hi Tim and Kala!), and between them and our hosts we learned many interesting things over a wine or three, including who it is that controls Vancouver's port (the Hell's Angels), how best to cook human (planked, like salmon*), the role of lemons in the grass-roots economy of Malawi (primary barter currency, especially in villages where the headman has a prolific lemon tree), and how to scratch-calculate the length of time it will take to double your population (or whatever) given a growth rate which isn't pushing bell curve extremes (the Rule of 72**). Later, they woke us up by throwing the baby off the mezzanine, and then in the morning cooked a massive feast, including French toast, eggs, and muffins made from scratch. Perfect pre-loading for a long ride, which is exactly what we had in mind for the day.
Nene and Whistler Tim and I started out under a not-yet-unfriendly sun on paved bike-/footpaths, through a few variously fancypants lakeside Whistler suburbs. Pretty soon we hooked in to the Blueberry Trail, which was a really cool, surprisingy technical trail through the woods separating a couple of residential areas. Some more paved trails and some highway took us out of town to the north, to Fitzsimmons Creek, where we left the highway and carved our way into the forest on a combination of shady singletrack and exposed and blazingly-hot 4WD tracks. We stopped to eat our packed lunches (thanks Janna!) on the lake shore near Parkhurst, which during its heyday in either the 1930s, 40s or 50s - depending on which guide you're reading - was a thriving logging settlement. It's now a ghost town; all the cabins bar one have collapsed in on themselves, and various whole and part vehicles, appliances and implements lie scattered about the place in various states of decrepitude.
The trail south from Parkhurst traversed the face of some fairly steep hills, and had us climbing (Tim and I on foot half the time) and descending for an hour or so before we reached the Lost Lake trail network, and then Lost Lake itself. Like Alta Lake, Lost Lake had a number of jetties and platforms available for public use, and on this super-hot Sunday it seemed that everyone in town had decided that it was the place to be. We were all hot and sweaty and more than ready for a swim, so parked bikes and headed out along one of the jetties in our undergarments. Tim's amusement was palpable as we got closer to the people already on the jetty, and it became apparent that not only had they shed their outer clothing, but their underthings as well. Not an issue in and of itself, but I do prefer my naked people ever-so-slightly more aesthetically-pleasing than the vast majority of those present. Still, the water was wonderfully refreshing, and just what we needed after having ridden for that long under that sun. And the naked people are a memory we'll never forget. No matter how hard we try.
Back on the bikes, and a half-hour run through some of the Zappa trails took us to the village, where a jug of local ale set us up for the run back to the house, via Alta Lake. And then it was time to thank Tim and Janna for their hospitality, and Tim for the ride guidance, and to head south, back to Vancouver, to get ourselves sorted and ready to head north properly, although not as properly as originally hoped - riding our bikes naked inside the Arctic Circle will have to wait til next summer, or maybe the one after that.
* = http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plank_cooking
** = http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rule_of_72
All Your Bike Parks Are Belong To Us!
Apparently when bike mechanics and amateur racers Leigh and Carrie arrived in Canada a couple of years back, they were, like Janine and I, very definitely XC riders (ie the wheels stay in contact with the ground pretty much all of the time). The longer they stayed the further towards the dark side they rode, ending up competitive in some pretty scary, armor-mandatory race disciplines. After our second morning riding big bikes in Whistler's chairlift-enabled (or gravity-assisted, as they say) Bike Park, we were starting to see how that could happen.
Not unusually, we'd arisen later than planned and then fluffed around a bit before heading in to the village. Tim's a regular in the Bike Park, and he set off up the chairlift as we made a bee-line for the Trek demo tent, where we collected a pair of Scratches. The people manning the stand were really cool (Hi Dex and Scott and very-pregnant lady and French-speaking woman!), and between gas-bagging and brake-swapping, Tim was arriving back at the Boneyard chairlift queue after his first downhill run at the same time we got there.
Having a local guide is always a good thing, although we were mildly concerned that he'd find riding with us would be like riding with an anchor. The nature of downhill riding means that you need to keep a certain distance between riders though, and regrouping occurs at intervals, at appropriate stop locations, so really the impact of riding with us was long rests between sections of easier-than-normal trails. Nene and I had a ball. B-Line to Smoke and Mirrors to Monkey Hands. Lots of long, flat structures on Smoke and Mirrors, which continued our "ladder-bridge" acclimatisation, and our first Bike Park black (ie advanced) run on Monkey Hands, which actually turned out to be an exercise in unrealised trepidation more than anything else, as we rode the whole thing trying to mentally prepare for the scary black-diamond-warranting stuff to materialse round every corner. It never did.
Back at the chairlift, we successfully used our media passes to jump the now-significant queue using the athlete priority lane, and were soon blasting down B-Line, with growing strength and growing confidence in the air*. It was a hell of a lot of fun, and we didn't want to stop, or to give the bikes back. As people keep telling us, gravity-assisted riding is addictive and seductive, and it'll be interesting to see whether there's a change in the riding timbre for us over time, or whether Nene's determination to earn downhills by riding up first holds firm.
Still, time was ticking on, and it was nearly cheese-rolling o'clock - high time we got our running shoes on and made our way up Blackcomb to Base2, to competitive cheese action stations.
* = Apologies to Winston Churchill and Iron Maiden
Not unusually, we'd arisen later than planned and then fluffed around a bit before heading in to the village. Tim's a regular in the Bike Park, and he set off up the chairlift as we made a bee-line for the Trek demo tent, where we collected a pair of Scratches. The people manning the stand were really cool (Hi Dex and Scott and very-pregnant lady and French-speaking woman!), and between gas-bagging and brake-swapping, Tim was arriving back at the Boneyard chairlift queue after his first downhill run at the same time we got there.
Having a local guide is always a good thing, although we were mildly concerned that he'd find riding with us would be like riding with an anchor. The nature of downhill riding means that you need to keep a certain distance between riders though, and regrouping occurs at intervals, at appropriate stop locations, so really the impact of riding with us was long rests between sections of easier-than-normal trails. Nene and I had a ball. B-Line to Smoke and Mirrors to Monkey Hands. Lots of long, flat structures on Smoke and Mirrors, which continued our "ladder-bridge" acclimatisation, and our first Bike Park black (ie advanced) run on Monkey Hands, which actually turned out to be an exercise in unrealised trepidation more than anything else, as we rode the whole thing trying to mentally prepare for the scary black-diamond-warranting stuff to materialse round every corner. It never did.
Back at the chairlift, we successfully used our media passes to jump the now-significant queue using the athlete priority lane, and were soon blasting down B-Line, with growing strength and growing confidence in the air*. It was a hell of a lot of fun, and we didn't want to stop, or to give the bikes back. As people keep telling us, gravity-assisted riding is addictive and seductive, and it'll be interesting to see whether there's a change in the riding timbre for us over time, or whether Nene's determination to earn downhills by riding up first holds firm.
Still, time was ticking on, and it was nearly cheese-rolling o'clock - high time we got our running shoes on and made our way up Blackcomb to Base2, to competitive cheese action stations.
* = Apologies to Winston Churchill and Iron Maiden
Gee, I Like Your Pants
Short Version:
We ride some XC trails; hunt, kill, and eat food; watch some racing; are put to bed in the world's coolest sheets
Long Version:
Relaxing being one of our strong suits, lying around in the sun was soon past its prime, so we headed back in to Whistler Village, and set off to ride some of the Lost Lake XC trails. This trail network serves as the primary close-in cross-country ski area in winter, and in summer provides a comprehensive system of trails suitable for all levels of riding* ability, from wide flat-track gently-undulating scare-free main thoroughfares through to narrow, winding, technically-challenging byways - many of which are named after Frank Zappa's various outputs. There's also a 28-basket disc-golf course that we crossed twice on our expedition, which had us raring to fling some plastic discs around. First, though, there was hunger to be assuaged.
There were still a lot of people in Whistler Village, some ensconced in various eateries and others sitting or wandering the lanes of the pedestrian-only village. One of the wanderers we spied was finishing off a slice of pizza, which answered the "What to eat?" question, but not "Where to obtain?"
A few minutes of searching was rewarded with another pizza-enabled passerby, this one with half a slice remaining, and then another two feeders, only just getting started on their delicious cheesy treats. Pretty soon we'd found the source, and we retired, pizza in hand, to park benches by a fountain to inhale them before heading back to the Boneyard to watch the Pros racing the Giant Slalom**.
The music we'd been subjected to at Crankworx so far had started promisingly, with Amon Tobin playing as we first arrived, but had quickly degenerated into the type of noise that young people these days seem to be partial to. It was a very pleasant surprise, therefore, to find the slalom racing accompanied by heavy rock hits of yesteryear, with Jane's Addiction, Slayer, and pre-crapness Metallica featuring during the heats. The womens' final was run to the tune of Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song," and the mens' to Iron Maiden's "Run to the Hills." Happy Puppet.
In contrast to the DH and jump riders, the slalom racers were on XC-style bikes similar to ours, and some of the pushing and shoving to get the best line at the first corner was very reminiscent of riding with Janine. It was interesting to note that of the entire field of not-sure-how-many, only two were riding hardtail bikes (ie no rear suspension), and both of them ended up in the finals (one in each, and one victory, in the mens' final), which made me think that the extra rigidity must provide a performance benefit, but only for those who are good enough to realise it.
The chairlift was still cranking, with noticeably-reduced but still significant numbers of people using it to haul their bikes up the hill. A surprising number of these were women, which I thought was pretty cool. Also providing much entertainment was the young chap - we guesstimate 4 years old or thereabouts - frolicking about in a clear area amid the crowd on his tiny pedal-less bike. It had rudimentary suspension, and he was pulling some pretty cool stunts including 180-degree jump-turns from a standstill and 360-degree wheelies***. Scary to think what sort of stuff he'll be capable of when he's older.
After the final it was back to Alta Lake, where a brief Puppet swim coincided with some stolen internet for Nene, and then on to Tim and Janna's house (Hi Tim and Janna!), where we had a drink or two with Janna's folks (Hi Rick and Fran!) and their friends (Hi Ted and Trudy!) before turning in for the night in the loft, on a bed with really cool flannellette sheets covered with pictures of bears and salmon. Trudy and Fran matched Nene for snoring decibels, so it was a musical night all through the house.
* = And hiking; pretty much all the trails we've struck over here - with the notable exception of the Whistler Bike Park - are multi-use, which begs the question: If trails in North Amerika can be shared between user groups without significant rancour, why can't the same be true in NZ?
** = The race was sponsored by Giant Bikes and I'm still not sure whether the event is actually called the giant slalom, a la the ski race, or whether it's just the slalom (a la the other ski race). Clever marketing.
