We have a glove collection.
It consists of a range of mountain-biking gloves we've picked up at various trailheads throughout Canada and Amerika.
They're all different styles and colors, and their condition varies.
All of them are enormous.
This is actually very handy*, as all of the gloves we've bought for ourselves fit properly, which means that it's really difficult to fit polypropylene or woollen gloves underneath them when it's cold. I've worn borrowed gloves with polyprop underneath exclusively since we've been north of Lillooet.
It did start me wondering, though, as I was riding up Williams Lake hills in the rain, in the wake of Barking Spider Scott; Why are people with big hands more forgetful than the rest of us? Are they stupider, or just more forgetful? Either way, why so? Is it because so much of their body's building materials went into making their hands that not enough was left over to form adequate neural pathways? Or is it that there's some communication breakdown between brain and big hands, so the message that should say "Pick up the glove," comes through as "Pick some flowers," instead.
I began to get excited at the possibilities: A life spent riding a wave of research grants, studying the big-handed; Breakthroughs in understanding what's really behind their issues; Tears of gratitude and thankfulness being wiped from eyes by enormous fingers.
And then, disaster. Alternate hypothesis rears its feasible head: The big-handed are no more stupid or forgetful than the rest of us; it's just that most people, upon finding a glove, compare its size to that of their own hands and those of their nearest and dearest, and take only those which will fit them. Enormous gloves, far from being left behind more often, are actually more likely to be left where they lie, as the number of people with hands built to fit them is far less than is the case for sizes S-L, and even XS gloves are probably nabbed by parents seeking to bolster their ever-changing assortment of childrens' items.
Not a damning of the capabilities of the gigantodextrous at all, then; I'll have to find another reason to mislike them.
* = Ha ha ha ha ha handy.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Goodbye Dunster!
Short Version:
Yum. Scratch. Goodbye! Goodbye, Goodbye!. Sniff. Eek! Wow... Furry.
Long Version:
We've pretty much unperfected the art of leaving a place we like: we meander about, eating delicious foods and generally luxuriating in a leisurely final few hours. Then we scramble about, hurriedly gathering together most of the stuff we've strewn about the place, and eventually get on the road several hours later than originally planned. This time we had not only delicious home-made bread and apple crisp and coffee to contend with, but also dogs who demanded we play "Fetch" with them and a visit from the enormous black horses from up the valley, who - despite protestations from Stefi and Archie's horses at the intrusion - bellied up to the wooden fence and leaned on it as we fed them apples. Apples gone, they tried again to eat Nene's clothes, then one of the bigger ones decided to use the fence as a butt-scratching device, and shivered the timbers loose. Then it tried to eat our hair as we put the railings back in place. Crazy beast.
Goodbyes were said, with hugs and handshakes, and then we were off up the valley, with a loaf of bread and an oat-and-applesauce cake and a heap of apples and many backwards looks. And without several items of clothing, although we didn't discover them until later. The valley turned on two golden eagles and a bald one* and then in the town of Tete Jeune Cache we saw a scary evil wizard man, who glowered frighteningly at us, which made us feel a little less sad about leaving the Robson Valley and heading up to Rearguard Falls, where we saw an immense volume of water flowing over the rocky drop, something furry at play in the pool below the falls, and a funny-shaped man with his pants pulled up really high.
* = That's a different type of eagle, not a golden eagle with no feathers
Yum. Scratch. Goodbye! Goodbye, Goodbye!. Sniff. Eek! Wow... Furry.
Long Version:
We've pretty much unperfected the art of leaving a place we like: we meander about, eating delicious foods and generally luxuriating in a leisurely final few hours. Then we scramble about, hurriedly gathering together most of the stuff we've strewn about the place, and eventually get on the road several hours later than originally planned. This time we had not only delicious home-made bread and apple crisp and coffee to contend with, but also dogs who demanded we play "Fetch" with them and a visit from the enormous black horses from up the valley, who - despite protestations from Stefi and Archie's horses at the intrusion - bellied up to the wooden fence and leaned on it as we fed them apples. Apples gone, they tried again to eat Nene's clothes, then one of the bigger ones decided to use the fence as a butt-scratching device, and shivered the timbers loose. Then it tried to eat our hair as we put the railings back in place. Crazy beast.
Goodbyes were said, with hugs and handshakes, and then we were off up the valley, with a loaf of bread and an oat-and-applesauce cake and a heap of apples and many backwards looks. And without several items of clothing, although we didn't discover them until later. The valley turned on two golden eagles and a bald one* and then in the town of Tete Jeune Cache we saw a scary evil wizard man, who glowered frighteningly at us, which made us feel a little less sad about leaving the Robson Valley and heading up to Rearguard Falls, where we saw an immense volume of water flowing over the rocky drop, something furry at play in the pool below the falls, and a funny-shaped man with his pants pulled up really high.
* = That's a different type of eagle, not a golden eagle with no feathers
Dance, Dance, Revolution!
Short Version:
We dance the night away, just like Leo Sayer (but with less leotards)
Long Version:
On the way to the dance, we saw a bear on the side of the road. Then we saw a bear running along the road in front of us. He eventually ran into the bushes on the right, and when we looked for him we found instead a Mama Bear and her three cubs running across a field. Very cool. The car coming the other way had stopped too, and we felt a sense of comradeship with the occupants - a kinship based on having shared such a magical wildlife moment. Then we drove past them and realised that from where they were they couldn't actually see the field, let alone the bears, and that they'd been sitting patiently, waiting for us to get out of the way so they could carry on. Tragicomedy in action.
People were already lined up and learning an Irish Reel when we arrived at the dance. Blokes on one side of the hall, facing the women on the other, with the instructor-chap - a short, silvering man I'd have picked as a New York Jew had I been asked at random to categorise him - in the middle. He gave instructions and demonstrated with a counted beat, then had everyone join in with him for a while before turning on the music.
It was complete chaos, and was both wonderfully funny and marvellously fun.
Following the Irish Reel was the Old-Time Waltz, which we learned in our rows and then partnered up to dance as couples, adding a new element to the carnage, and heightening the laughter factor even further. The French Minuet was followed by the Cha-Cha, which provided one of the highlights of the evening for me when I got the move nailed (maybe) and looked to my left along the line-up of blokes. Every single one of them was doing something different. Two or three were going right when everyone else went left, some had reversed the forwards and backs, and one chap near me appeared to be doing the Twist* or the Washing-Machine. It was glorious.
During the snack break we ate biscuits and various other home-made more-or-less deliciousnesses, and met/re-met a bunch of people including woofers Stu and Danielle; Rob the giant-zucchini pirate; mountain-bikers from up in the Rockies Nick and Jailin; and a couple who hailed originally from Monrovia. Others we didn't meet included a boy in traditional Austrian garb (with added knee-length stripey socks); an ancient couple who danced only once or twice, and did so with no reference whatsoever either to what others were doing or to the music then playing**; a late-arriving group of youngsters who danced barefoot and with gay abandon; and a lady so tiny she'd've made the women of Janine's family look like giants***. The evening was completely, marvellously mad, and the post-snack dance was as close to a physical expression of the glorious lunacy as it could possibly have been; a Virginia