*** = Video footage online, according to some ladies. Kudos to Janine for eavesdropping.
We ride some XC trails; hunt, kill, and eat food; watch some racing; are put to bed in the world's coolest sheets
Long Version:
Relaxing being one of our strong suits, lying around in the sun was soon past its prime, so we headed back in to Whistler Village, and set off to ride some of the Lost Lake XC trails. This trail network serves as the primary close-in cross-country ski area in winter, and in summer provides a comprehensive system of trails suitable for all levels of riding* ability, from wide flat-track gently-undulating scare-free main thoroughfares through to narrow, winding, technically-challenging byways - many of which are named after Frank Zappa's various outputs. There's also a 28-basket disc-golf course that we crossed twice on our expedition, which had us raring to fling some plastic discs around. First, though, there was hunger to be assuaged.
There were still a lot of people in Whistler Village, some ensconced in various eateries and others sitting or wandering the lanes of the pedestrian-only village. One of the wanderers we spied was finishing off a slice of pizza, which answered the "What to eat?" question, but not "Where to obtain?"
A few minutes of searching was rewarded with another pizza-enabled passerby, this one with half a slice remaining, and then another two feeders, only just getting started on their delicious cheesy treats. Pretty soon we'd found the source, and we retired, pizza in hand, to park benches by a fountain to inhale them before heading back to the Boneyard to watch the Pros racing the Giant Slalom**.
The music we'd been subjected to at Crankworx so far had started promisingly, with Amon Tobin playing as we first arrived, but had quickly degenerated into the type of noise that young people these days seem to be partial to. It was a very pleasant surprise, therefore, to find the slalom racing accompanied by heavy rock hits of yesteryear, with Jane's Addiction, Slayer, and pre-crapness Metallica featuring during the heats. The womens' final was run to the tune of Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song," and the mens' to Iron Maiden's "Run to the Hills." Happy Puppet.
In contrast to the DH and jump riders, the slalom racers were on XC-style bikes similar to ours, and some of the pushing and shoving to get the best line at the first corner was very reminiscent of riding with Janine. It was interesting to note that of the entire field of not-sure-how-many, only two were riding hardtail bikes (ie no rear suspension), and both of them ended up in the finals (one in each, and one victory, in the mens' final), which made me think that the extra rigidity must provide a performance benefit, but only for those who are good enough to realise it.
The chairlift was still cranking, with noticeably-reduced but still significant numbers of people using it to haul their bikes up the hill. A surprising number of these were women, which I thought was pretty cool. Also providing much entertainment was the young chap - we guesstimate 4 years old or thereabouts - frolicking about in a clear area amid the crowd on his tiny pedal-less bike. It had rudimentary suspension, and he was pulling some pretty cool stunts including 180-degree jump-turns from a standstill and 360-degree wheelies***. Scary to think what sort of stuff he'll be capable of when he's older.
After the final it was back to Alta Lake, where a brief Puppet swim coincided with some stolen internet for Nene, and then on to Tim and Janna's house (Hi Tim and Janna!), where we had a drink or two with Janna's folks (Hi Rick and Fran!) and their friends (Hi Ted and Trudy!) before turning in for the night in the loft, on a bed with really cool flannellette sheets covered with pictures of bears and salmon. Trudy and Fran matched Nene for snoring decibels, so it was a musical night all through the house.
* = And hiking; pretty much all the trails we've struck over here - with the notable exception of the Whistler Bike Park - are multi-use, which begs the question: If trails in North Amerika can be shared between user groups without significant rancour, why can't the same be true in NZ?
** = The race was sponsored by Giant Bikes and I'm still not sure whether the event is actually called the giant slalom, a la the ski race, or whether it's just the slalom (a la the other ski race). Clever marketing.
*** = Video footage online, according to some ladies. Kudos to Janine for eavesdropping.
Bike Park Action
Short Version:
We borrow bikes and ride down a mountain
Long Version:
Breakfast is a routine we have down to a fine art. It's usually quite a nice, relaxing, pre-frenzy time of day.
Not so much so when it's accompanied by ravening hordes of mosquitoes which are quite prepared to bite through multiple layers of clothes.
Still, it meant we broke camp and left nice and early, which is a change, and were at the Ellsworth demo stand at Whistler before most of the crowds had materialised*. The bloke at the stand decided to put me on a 29"-wheel Evolution, which was a thing of beauty, as was the Momentum they put Janine on. Neither was as beautiful as their full-carbon single-speed Enlightenment, but we were heading up the mountain on the chairlift, then riding back down, which is most definitely not what the Enlightenment is designed for. Beautiful though, and with some pretty fancypants technologickal specialness going on to boot.
We were pretty nervous as we joined the queue for the chairlift, and were feeling fairly significantly out of place with our XC helmets, clipless** pedals and bare limbs*** among the near-unanimously full body-armor and full-face helmet crowd. The loading process was - thankfully - fairly self-evident, with every second chair set up as bike-only, and equipped to take up to four bikes. The chair comes into the station, and the riders fall in behind it. The three right-hand riders load their bikes into wheel-cradles, so the three bikes stand upright side-by-side unassisted. The left-hand rider hangs his/her bike by the front wheel from a hook on the side of the chair. It travels up the hill suspended vertically. The riders wait for the next chair to come through and hit them in the back of the knees, then sit in relative comfort, unencumbered by bikes and able to chat, watch other riders screaming (some literally) down the hill, and look at scenery (of which there is plenty). Unloading at the top is achieved with a little help from (almost always Australian) lift operators, who unload the four bikes as the bike chair comes through, then hold them until their owners arrive. You then get the hell out of the way before the next chair full of bikes arrives.
First crack at chairlift-assisted downhill riding was possibly not the best time for me to be trying the big-wheeler, which - unsurprisingly - handled quite differently from the 26"-wheel bikes I've been riding all these years. Might have been better on a second run, but the lift queues were long and we had limited time with the bikes, so we dropped them back, not forgetting to remind them we'd had them swap the brakes around for us****.
Next stop was the Giant tent, where we picked up a pair of Faiths. Discovered while the mechanics were swapping the brakes for us that the guy who runs the workshop for their pro team drives cement trucks in the off-season. The bikes were stupidly heavy, and correspondingly difficult to load onto the chairlift, but turned out to be very good at eating bumpy terrain and soaking up impacts from landings off the jumps we were hitting with more and more confidence, which meant more speed, which in turn meant more height off the lip and more time in the air. By the end of this run we were starting to see the attraction of big bikes - although only for places where there's a viable way to get to the top of the trail without riding the monstrosities up.
We dropped the bikes back and then - after a minor heart attack when the counter-girl couldn't find my Driving Licence and credit card (our last remaining one of each) which had been left there as security - we drove to nearby Alta Lake, where we picnicked and swam and lay in the sun reading books. And sleeping, which may or may not have included some snoring.
* = Judging from the amount of broken glass and other detritus the parking lot folks were starting to clean up, we suspect many people might have still been sleeping, some in puddles of their own (or others') vomit
** = I wondered for some time about why the pedals where one "clips in" to one's bicycle are referred to as "clipless." According to Mr Wikipedia: "Clipless refers to the lack of an external toe clip (cage)... not to be confused with platform pedals without toe clips."
*** = Janine had her volleyball knee-pads on, but they're not quite the same
**** = I always thought it was Europe which had the brakes swapped from NZ-normal, but it turns out it's North Amerika. They refer to the way we arrange things as "running moto," as our setup is the same as that of a motorcycle. I asked a number of people about the origins of the setup discrepancy before I found someone prepared to hazard a guess that it may be related to being able to brake safely while executing a hand-signal for a turn, combined with the relative importance of left- and right-hand turns depending on which side of the road one is riding. Sounded plausible after a wine or three
We borrow bikes and ride down a mountain
Long Version:
Breakfast is a routine we have down to a fine art. It's usually quite a nice, relaxing, pre-frenzy time of day.
Not so much so when it's accompanied by ravening hordes of mosquitoes which are quite prepared to bite through multiple layers of clothes.
Still, it meant we broke camp and left nice and early, which is a change, and were at the Ellsworth demo stand at Whistler before most of the crowds had materialised*. The bloke at the stand decided to put me on a 29"-wheel Evolution, which was a thing of beauty, as was the Momentum they put Janine on. Neither was as beautiful as their full-carbon single-speed Enlightenment, but we were heading up the mountain on the chairlift, then riding back down, which is most definitely not what the Enlightenment is designed for. Beautiful though, and with some pretty fancypants technologickal specialness going on to boot.
We were pretty nervous as we joined the queue for the chairlift, and were feeling fairly significantly out of place with our XC helmets, clipless** pedals and bare limbs*** among the near-unanimously full body-armor and full-face helmet crowd. The loading process was - thankfully - fairly self-evident, with every second chair set up as bike-only, and equipped to take up to four bikes. The chair comes into the station, and the riders fall in behind it. The three right-hand riders load their bikes into wheel-cradles, so the three bikes stand upright side-by-side unassisted. The left-hand rider hangs his/her bike by the front wheel from a hook on the side of the chair. It travels up the hill suspended vertically. The riders wait for the next chair to come through and hit them in the back of the knees, then sit in relative comfort, unencumbered by bikes and able to chat, watch other riders screaming (some literally) down the hill, and look at scenery (of which there is plenty). Unloading at the top is achieved with a little help from (almost always Australian) lift operators, who unload the four bikes as the bike chair comes through, then hold them until their owners arrive. You then get the hell out of the way before the next chair full of bikes arrives.
First crack at chairlift-assisted downhill riding was possibly not the best time for me to be trying the big-wheeler, which - unsurprisingly - handled quite differently from the 26"-wheel bikes I've been riding all these years. Might have been better on a second run, but the lift queues were long and we had limited time with the bikes, so we dropped them back, not forgetting to remind them we'd had them swap the brakes around for us****.
Next stop was the Giant tent, where we picked up a pair of Faiths. Discovered while the mechanics were swapping the brakes for us that the guy who runs the workshop for their pro team drives cement trucks in the off-season. The bikes were stupidly heavy, and correspondingly difficult to load onto the chairlift, but turned out to be very good at eating bumpy terrain and soaking up impacts from landings off the jumps we were hitting with more and more confidence, which meant more speed, which in turn meant more height off the lip and more time in the air. By the end of this run we were starting to see the attraction of big bikes - although only for places where there's a viable way to get to the top of the trail without riding the monstrosities up.
We dropped the bikes back and then - after a minor heart attack when the counter-girl couldn't find my Driving Licence and credit card (our last remaining one of each) which had been left there as security - we drove to nearby Alta Lake, where we picnicked and swam and lay in the sun reading books. And sleeping, which may or may not have included some snoring.
* = Judging from the amount of broken glass and other detritus the parking lot folks were starting to clean up, we suspect many people might have still been sleeping, some in puddles of their own (or others') vomit
** = I wondered for some time about why the pedals where one "clips in" to one's bicycle are referred to as "clipless." According to Mr Wikipedia: "Clipless refers to the lack of an external toe clip (cage)... not to be confused with platform pedals without toe clips."
*** = Janine had her volleyball knee-pads on, but they're not quite the same
**** = I always thought it was Europe which had the brakes swapped from NZ-normal, but it turns out it's North Amerika. They refer to the way we arrange things as "running moto," as our setup is the same as that of a motorcycle. I asked a number of people about the origins of the setup discrepancy before I found someone prepared to hazard a guess that it may be related to being able to brake safely while executing a hand-signal for a turn, combined with the relative importance of left- and right-hand turns depending on which side of the road one is riding. Sounded plausible after a wine or three
How To Have a Day
Thursday 12 in Canada is Friday 13 in NZ
1. Drive to Whistler
2. Seek out and scour last-known location of backpack
3. Search forested area around last-known location of backpack
4. Report loss of backpack to RCMP*
5. Report loss of backpack to Whistler-Blackcomb Guest Services (Lost Property)
6. Watch some crazy people doing massive jumps on bikes (Slopestyle qualifiers)
7. Drive to Squamish
8. Ride recommended bike loop, including some sketchy structures. Be underwhelmed by trail quality, due in part to progressively-more-annoying progressively-noisier pedal
10. Drive half an hour to bit-grubby campground
11. Eat delicious foods
12. Remove pedal and clean
13. Be surprised that cleaning pedal should have such a markedly-successful noisiness-reduction effect
14. Wave at children walking handbag-dogs round campground
15. Wave ineffectively at mosquitoes which, unlike everywhere else in the world, appear to prefer the taste of hairy feral guy to that of Lovely Wife
16. Reassure Lovely Wife that divorce is not imminent, despite primary purpose** FAIL
17. Be startled by bat flying past a handspan in front of face
18. Go to sleep in Reaper
19. Be woken up by man yelling and shining torch directly at Reaper windows. Figure out he's looking for one of the handbag dogs, which has absconded while being walked off-leash
20. Check watch
21. Wonder what the hell yelling, torch-shining man is doing walking handbag dogs off-leash at 11pm
22. Go back to sleep
23. Be woken up by stowaway mouse which has somehow managed to survive two weeks in the Reaper with no food source
24. Go back to sleep
25. Be woken up by man yelling and shining torch directly at Reaper windows. Figure out he's looking for one of the handbag dogs, which has absconded while being walked off-leash
26. Check watch
27. Wonder what the hell yelling torch-shining man is doing walking handbag dogs off-leash at 2am
28. Go back to sleep
29. Be woken up by stowaway mouse
[Repeat ad irritatum]
* = Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I believe they were once mounted on horses, but I'm not sure how often they do that nowadays - apart from the ones in cars, I've seen officers on foot, on motorcycles, and on mountain-bikes, but no horses. Mmmmmmm... delicious horses...
** = Mosquito-bait. She's my tethered goat.
1. Drive to Whistler
2. Seek out and scour last-known location of backpack
3. Search forested area around last-known location of backpack
4. Report loss of backpack to RCMP*
5. Report loss of backpack to Whistler-Blackcomb Guest Services (Lost Property)
6. Watch some crazy people doing massive jumps on bikes (Slopestyle qualifiers)
7. Drive to Squamish
8. Ride recommended bike loop, including some sketchy structures. Be underwhelmed by trail quality, due in part to progressively-more-annoying progressively-noisier pedal
10. Drive half an hour to bit-grubby campground
11. Eat delicious foods
12. Remove pedal and clean
13. Be surprised that cleaning pedal should have such a markedly-successful noisiness-reduction effect
14. Wave at children walking handbag-dogs round campground
15. Wave ineffectively at mosquitoes which, unlike everywhere else in the world, appear to prefer the taste of hairy feral guy to that of Lovely Wife
16. Reassure Lovely Wife that divorce is not imminent, despite primary purpose** FAIL
17. Be startled by bat flying past a handspan in front of face
18. Go to sleep in Reaper
19. Be woken up by man yelling and shining torch directly at Reaper windows. Figure out he's looking for one of the handbag dogs, which has absconded while being walked off-leash
20. Check watch
21. Wonder what the hell yelling, torch-shining man is doing walking handbag dogs off-leash at 11pm
22. Go back to sleep
23. Be woken up by stowaway mouse which has somehow managed to survive two weeks in the Reaper with no food source
24. Go back to sleep
25. Be woken up by man yelling and shining torch directly at Reaper windows. Figure out he's looking for one of the handbag dogs, which has absconded while being walked off-leash
26. Check watch
27. Wonder what the hell yelling torch-shining man is doing walking handbag dogs off-leash at 2am
28. Go back to sleep
29. Be woken up by stowaway mouse
[Repeat ad irritatum]
* = Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I believe they were once mounted on horses, but I'm not sure how often they do that nowadays - apart from the ones in cars, I've seen officers on foot, on motorcycles, and on mountain-bikes, but no horses. Mmmmmmm... delicious horses...
** = Mosquito-bait. She's my tethered goat.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
A Note on Logistics
I'm writing this sitting in the back of the Reaper. When I look up, my view out past Janine and through the open rear doors is of Lake Tyax, twenty feet away. The surface of the lake is shrouded with mist, which comes and goes and shifts around with no discernible pattern. The upper reaches of the hills on the far side of the lake are shrouded in a heavier curtain, which parts at times to reveal the trees in their various shades of green. Rain is falling, and the sky overhead is grey, although it's no longer the heavy, leaden shade it was earlier this morning. Just as well we're happy in the van, in our bags for warmth, with our books and our coffees.
By the time this post is online, we'll be miles from here - we're hoping to find internet access a couple of days from now in Lillooet, which is 98-112km from here, depending on which map you choose to believe. Generally speaking, when we're out in the woods being feral we have limited and occasional internet connectivity. Accordingly, blog posts are written offline, and uploaded in batches once we get to a place where we can get a connection. This means that the blog is usually 3-14 days behind what we're actually doing, and that if you only read the posts which appear at the top of the page - like this one - you're going to be missing some background.
We don't upload pics when we're out and about because they take ages to shunt up - and have been known to max out - the often-skinny public pipe, which makes both us and other users grumpy. Every so often we'll take an opportunity to retrofit pics to posts, as we did during our most recent Vancouver sojourn. I'll drop an informational note to that effect whenever it's done so you know there's new pictorial goodness to be found in the archives.
The Tyax Air float-plane has just landed on the lake - its flight path brought it across our field of vision still airborne - and then taken off again, probably delivering camping gear to mountain-bikers up at Spruce or Lorna Lake. The rain has stopped, and now the only sounds are of water dripping from the trees at the edges of the clearing and the calls of two loons at opposite ends of the lake. The mist is still clinging to the hills, and the cry of the loon seems even more lonely and isolated than it did when we first heard it, at Spruce Lake a couple of days back.
Sunshine has kissed the trees on the far side of the lake and is heading this way. Time to gear up and get on the bikes.
NOTE: I've just uploaded this in Lillooet, days after writing it, and weeks after the events detailed in the other posts just loaded. Several more are waiting to be pushed up, but it's too hot to hang around in the Subway parking lot any longer. Next stop: Williams Lake.
By the time this post is online, we'll be miles from here - we're hoping to find internet access a couple of days from now in Lillooet, which is 98-112km from here, depending on which map you choose to believe. Generally speaking, when we're out in the woods being feral we have limited and occasional internet connectivity. Accordingly, blog posts are written offline, and uploaded in batches once we get to a place where we can get a connection. This means that the blog is usually 3-14 days behind what we're actually doing, and that if you only read the posts which appear at the top of the page - like this one - you're going to be missing some background.
We don't upload pics when we're out and about because they take ages to shunt up - and have been known to max out - the often-skinny public pipe, which makes both us and other users grumpy. Every so often we'll take an opportunity to retrofit pics to posts, as we did during our most recent Vancouver sojourn. I'll drop an informational note to that effect whenever it's done so you know there's new pictorial goodness to be found in the archives.
The Tyax Air float-plane has just landed on the lake - its flight path brought it across our field of vision still airborne - and then taken off again, probably delivering camping gear to mountain-bikers up at Spruce or Lorna Lake. The rain has stopped, and now the only sounds are of water dripping from the trees at the edges of the clearing and the calls of two loons at opposite ends of the lake. The mist is still clinging to the hills, and the cry of the loon seems even more lonely and isolated than it did when we first heard it, at Spruce Lake a couple of days back.
Sunshine has kissed the trees on the far side of the lake and is heading this way. Time to gear up and get on the bikes.
NOTE: I've just uploaded this in Lillooet, days after writing it, and weeks after the events detailed in the other posts just loaded. Several more are waiting to be pushed up, but it's too hot to hang around in the Subway parking lot any longer. Next stop: Williams Lake.
Whistler
Short Version:
We see some sights. Great day. Disaster.
Long Version:
We spent two weeks in North Vancouver in the end, and were feeling suitably recharged by the time we hit the road north to the resort town of Whistler. The drive up the Sea-to-Sky Highway was beautiful; it runs north along the eastern side of the northern Georgia Strait, up the heart of the Coast Mountain range. There are a number of townships along the way, the biggest of which is the port town of Squamish, which the bilingual signage showed was originally known as Sḵwxwú7mesh* and which has an enormous granite hillock named the Stawamus Chief that looms impressively above town and highway.
Squamish featured heavily in our future plans, but today we stopped briefly for a trail map and ride advice, then carried on up the valley to Whistler, which was - very much unlike Vancouver - basking in glorious sunshine. There were a LOT of people around the township, and the two free public parking lots were near-full when we arrived early in the afternoon. We found a spot in the lower, gravelly one, secured the Reaper, and set off to see what we could see.
Crankworx Mountain Bike Festival runs for nine days, from Saturday to the following Sunday. Innumberable thousands of people visit during that time, some of whom were there specifically for the bike racing, jump and skill exhibitions, new bike demos, scantily-clad promo girls**, energy-drink giveaways***, more-or-less attractive members of both sexes, loud music, and sundry other festival shenanigans. Others were there just to see Whistler and its environs - chairlifts and gondolas run to the top of both of its mountains year-round, alternating fantastic skiing and snowy-mountain sight-seeing in winter with world-renowned downhill mountain-biking and relatively-unsnowy-mountain sight-seeing in summer. A number of this latter group of people looked somewhat bemused by the proliferation of armor-clad bike-wielders and their attendant hangers-on and commercial activities, but allowed themselves to be funnelled through to the gondola lifting them peakward with minimal fuss.
Under "Nothing ventured, nothing gained" rules of engagement, Janine and I had acquired media passes to the festival, and we spent some time searching for event HQ before collecting our Media Area Access tags and our 5-day all-access lift passes and heading uphill in a gondola. And then a chairlift. And then another chairlift. This took us to the tippy-top of Whistler Mountain, which gave us panoramic views on all sides, and was generally awesome. A short walk around the summit area, then back down the Peak Chair and onto the Peak To Peak Gondola, which is a relatively recent construction linking Whistler Mountain with its neighbor and partner in lift-company, Blackcomb. The gondolas on the Peak To Peak are larger than the ones running up Whistler Mountain, and we found ourselves sharing ours with couples from Idaho, Toronto, Alberta, and Vancouver. And with Pony, the Chinese bloke now resident in Nanaimo, on Vancouver Island, who we'd acquired initially on the way up Whistler and who stuck with us right through to the foot of Blackcomb. There were a bunch of people ahead of us in the Peak To Peak queue, but they were waiting the extra 20-25 minutes (as quoted by one of the almost-exclusively-Australian lift operators) for a glass-bottomed gondola, which would probably have been quite awesome for those with a waiting-enabled temperament. Even without the glass bottom, though, the journey was pretty cool - it's a LONG way down from the highest point.
Down Blackcomb - past a bunch of kids practicing ski-jumps into a pool - then a short walk back to Whistler Village, where the Air DH racing was reaching apogee. Younger sibling of the now-venerable downhill (DH) race, Air DH has more jumps but is still basically a race down the mountain. We saw the pros flying through, and were agog at some of the stuff they were riding - which we could see up-close-and-scarily-personal courtesy of the enormous television screen at the base of the run. There were NZers galore around the place, including a wheelchair racer, a couple of pro riders, and a couple of bike mechanics who'd come racing - Leigh, the bloke who succeeded in stopping the godawful vibration my back brakes were sending through the frame whenever they were touched, had come in 31st of 90+ riders in the Mens Open Division, and his partner Carrie had nabbed 2nd in the Womens Open, which is pretty blimmin excellent.
It had been a big day, with lots of excitement, so we wandered down to the demo zone and sounded out some of the folks there about borrowing bikes in a day or two (on the grounds that XC bikes up a chairlift = funny looks and/or certain death) then back to the Reaper and back to Vancouver, where we ate delicious foods and slept like hibernating bears until morning, which is when we realised our backpack was gone, and with it our camera, all our money, all Janine's ID (except her passport), and various other items. Which kind of put a dampener on our good moods.
* = Pronounced Squamish, I gather
** = They wore furry leg-warmers with their tiny hot-pants. This is a good look, and should be adopted much more widely. But not by wide people.
*** = By donation. I heard from one chap how his friend wanted one of the sugary caffeine monstrosities but had no money, and was making no headway convincing the scantily-clad promo girl (these ones were in skimpy camo gear) that he should be allowed one for free. Spying a penny**** on the ground, he picked it up and offered it up. Donation accepted, he toddled off, drink in hand, to rejoin the lift queue.
**** = That's one cent for all you southern hemispherans
We see some sights. Great day. Disaster.
Long Version:
We spent two weeks in North Vancouver in the end, and were feeling suitably recharged by the time we hit the road north to the resort town of Whistler. The drive up the Sea-to-Sky Highway was beautiful; it runs north along the eastern side of the northern Georgia Strait, up the heart of the Coast Mountain range. There are a number of townships along the way, the biggest of which is the port town of Squamish, which the bilingual signage showed was originally known as Sḵwxwú7mesh* and which has an enormous granite hillock named the Stawamus Chief that looms impressively above town and highway.
Squamish featured heavily in our future plans, but today we stopped briefly for a trail map and ride advice, then carried on up the valley to Whistler, which was - very much unlike Vancouver - basking in glorious sunshine. There were a LOT of people around the township, and the two free public parking lots were near-full when we arrived early in the afternoon. We found a spot in the lower, gravelly one, secured the Reaper, and set off to see what we could see.
Crankworx Mountain Bike Festival runs for nine days, from Saturday to the following Sunday. Innumberable thousands of people visit during that time, some of whom were there specifically for the bike racing, jump and skill exhibitions, new bike demos, scantily-clad promo girls**, energy-drink giveaways***, more-or-less attractive members of both sexes, loud music, and sundry other festival shenanigans. Others were there just to see Whistler and its environs - chairlifts and gondolas run to the top of both of its mountains year-round, alternating fantastic skiing and snowy-mountain sight-seeing in winter with world-renowned downhill mountain-biking and relatively-unsnowy-mountain sight-seeing in summer. A number of this latter group of people looked somewhat bemused by the proliferation of armor-clad bike-wielders and their attendant hangers-on and commercial activities, but allowed themselves to be funnelled through to the gondola lifting them peakward with minimal fuss.
Under "Nothing ventured, nothing gained" rules of engagement, Janine and I had acquired media passes to the festival, and we spent some time searching for event HQ before collecting our Media Area Access tags and our 5-day all-access lift passes and heading uphill in a gondola. And then a chairlift. And then another chairlift. This took us to the tippy-top of Whistler Mountain, which gave us panoramic views on all sides, and was generally awesome. A short walk around the summit area, then back down the Peak Chair and onto the Peak To Peak Gondola, which is a relatively recent construction linking Whistler Mountain with its neighbor and partner in lift-company, Blackcomb. The gondolas on the Peak To Peak are larger than the ones running up Whistler Mountain, and we found ourselves sharing ours with couples from Idaho, Toronto, Alberta, and Vancouver. And with Pony, the Chinese bloke now resident in Nanaimo, on Vancouver Island, who we'd acquired initially on the way up Whistler and who stuck with us right through to the foot of Blackcomb. There were a bunch of people ahead of us in the Peak To Peak queue, but they were waiting the extra 20-25 minutes (as quoted by one of the almost-exclusively-Australian lift operators) for a glass-bottomed gondola, which would probably have been quite awesome for those with a waiting-enabled temperament. Even without the glass bottom, though, the journey was pretty cool - it's a LONG way down from the highest point.
Down Blackcomb - past a bunch of kids practicing ski-jumps into a pool - then a short walk back to Whistler Village, where the Air DH racing was reaching apogee. Younger sibling of the now-venerable downhill (DH) race, Air DH has more jumps but is still basically a race down the mountain. We saw the pros flying through, and were agog at some of the stuff they were riding - which we could see up-close-and-scarily-personal courtesy of the enormous television screen at the base of the run. There were NZers galore around the place, including a wheelchair racer, a couple of pro riders, and a couple of bike mechanics who'd come racing - Leigh, the bloke who succeeded in stopping the godawful vibration my back brakes were sending through the frame whenever they were touched, had come in 31st of 90+ riders in the Mens Open Division, and his partner Carrie had nabbed 2nd in the Womens Open, which is pretty blimmin excellent.
It had been a big day, with lots of excitement, so we wandered down to the demo zone and sounded out some of the folks there about borrowing bikes in a day or two (on the grounds that XC bikes up a chairlift = funny looks and/or certain death) then back to the Reaper and back to Vancouver, where we ate delicious foods and slept like hibernating bears until morning, which is when we realised our backpack was gone, and with it our camera, all our money, all Janine's ID (except her passport), and various other items. Which kind of put a dampener on our good moods.
* = Pronounced Squamish, I gather
** = They wore furry leg-warmers with their tiny hot-pants. This is a good look, and should be adopted much more widely. But not by wide people.
*** = By donation. I heard from one chap how his friend wanted one of the sugary caffeine monstrosities but had no money, and was making no headway convincing the scantily-clad promo girl (these ones were in skimpy camo gear) that he should be allowed one for free. Spying a penny**** on the ground, he picked it up and offered it up. Donation accepted, he toddled off, drink in hand, to rejoin the lift queue.
**** = That's one cent for all you southern hemispherans
Substances
Short Version:
Probably an appropriate point to note that my drugs of choice are caffeine, capsaicin, alcohol, and ibuprofen, in that order.
Long Version:
Just before we left Vancouver, Police in NZ busted a methamphetamine operation, and recovered loads of the filthy shit, and an assortment of weaponry ranging from "powerful rifles" and shotguns to crossbows.
In Canada, Police raided a pot-growing operation and found no weapons at all. They did find, in addition to a lot of marijuana: 10-15 "amiable" black bears; a raccoon sleeping on a bed, sprawled on his back in the sun; and a pot-bellied pig which slept through the entire search operation. The raccoon woke up during the search and followed police around until they caught it rummaging through a box of evidence, which prompted them to shoo it away. The bears, too, were very interested in proceedings, with one hopping up onto a police car to watch the action.
The Swiss, as usual, have taken things to a whole new level, with reports that they're about to start treating depression, compulsive disorders and chronic pain with LSD, ketamine and magic mushrooms.
The mind boggles. Literally.
(Sources: NZ Herald, Vancouver Sun)
Probably an appropriate point to note that my drugs of choice are caffeine, capsaicin, alcohol, and ibuprofen, in that order.
Long Version:
Just before we left Vancouver, Police in NZ busted a methamphetamine operation, and recovered loads of the filthy shit, and an assortment of weaponry ranging from "powerful rifles" and shotguns to crossbows.
In Canada, Police raided a pot-growing operation and found no weapons at all. They did find, in addition to a lot of marijuana: 10-15 "amiable" black bears; a raccoon sleeping on a bed, sprawled on his back in the sun; and a pot-bellied pig which slept through the entire search operation. The raccoon woke up during the search and followed police around until they caught it rummaging through a box of evidence, which prompted them to shoo it away. The bears, too, were very interested in proceedings, with one hopping up onto a police car to watch the action.
The Swiss, as usual, have taken things to a whole new level, with reports that they're about to start treating depression, compulsive disorders and chronic pain with LSD, ketamine and magic mushrooms.
The mind boggles. Literally.
(Sources: NZ Herald, Vancouver Sun)
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Mmmmmmm... Cheese
The Australia/New Zealand Cup Ski Series is on at Coronet Peak at the moment. Yesterday, Canadians managed to harvest all bar one of the six slalom medals on offer (an Amerikan nabbed the so-called-ladies' silver). For those feeling bad about NZ's no-show on the podium, here's a wee bit of sweet, sweet revenge for you...
The Third Annual Canadian Cheese-Rolling Championships took place last Saturday, August 14, at Whistler - a ski and mountain-bike resort town a hundred-and-some km north of Vancouver. The event is run in conjunction with the Crankworx mountain-bike festival, which draws thousands of spectators to the Boneyard at the foot of Whistler Mountain to watch top riders from all over the world ride really fast, pull spectacular jumps and stunts, and win $ and kudos. Bike, beer, and energy-drink manufacturers show off their wares and dish out promotional material, and a grand old time is had by all (except maybe the people who have to clean up the post-party mess each morning).
The cheese-rolling racing - and associated cheese-appreciation seminars, tasting sessions, and kids' activities - takes place on Whister's other mountain, Blackcomb, near the ski- and bike-jump training areas.
The race itself is run on a fenced-off course down a steep slope which is grass except for where it's rocks, and is basically an exercise in not incurring serious/life-threatening/speed-reducing falls while running downhill 
at higher velocities than your 
championship rivals in pursuit of a 5kg wheel of cheese. Apparently it can reach speeds of up to 80km/h. Certainly the cheese reached the bottom well in advance of the racers in every instance where it was thrown straight*.
Highlights of the six men's heats included:
- Inflatable-Torso-Rings Guy. Admitted during post-Heat 6 victory interview to having stolen the rings from the kids' play area at the base of the chairlift. Dislocated shoulder impressively in the final.
- The Oiled-Up Speedos Guys. Well-lubed but not slick enough to make it past the heats.
- Purple Flamenco-Dress Stag-Do Guy. Won my heat. No-show in the final.
The four-and-a-half women's heats had less weirdos, and a hell of a lot less outright warfare, but were still fiercely competitive, with pointy elbows being thrown and racers trampling the bodies of their fallen rivals into the ground with abandon, if not outright relish.
I had a disappointing mid-pack finish in the heats, then Janine qualified for the womens' final with an easy second in her heat - top four in each heat went through. She was beaten across the line in her heat by a tiny Asian woman who had fallen, and bounced, and was in mid-air as she crossed the line for victory. Far from the only person who made it through to the finals in that manner - in fact the number of qualifiers who were no longer on their feet by the time they crossed the finish line probably outweighed the number who'd stayed upright til the end.
Still, "stay upright" comprised half of Janine's strategy for the final, along with "stay away from everyone," which was an essential given how precarious one's balance was once moving at pace down a hill that steep, and how many people we'd seen taken out by competitors falling in their path. I wondered initially at the wisdom of selecting the high side of the course, as it seemed to me that most victors had gone straight down the middle or run the low side, but when she ran through the 2/3 mark in third place it looked like it'd been a decent choice.
When the second-placed runner fell hard on her face Janine's line choice looked even better.
When the leader did the likewise, but bounced and flew across the line, I didn't know what to think. Had Lovely Wife managed to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat? Or was she pipped at the post by a flying rival?
And then the Cheese Master said: Victory!
And we all did a little dance.
The media scrum was intense. The victory bouquet was made of cheese. There were interviews and there were photo-opportunities. There were handshakes and hugs from rivals and celebrity cheese-rollers alike. And eventually, Canada's newest National Champion and I wandered off down the hill to the Reaper, 5kg wheel of cracked-pepper deliciousness in hand and 2 ski-season passes to Whistler/Blackcomb waiting for us at the end of some red tape. And some red wine.
* = Of the two inaccurately-released cheeses, one made it through the protective barrier and into the crowd, but high enough up the slope that it hadn't yet reached terminal velocity. Both were grabbed by well-meaning but misguided spectators and heaved down the course after the racers, causing huge amounts of consternation and some fairly amusing cheese-avoidance manoeuvres from those in danger of being struck by the thing
The Third Annual Canadian Cheese-Rolling Championships took place last Saturday, August 14, at Whistler - a ski and mountain-bike resort town a hundred-and-some km north of Vancouver. The event is run in conjunction with the Crankworx mountain-bike festival, which draws thousands of spectators to the Boneyard at the foot of Whistler Mountain to watch top riders from all over the world ride really fast, pull spectacular jumps and stunts, and win $ and kudos. Bike, beer, and energy-drink manufacturers show off their wares and dish out promotional material, and a grand old time is had by all (except maybe the people who have to clean up the post-party mess each morning).
The cheese-rolling racing - and associated cheese-appreciation seminars, tasting sessions, and kids' activities - takes place on Whister's other mountain, Blackcomb, near the ski- and bike-jump training areas.
The race itself is run on a fenced-off course down a steep slope which is grass except for where it's rocks, and is basically an exercise in not incurring serious/life-threatening/speed-reducing falls while running downhill at higher velocities than your championship rivals in pursuit of a 5kg wheel of cheese. Apparently it can reach speeds of up to 80km/h. Certainly the cheese reached the bottom well in advance of the racers in every instance where it was thrown straight*.Highlights of the six men's heats included:
- The Duck. Finished dead last in Heat 1, then was abandoned with no car keys/clothing/money. Must have been close to heat exhaustion in that suit even without the walk up the hill and the run/fall/run back down
- Inflatable-Torso-Rings Guy. Admitted during post-Heat 6 victory interview to having stolen the rings from the kids' play area at the base of the chairlift. Dislocated shoulder impressively in the final.
- The Oiled-Up Speedos Guys. Well-lubed but not slick enough to make it past the heats.
- Purple Flamenco-Dress Stag-Do Guy. Won my heat. No-show in the final.
The four-and-a-half women's heats had less weirdos, and a hell of a lot less outright warfare, but were still fiercely competitive, with pointy elbows being thrown and racers trampling the bodies of their fallen rivals into the ground with abandon, if not outright relish.
I had a disappointing mid-pack finish in the heats, then Janine qualified for the womens' final with an easy second in her heat - top four in each heat went through. She was beaten across the line in her heat by a tiny Asian woman who had fallen, and bounced, and was in mid-air as she crossed the line for victory. Far from the only person who made it through to the finals in that manner - in fact the number of qualifiers who were no longer on their feet by the time they crossed the finish line probably outweighed the number who'd stayed upright til the end.
Still, "stay upright" comprised half of Janine's strategy for the final, along with "stay away from everyone," which was an essential given how precarious one's balance was once moving at pace down a hill that steep, and how many people we'd seen taken out by competitors falling in their path. I wondered initially at the wisdom of selecting the high side of the course, as it seemed to me that most victors had gone straight down the middle or run the low side, but when she ran through the 2/3 mark in third place it looked like it'd been a decent choice.
When the second-placed runner fell hard on her face Janine's line choice looked even better.
When the leader did the likewise, but bounced and flew across the line, I didn't know what to think. Had Lovely Wife managed to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat? Or was she pipped at the post by a flying rival?
And then the Cheese Master said: Victory!
And we all did a little dance.
The media scrum was intense. The victory bouquet was made of cheese. There were interviews and there were photo-opportunities. There were handshakes and hugs from rivals and celebrity cheese-rollers alike. And eventually, Canada's newest National Champion and I wandered off down the hill to the Reaper, 5kg wheel of cracked-pepper deliciousness in hand and 2 ski-season passes to Whistler/Blackcomb waiting for us at the end of some red tape. And some red wine.
* = Of the two inaccurately-released cheeses, one made it through the protective barrier and into the crowd, but high enough up the slope that it hadn't yet reached terminal velocity. Both were grabbed by well-meaning but misguided spectators and heaved down the course after the racers, causing huge amounts of consternation and some fairly amusing cheese-avoidance manoeuvres from those in danger of being struck by the thing
Strange Happenings in Vancouver, and the Universe
I've not conducted any sort of scientific analysis, but I'm starting to get the feeling that Vancouver has an abundance of slightly weird stuff going on. Either that or the Vancouver Sun's editorial staff have a bent bent. There's currently a debate raging in medico-governmental circles around whether or not hoarding qualifies as a mental disorder. Apparently, if they can't find your corpse under all the junk you've collected, you had a problem.
Also in the mental health arena, a government-sponsored research facility has just been handed a "Cease and Desist" order which stops them using a "penile tumescence"-measuring device called a "penile plethysmograph" to determine the likelihood of re-offending among adolescents charged with or suspected of sex offenses. Once the device was attached to the youths' genitals, they were shown ..."images of an adult man and woman having consensual sex, as well as adolescents, children and infants in various states of undress. While the images were present, a male voice described vignettes of coercive or forced sexual activity."
Stopping sex offenders is a laudable goal, but, as Annabel Webb, director of Justice for Girls, stated: "In any other context, subjecting children to violent pornography would be considered child abuse."
The research facility has been conducting this research - inconclusively - for over 20 years, and it's debatable whether or not they'd have been shut down had one of their lab technicians who administer the test not himself been charged with a (non-work-related) sex offense.
In other news, we've had naked women wandering around downtown trying to convince people to go vegan, which may or may not be related to PETA's attempts to convince Miss Australia to leave her high-heeled woolly Ugg boots at home, rather than wear them in the National Costume segment of the Miss Universe pageant. Someone should have had a crack at convincing Miss France that a shit-looking brown-cardboard model of the Eiffel Tower stuck on the top of a black beret makes a shit-looking National Costume.
Also in the mental health arena, a government-sponsored research facility has just been handed a "Cease and Desist" order which stops them using a "penile tumescence"-measuring device called a "penile plethysmograph" to determine the likelihood of re-offending among adolescents charged with or suspected of sex offenses. Once the device was attached to the youths' genitals, they were shown ..."images of an adult man and woman having consensual sex, as well as adolescents, children and infants in various states of undress. While the images were present, a male voice described vignettes of coercive or forced sexual activity."
Stopping sex offenders is a laudable goal, but, as Annabel Webb, director of Justice for Girls, stated: "In any other context, subjecting children to violent pornography would be considered child abuse."
The research facility has been conducting this research - inconclusively - for over 20 years, and it's debatable whether or not they'd have been shut down had one of their lab technicians who administer the test not himself been charged with a (non-work-related) sex offense.
In other news, we've had naked women wandering around downtown trying to convince people to go vegan, which may or may not be related to PETA's attempts to convince Miss Australia to leave her high-heeled woolly Ugg boots at home, rather than wear them in the National Costume segment of the Miss Universe pageant. Someone should have had a crack at convincing Miss France that a shit-looking brown-cardboard model of the Eiffel Tower stuck on the top of a black beret makes a shit-looking National Costume.
...and a Large Array of Sex Toys...
Floods in Pakistan (and Whakatane), fires in Russia (and B.C.), planes crashing, refugee boats criss-crossing the world's oceans... the world's been a busy place of late.
Of course, the REALLY big news since we were last in touch is that famous-for-being-famous Tila Tequila was recently pelted with various items by an unappreciative crowd of nutters in clown-makeup. The Vancouver Sun writes: "According to witnesses, as soon as Tequila hit the stage, shooting silly string into the crowd, a large banner featuring a four-letter word to describe a piece of female anatomy was unfurled. She was soon hit in the face, chest and legs by eggs, bottles of [soda], feces, balloons filled with urine, a bag of chicken breasts, a flashlight, rocks, watermelon, pizza, cigarettes, and a large array of sex toys... [her] first response to the assault was to take her shirt off. Her second was to flee to a nearby trailer which was allegedly set upon by the outraged fans."
The awesomeness knows no bounds.
In other news, I went to Whistler, and came back married to a Canadian national title-holder. More on that later.
Of course, the REALLY big news since we were last in touch is that famous-for-being-famous Tila Tequila was recently pelted with various items by an unappreciative crowd of nutters in clown-makeup. The Vancouver Sun writes: "According to witnesses, as soon as Tequila hit the stage, shooting silly string into the crowd, a large banner featuring a four-letter word to describe a piece of female anatomy was unfurled. She was soon hit in the face, chest and legs by eggs, bottles of [soda], feces, balloons filled with urine, a bag of chicken breasts, a flashlight, rocks, watermelon, pizza, cigarettes, and a large array of sex toys... [her] first response to the assault was to take her shirt off. Her second was to flee to a nearby trailer which was allegedly set upon by the outraged fans."
The awesomeness knows no bounds.
In other news, I went to Whistler, and came back married to a Canadian national title-holder. More on that later.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Puppies and VPL*
Short Version:
Today I saw a sign which said "Obey Signs"
Long Version:
43 chihuahuas were dropped off at the Victoria SPCA yesterday - delivered in a Mustang convertible. Apparently the woman who delivered them had started with one of the yappy handbag critters, but became "The Chihuahua Lady" after that one and then various members of the next generation did their bit for the continuation of the species. Sounds like it all got a little bit much after her boss died and left her another twelve of the wee beasties.
Even scarier than a boss who leaves you a dozen chihuahuas in his will is the statement from Amazon (the online book/music/etc retailer) that they are now selling twice as many e-books as physical books. Even bearing in mind that that's sales to a select and technology-savvy group of people, it's still a significant statement, perhaps particularly in light of indications that copyright mechanisms for e-books - and especially as pertains to public libraries - have yet to be perfected: Reports are that the Vancouver Public Library (VPL*) has waiting lists for e-book borrowing. The example title given was the latest in the Twilight series (teen melodrama involving effeminate vampires), of which the VPL* owns five copies in e-book format. All are out on loan, and there are eight people waiting their turn. Two of the seven physical copies owned by the VPL* are on the shelf and available. Stinging indictment of the levels of common sense possessed by e-book users? Or unsurprising behavior from by-definition slightly sub-normal Twilight franchise afficionados? Either way, a waiting list for an e-book says to me that digital rights management needs some fine-tuning.
* = ha ha ha ha ha nice acronym
Today I saw a sign which said "Obey Signs"
Long Version:
43 chihuahuas were dropped off at the Victoria SPCA yesterday - delivered in a Mustang convertible. Apparently the woman who delivered them had started with one of the yappy handbag critters, but became "The Chihuahua Lady" after that one and then various members of the next generation did their bit for the continuation of the species. Sounds like it all got a little bit much after her boss died and left her another twelve of the wee beasties.
Even scarier than a boss who leaves you a dozen chihuahuas in his will is the statement from Amazon (the online book/music/etc retailer) that they are now selling twice as many e-books as physical books. Even bearing in mind that that's sales to a select and technology-savvy group of people, it's still a significant statement, perhaps particularly in light of indications that copyright mechanisms for e-books - and especially as pertains to public libraries - have yet to be perfected: Reports are that the Vancouver Public Library (VPL*) has waiting lists for e-book borrowing. The example title given was the latest in the Twilight series (teen melodrama involving effeminate vampires), of which the VPL* owns five copies in e-book format. All are out on loan, and there are eight people waiting their turn. Two of the seven physical copies owned by the VPL* are on the shelf and available. Stinging indictment of the levels of common sense possessed by e-book users? Or unsurprising behavior from by-definition slightly sub-normal Twilight franchise afficionados? Either way, a waiting list for an e-book says to me that digital rights management needs some fine-tuning.
* = ha ha ha ha ha nice acronym
Pottery
Short Version:
Legalize marijuana, social and financial benefits will ensue.
Long Version:
Big article in the Vancouver Sun Saturday and another today about the imminent collapse of the British Columbian economy on the back of California's various proposed new marijuana legislations. Apparently the illegal (and therefore untaxed and unregulated) export of "B.C. Bud" to the USA, and particularly California, is a huge money-spinner for the province, despite the lack of official taxation measures on the trade.
I have a healthy disrespect for the Vancouver Sun - two or three quality writers excepted - to the extent that I'm remembering the NZ Herald almost fondly. However, even taking the pair of under-informed articles and their statistical guesstimates with a healthy pile of salt*, it's interesting to see that the dollar value of B.C.'s marijuana export trade is thought to be really high: variously "at least $3 billion," or "$4-5 billion." Either way, that's a lot of pot-related income, especially when you consider that (again, guesstimated) 70% of it is being moved illegally across an international border, which constitutes a whole new level of criminal offending and commensurate harsher sentencing for those who get nabbed. And a whole new level of taxes and excise duties which are not being collected.
Neither the B.C. provincial government or the Canadian federal government - or their US counterparts - makes a cent from direct taxation of this highly lucrative trade. Secondary financial benefits accrue through the spending habits of the growers and transporters - and the snack attack food purchases of the end users - but the huge amount of lost wealth borders on criminal, especially in light of the current state of world financial affairs**
Some parts of California are investigating legalizing - not just decriminalizing - the marijuana industry. A number of states and provinces, including both B.C. and California, already have "Medical Marijuana" programmes in place, whereby marijuana is considered a valid medicinal substance which can be prescribed by a licensed medical practitioner. The NZ Medical Association is backing a Law Commission recommendation to introduce a similar arrangement in NZ, but a number of Californian cities are taking things several steps further, with Oakland looking at legitimizing "four production plants where pot would be grown, packaged and processed into items ranging from baked goods to body oil" in order to increase the level of legitimacy - and therefore taxability - of the city's marijuana industry.
Apparently the four current licensed marijuana stores in Oakland turned over in excess of USD$28 million in 2009, and one has to assume that the revenue generated by the illicit market reached much, much higher levels. At state level California is currently broke, and municipal bodies sound like they're not much better off, with police forces - which are a local government responsibility in the USA - being cut heavily along with a number of other services. So they're turning towards increased regulation and taxation of the marijuana trade, which will mean not only a new revenue stream for governmental organisations, but also job creation on a number of levels, from legislative creators, inspectors and enforcers, to those working in the marijuana trade, whose roles are not currently included in job statistics.
On the flip side, it's well known that as soon as a rule is set down, loopholes are sought, found, and exploited, a la the medical clinics next door to most medical marijuana outlets, where a friendly physician will prescribe marijuana for whatever ails you - or, as I suspect is more usual, does not ail you.
Still, I think it's a bloody good general principle, and that NZ should look seriously at the issue of legalisation. Not in the piecemeal, incoherently- and multiply-regulated way that its being done in the States, but under a sensible model which is regulated and workable from end to end, including opportunities for employers to have a say in the allowable levels of THC (the active ingredient in marijuana) for their employees. A well-constructed system for regulating and controlling the industry would see not only increased revenues for government coffers, and a swag of new jobs created and/or recognised just when that's most needed, but also a drop in the use of methamphetamine.
Admittedly, I have no evidence to support that last bit, but everything I've heard about methamphetamine as sold in NZ suggests that, unlike marijuana, it's a comparatively odorless drug; the end-user saleable units are comparatively compact; it makes users go nuts and attack people with samurai swords. As far as I'm aware, the number of marijuana-induced samurai sword incidents currently stands at zero, and legalising its production and sale would make it a far more attractive proposition than the far more physically- and socially-destructive methamphetamine scouge.
In fact, I've seen enough evidence to support ranking pot far less likely to induce or encourage non-pot criminal activity not only than dirty methamphetamine but also alcohol, which is a legal, regulated drug, and is, according to the Queenstown police chief, responsible for pretty much all of the crime in Queenstown. I've heard doctors say that alcohol is a major factor in the majority of Friday- and Saturday-night hospital Emergency Department admissions and it plays a significant role in NZ's appallingly high teen pregnancy rate. Sounds like a better candidate for illegality than pot to me.
Legalise marijuana production. Gain income through taxation; gain new export markets; increase land values in hilly, hitherto-unproductive regions; reduce crime statistics threefold, through reduced methamphetamine use and through increased pot-induced slothfulness and through no longer pursuing marijuana "crimes"; increase all-night service station snack food sales; increase police resource allocation to significant crime activity; decrease unemployment statistics; create a bunch of new careers. Get some smart cookies involved in figuring out the rules and regulations around driving/working/doing things under the influence. Social and financial benefits will ensue.
* = There's a newly-sparked rehashed salt-intake media beat-up going on here at the moment. Everything I've read has referenced the levels of sodium people are getting from the shitty junk food they ingest with such gusto, which begs the question: Why try to target people's after-market salt use, rather than the fact that they're eating "food" so bad it makes them fat while still leaving them malnourished?
** = Although B.C. has apparently been experiencing both general economic and job growth of late, in direct contrast to the rest of Canada, most of the USA, and NZ
Legalize marijuana, social and financial benefits will ensue.
Long Version:
Big article in the Vancouver Sun Saturday and another today about the imminent collapse of the British Columbian economy on the back of California's various proposed new marijuana legislations. Apparently the illegal (and therefore untaxed and unregulated) export of "B.C. Bud" to the USA, and particularly California, is a huge money-spinner for the province, despite the lack of official taxation measures on the trade.
I have a healthy disrespect for the Vancouver Sun - two or three quality writers excepted - to the extent that I'm remembering the NZ Herald almost fondly. However, even taking the pair of under-informed articles and their statistical guesstimates with a healthy pile of salt*, it's interesting to see that the dollar value of B.C.'s marijuana export trade is thought to be really high: variously "at least $3 billion," or "$4-5 billion." Either way, that's a lot of pot-related income, especially when you consider that (again, guesstimated) 70% of it is being moved illegally across an international border, which constitutes a whole new level of criminal offending and commensurate harsher sentencing for those who get nabbed. And a whole new level of taxes and excise duties which are not being collected.
Neither the B.C. provincial government or the Canadian federal government - or their US counterparts - makes a cent from direct taxation of this highly lucrative trade. Secondary financial benefits accrue through the spending habits of the growers and transporters - and the snack attack food purchases of the end users - but the huge amount of lost wealth borders on criminal, especially in light of the current state of world financial affairs**
Some parts of California are investigating legalizing - not just decriminalizing - the marijuana industry. A number of states and provinces, including both B.C. and California, already have "Medical Marijuana" programmes in place, whereby marijuana is considered a valid medicinal substance which can be prescribed by a licensed medical practitioner. The NZ Medical Association is backing a Law Commission recommendation to introduce a similar arrangement in NZ, but a number of Californian cities are taking things several steps further, with Oakland looking at legitimizing "four production plants where pot would be grown, packaged and processed into items ranging from baked goods to body oil" in order to increase the level of legitimacy - and therefore taxability - of the city's marijuana industry.
Apparently the four current licensed marijuana stores in Oakland turned over in excess of USD$28 million in 2009, and one has to assume that the revenue generated by the illicit market reached much, much higher levels. At state level California is currently broke, and municipal bodies sound like they're not much better off, with police forces - which are a local government responsibility in the USA - being cut heavily along with a number of other services. So they're turning towards increased regulation and taxation of the marijuana trade, which will mean not only a new revenue stream for governmental organisations, but also job creation on a number of levels, from legislative creators, inspectors and enforcers, to those working in the marijuana trade, whose roles are not currently included in job statistics.
On the flip side, it's well known that as soon as a rule is set down, loopholes are sought, found, and exploited, a la the medical clinics next door to most medical marijuana outlets, where a friendly physician will prescribe marijuana for whatever ails you - or, as I suspect is more usual, does not ail you.
Still, I think it's a bloody good general principle, and that NZ should look seriously at the issue of legalisation. Not in the piecemeal, incoherently- and multiply-regulated way that its being done in the States, but under a sensible model which is regulated and workable from end to end, including opportunities for employers to have a say in the allowable levels of THC (the active ingredient in marijuana) for their employees. A well-constructed system for regulating and controlling the industry would see not only increased revenues for government coffers, and a swag of new jobs created and/or recognised just when that's most needed, but also a drop in the use of methamphetamine.
Admittedly, I have no evidence to support that last bit, but everything I've heard about methamphetamine as sold in NZ suggests that, unlike marijuana, it's a comparatively odorless drug; the end-user saleable units are comparatively compact; it makes users go nuts and attack people with samurai swords. As far as I'm aware, the number of marijuana-induced samurai sword incidents currently stands at zero, and legalising its production and sale would make it a far more attractive proposition than the far more physically- and socially-destructive methamphetamine scouge.
In fact, I've seen enough evidence to support ranking pot far less likely to induce or encourage non-pot criminal activity not only than dirty methamphetamine but also alcohol, which is a legal, regulated drug, and is, according to the Queenstown police chief, responsible for pretty much all of the crime in Queenstown. I've heard doctors say that alcohol is a major factor in the majority of Friday- and Saturday-night hospital Emergency Department admissions and it plays a significant role in NZ's appallingly high teen pregnancy rate. Sounds like a better candidate for illegality than pot to me.
Legalise marijuana production. Gain income through taxation; gain new export markets; increase land values in hilly, hitherto-unproductive regions; reduce crime statistics threefold, through reduced methamphetamine use and through increased pot-induced slothfulness and through no longer pursuing marijuana "crimes"; increase all-night service station snack food sales; increase police resource allocation to significant crime activity; decrease unemployment statistics; create a bunch of new careers. Get some smart cookies involved in figuring out the rules and regulations around driving/working/doing things under the influence. Social and financial benefits will ensue.
* = There's a newly-sparked rehashed salt-intake media beat-up going on here at the moment. Everything I've read has referenced the levels of sodium people are getting from the shitty junk food they ingest with such gusto, which begs the question: Why try to target people's after-market salt use, rather than the fact that they're eating "food" so bad it makes them fat while still leaving them malnourished?
** = Although B.C. has apparently been experiencing both general economic and job growth of late, in direct contrast to the rest of Canada, most of the USA, and NZ
Slinky
Ferrets are slinky. I know this because the Vancouver Sun told me so. Twice in one short article.
The (very slinky) black-footed ferret was thought to have become extinct in the 1930s. In 1981 a farm dog caught and killed one, which left biologists in the US apparently "ecstatic" at the opportunity to trap, breed, and eventually gradually reintroduce the slinky cuties to the wild.
Biologists in NZ are less ecstatic with the ferrets living in the Wairarapa, which have killed and/or consumed 9 of the 54 kiwi at a bird sanctuary there within the last month. Some sanctuary. I'm not entirely sure why the Department of Conversation thinks it's a good idea to move the birds from the actual sanctuary of Little Barrier Island to this place in the Wairarapa which has no fences and relies heavily on a buffer zone of farmland around the area which houses the kiwi. Apparently they "really can't do much more" yet they are "certainly not" contemplating removing the remaining kiwi back to Little Barrier despite admitting that "mathematically" there are more dangers for kiwi in the unfenced, unprotected Wairarapa "sanctuary" than on the pest- and predator-free island they took them from in the first place.
The (very slinky) black-footed ferret was thought to have become extinct in the 1930s. In 1981 a farm dog caught and killed one, which left biologists in the US apparently "ecstatic" at the opportunity to trap, breed, and eventually gradually reintroduce the slinky cuties to the wild.
Biologists in NZ are less ecstatic with the ferrets living in the Wairarapa, which have killed and/or consumed 9 of the 54 kiwi at a bird sanctuary there within the last month. Some sanctuary. I'm not entirely sure why the Department of Conversation thinks it's a good idea to move the birds from the actual sanctuary of Little Barrier Island to this place in the Wairarapa which has no fences and relies heavily on a buffer zone of farmland around the area which houses the kiwi. Apparently they "really can't do much more" yet they are "certainly not" contemplating removing the remaining kiwi back to Little Barrier despite admitting that "mathematically" there are more dangers for kiwi in the unfenced, unprotected Wairarapa "sanctuary" than on the pest- and predator-free island they took them from in the first place.
Meaty Goodness
I ate a bison last night, and I'm going to eat an elk tomorrow night.
Not some trick words leading you to false conclusions based on ingestion of chewy sweets shaped like ruminants:
I ate a bison.
I will eat an elk.
The bison was a tasty reminder that I stopped eating meat for reasons other than deliciousness (or a lack thereof), and was a nice solid repast after our two-hour epic forest run.
Back to herbivorousness after the elk, right up until I find pieces of moose or bear being charred for my epicurean pleasure.
Coincidentally, from where I'm sitting I can see a book entitled "Victory Meat."
Not some trick words leading you to false conclusions based on ingestion of chewy sweets shaped like ruminants:
I ate a bison.
I will eat an elk.
The bison was a tasty reminder that I stopped eating meat for reasons other than deliciousness (or a lack thereof), and was a nice solid repast after our two-hour epic forest run.
Back to herbivorousness after the elk, right up until I find pieces of moose or bear being charred for my epicurean pleasure.
Coincidentally, from where I'm sitting I can see a book entitled "Victory Meat."
Friday, August 6, 2010
Imminent Cheese
Short Version:
We do chores, relax in the sun, wreck things and selves, and gear up for cheese action.
Long Version:
Lots of things needed to be washed, including all of our clothes and camping stuff, and the Reaper, which looked more like a tan van than a white one. My wheel and fork went in for repair, and I'd almost finished washing the van by the time the wheel was done (fork was sent to the manufacturer's local rep for evaluation/repair/replacement).
Now, a week later, we've done most of our chores, with just the oil-change on the Reaper and a few other bits and pieces outstanding. We've walked the dogs for hours on the North Shore mountain trails, gone for several runs, and soaked up sun by day and soaked in the hot tub watching fireworks displays by night. Sunsets have become more and more spectacular as the smoke and ash from the 400+ forest fires further up the Fraser Valley has reached the Vancouver airshed, and between Skype calls to mothers, leisurely dinner and/or drinks conversations with family and friends, and consistent reliable internet connectivity, we're feeling pretty settled. We've even loaned a bunch of our camping stuff out for the weekend!
We've watched a bunch of movies since we've been back; going from no TV to one the size of a wall kind of made it mandatory. Two were from the Pirates of the Caribbean series, which features a chap with an octopus for a head who can walk through doors/walls/prison-cell bars. Janine had a crack at emulating this ability the other night. Giving credit where it's due, she did end up on the other side of the screen door. I'm not 100% certain she was supposed to be surrounded by quite so much used-to-be-a-door wreckage though, and the chap in the films didn't bleed out his nose anywhere near as much as Nene did. Of course, the bloke in the film didn't actually HAVE a nose to bleed out of, but his face tentacles didn't look anywhere near as red and sore as Nene's nose did for the next couple of days. Still, it was I, not Nene, who the neighbor thought was a special needs employee of the lawncare company, capable - just! - of minding the sprinkler, and moving it around every so often.
We're looking forward to heading north early next week, with riding planned initially for Squamish and Whistler. The latter is playing host next week to the Crankworx Mountain-Bike festival. Our media accreditation came through this morning, so we're looking forward to seeing behind the scenes of what is, apparently, a massive production, with top-flight racing, new product demos, and all sorts of other goings-on, culminating in the Canadian Cheese-Rolling Championships on Saturday August 14. That's Sunday August 15 NZ time for those Southern Hemispherans who are planning to cheer us on from afar. Apparently if we win we get some cheese.
Mmmmmmmmm... delicious cheese.
We do chores, relax in the sun, wreck things and selves, and gear up for cheese action.
Long Version:
Lots of things needed to be washed, including all of our clothes and camping stuff, and the Reaper, which looked more like a tan van than a white one. My wheel and fork went in for repair, and I'd almost finished washing the van by the time the wheel was done (fork was sent to the manufacturer's local rep for evaluation/repair/replacement).
Now, a week later, we've done most of our chores, with just the oil-change on the Reaper and a few other bits and pieces outstanding. We've walked the dogs for hours on the North Shore mountain trails, gone for several runs, and soaked up sun by day and soaked in the hot tub watching fireworks displays by night. Sunsets have become more and more spectacular as the smoke and ash from the 400+ forest fires further up the Fraser Valley has reached the Vancouver airshed, and between Skype calls to mothers, leisurely dinner and/or drinks conversations with family and friends, and consistent reliable internet connectivity, we're feeling pretty settled. We've even loaned a bunch of our camping stuff out for the weekend!
We've watched a bunch of movies since we've been back; going from no TV to one the size of a wall kind of made it mandatory. Two were from the Pirates of the Caribbean series, which features a chap with an octopus for a head who can walk through doors/walls/prison-cell bars. Janine had a crack at emulating this ability the other night. Giving credit where it's due, she did end up on the other side of the screen door. I'm not 100% certain she was supposed to be surrounded by quite so much used-to-be-a-door wreckage though, and the chap in the films didn't bleed out his nose anywhere near as much as Nene did. Of course, the bloke in the film didn't actually HAVE a nose to bleed out of, but his face tentacles didn't look anywhere near as red and sore as Nene's nose did for the next couple of days. Still, it was I, not Nene, who the neighbor thought was a special needs employee of the lawncare company, capable - just! - of minding the sprinkler, and moving it around every so often.
We're looking forward to heading north early next week, with riding planned initially for Squamish and Whistler. The latter is playing host next week to the Crankworx Mountain-Bike festival. Our media accreditation came through this morning, so we're looking forward to seeing behind the scenes of what is, apparently, a massive production, with top-flight racing, new product demos, and all sorts of other goings-on, culminating in the Canadian Cheese-Rolling Championships on Saturday August 14. That's Sunday August 15 NZ time for those Southern Hemispherans who are planning to cheer us on from afar. Apparently if we win we get some cheese.
Mmmmmmmmm... delicious cheese.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Canada, Here We Come!
Short Version:
We run for the border, with pizza.
Long Version:
Mt St Helens isn't that far from the US-Canada border. Unless you're at the south-east corner of the mountain, in which case it's an hour or so just to get to the Interstate, then another one to get to the north-west mountain access, where the visitor centre and mountain headquarters are. And where we were, six or seven weeks ago, under a blanket of cold, foggy cloud. This time, the sun was shining, and it was still hot enough as we rolled into Olympia seeking delicious foods that I had to dig out a shirt before heading in to the Old-School Pizzeria, where we ate under the watchful gaze of metal gods of yesteryear. It's good to be reminded that Anthrax had big hair in the early 90s, and that even so they were among the less cartoon-like rock bands of the era.
Hunger suitably assuaged, it was back on the Interstate, and north at a furious pace. We passed through Seattle at sunset, which was really pretty and made Janine homesick, and crossed the border into Canada a few hours later with no border fuss whatsoever.
We'd been on the I-5 for so many hours that it was kind of weird when the road withered away, leaving us on an - admittedly multiple-lane - suburban street, with a 50-60km/hr speed limit. Signage was adequate - barely - to get us through downtown Vancouver, with only one traffic mishap*, and before we knew it we were crossing the Lion's Gate Bridge into North Vancouver, and pulling into the driveway of the house on East Kings, some time after midnight.
Showers for hours, then sleep. Mmmmmm, delicious sleep.
* = Turning left off a one-way street onto a two-way means:
- Get into the left-hand lane
- Turn into the right-hand lane
Unless you learned to drive on the left side of the road, and are really tired, and there's no oncoming traffic... in which case it's entirely possible to drive quite a way up the wrong side of a major urban thoroughfare before realising exactly what it is that's giving you that "something's not right" feeling. Still, no damage done, and no cops witnessed said indiscretion, so it never happened.
We run for the border, with pizza.
Long Version:
Mt St Helens isn't that far from the US-Canada border. Unless you're at the south-east corner of the mountain, in which case it's an hour or so just to get to the Interstate, then another one to get to the north-west mountain access, where the visitor centre and mountain headquarters are. And where we were, six or seven weeks ago, under a blanket of cold, foggy cloud. This time, the sun was shining, and it was still hot enough as we rolled into Olympia seeking delicious foods that I had to dig out a shirt before heading in to the Old-School Pizzeria, where we ate under the watchful gaze of metal gods of yesteryear. It's good to be reminded that Anthrax had big hair in the early 90s, and that even so they were among the less cartoon-like rock bands of the era.
Hunger suitably assuaged, it was back on the Interstate, and north at a furious pace. We passed through Seattle at sunset, which was really pretty and made Janine homesick, and crossed the border into Canada a few hours later with no border fuss whatsoever.
We'd been on the I-5 for so many hours that it was kind of weird when the road withered away, leaving us on an - admittedly multiple-lane - suburban street, with a 50-60km/hr speed limit. Signage was adequate - barely - to get us through downtown Vancouver, with only one traffic mishap*, and before we knew it we were crossing the Lion's Gate Bridge into North Vancouver, and pulling into the driveway of the house on East Kings, some time after midnight.
Showers for hours, then sleep. Mmmmmm, delicious sleep.
* = Turning left off a one-way street onto a two-way means:
- Get into the left-hand lane
- Turn into the right-hand lane
Unless you learned to drive on the left side of the road, and are really tired, and there's no oncoming traffic... in which case it's entirely possible to drive quite a way up the wrong side of a major urban thoroughfare before realising exactly what it is that's giving you that "something's not right" feeling. Still, no damage done, and no cops witnessed said indiscretion, so it never happened.
Recovery and the Plains of Abraham
Short Version:
Recovering from the recovery ride, more bike and body carnage on the Plains of Abraham
Recovering from the recovery ride, more bike and body carnage on the Plains of Abraham
Long Version:
Chatty camping neighbor Brian had set off up the trail before us, carrying an old-school external aluminium-
frame pack full of random stuff for broken-back rehab purposes. We passed him pretty soon after, and rode another 15 minutes up the trail to a campsite next to a deep section of river, with a small beach and a rope swing hanging out over the water. We spent the day lying in the sun reading books, playing card games, eating delicious foods and drinking delicious coffee, and swimming in the river. The swing was imperfect but serviceable, and the fallen tree not far downstream provided an excellent springboard for fancy diving purposes. Fish were a-leaping, squirrels and mice were a-scurrying, tiny frogs were a-sitting still. We didn't really want to leave, but having not brought any camping gear, and with bold plans for an early morning assault on Mt St Helens the next day we headed back to the van, passing along the way a large family-with-extras group who were heading for the spot we'd just left.
We drove to and up onto Mt St Helens, pulling off the main
Forest Service road onto a dirt byw
ay just outside the border of the National Monument restricted-use area. We found a clearing with full picnic table setup and were about to start setting up camp when a Ranger drove by. We thought we were about to be moved along, but he tipped his hat to us and continued on. Sweet!
Spent the evening conducting bi
ke maintenance and prepping for the morning's ride, which meant that when we awoke the next morning we were pretty quickly on our way up the road to the trailhead. Pretty soon we were heading up into Ape Canyon, which was really pretty, and riding really nice. Ofte
n the first half of an out-and-back ride leaves you feeling less-than-enthusiastic about what awaits on the way back down, but the trail surface and gradient of Ape Canyon had us looking forward to the return journey.
A
fter a decent climb, we were out of the trees and working our way up to and across the Plains of Abraha
m, which is a flattish plateau on the eastern shoulder of the main Mt St Helens cone. The surface was volcanic dust with chunks of pumice and lava 
rock, which made for some interesting riding to go with the moonscape / Mt
St Helens short-range views and the occasional long-range spectacular vistas of Mt Adams, Mt Rainier, and non-cone stretches of the Cascade Range. At the far side of the Plains of Abraham we hiked our
bikes down a staircase of sorts, then gathered some pace along the dirt road to the Windy Ridge Viewpoint, 
where we picnicked while taking in the views of the blast-eradicated northern face of Mt St Helens, including the lava dome halfway up and a herd of elk running across the face. 
There were clouds rising from the volcano at irregular intervals and from various spots, which was mildly concerning until the Ranger lady told me they were dust clouds from snowmelt-induce
d rockfalls. Which made me much happier than the prospect of another eruption, right up until I saw a "small" rockfall come crashing down the face, fast and without bothering to go around any obstacles.
The ride back across the Plain was faster, and more fun as a result, although it did lead to yet another chunk of lava rock taking out yet another one of my spokes. Sigh. We had many photo stops along the way, and we met lots of cool people, which was great but left us wary of getting up too much speed on the way down through Ape Canyon. I managed to get round the issue to some extent by riding second, and dropping back a long way, which is how I came to be riding so fast at the point where I clipped a tree-root and ended up under my bike with chain-ring teeth embedded in my leg. Sigh.
I was a bit sore to do too much sight-seeing back at the trailhead trail nexus, but we'd spent the whole day looking at fantastic sights, so we weren't too perturbed. The broken spoke was a problem though, as it broke our plan to hook round the eastern side of Mt St Helens and north to Mt Rainier for another day of epic riding.
So, onwards, to a bike shop. Or, maybe...
...to Vancouver!
Chatty camping neighbor Brian had set off up the trail before us, carrying an old-school external aluminium-
frame pack full of random stuff for broken-back rehab purposes. We passed him pretty soon after, and rode another 15 minutes up the trail to a campsite next to a deep section of river, with a small beach and a rope swing hanging out over the water. We spent the day lying in the sun reading books, playing card games, eating delicious foods and drinking delicious coffee, and swimming in the river. The swing was imperfect but serviceable, and the fallen tree not far downstream provided an excellent springboard for fancy diving purposes. Fish were a-leaping, squirrels and mice were a-scurrying, tiny frogs were a-sitting still. We didn't really want to leave, but having not brought any camping gear, and with bold plans for an early morning assault on Mt St Helens the next day we headed back to the van, passing along the way a large family-with-extras group who were heading for the spot we'd just left.
We drove to and up onto Mt St Helens, pulling off the main
Forest Service road onto a dirt byw
ay just outside the border of the National Monument restricted-use area. We found a clearing with full picnic table setup and were about to start setting up camp when a Ranger drove by. We thought we were about to be moved along, but he tipped his hat to us and continued on. Sweet!Spent the evening conducting bi
ke maintenance and prepping for the morning's ride, which meant that when we awoke the next morning we were pretty quickly on our way up the road to the trailhead. Pretty soon we were heading up into Ape Canyon, which was really pretty, and riding really nice. Ofte
n the first half of an out-and-back ride leaves you feeling less-than-enthusiastic about what awaits on the way back down, but the trail surface and gradient of Ape Canyon had us looking forward to the return journey.A
fter a decent climb, we were out of the trees and working our way up to and across the Plains of Abraha
m, which is a flattish plateau on the eastern shoulder of the main Mt St Helens cone. The surface was volcanic dust with chunks of pumice and lava 
rock, which made for some interesting riding to go with the moonscape / Mt
St Helens short-range views and the occasional long-range spectacular vistas of Mt Adams, Mt Rainier, and non-cone stretches of the Cascade Range. At the far side of the Plains of Abraham we hiked our
bikes down a staircase of sorts, then gathered some pace along the dirt road to the Windy Ridge Viewpoint, 
where we picnicked while taking in the views of the blast-eradicated northern face of Mt St Helens, including the lava dome halfway up and a herd of elk running across the face. 
There were clouds rising from the volcano at irregular intervals and from various spots, which was mildly concerning until the Ranger lady told me they were dust clouds from snowmelt-induce
d rockfalls. Which made me much happier than the prospect of another eruption, right up until I saw a "small" rockfall come crashing down the face, fast and without bothering to go around any obstacles.The ride back across the Plain was faster, and more fun as a result, although it did lead to yet another chunk of lava rock taking out yet another one of my spokes. Sigh. We had many photo stops along the way, and we met lots of cool people, which was great but left us wary of getting up too much speed on the way down through Ape Canyon. I managed to get round the issue to some extent by riding second, and dropping back a long way, which is how I came to be riding so fast at the point where I clipped a tree-root and ended up under my bike with chain-ring teeth embedded in my leg. Sigh.
I was a bit sore to do too much sight-seeing back at the trailhead trail nexus, but we'd spent the whole day looking at fantastic sights, so we weren't too perturbed. The broken spoke was a problem though, as it broke our plan to hook round the eastern side of Mt St Helens and north to Mt Rainier for another day of epic riding.
So, onwards, to a bike shop. Or, maybe...
...to Vancouver!
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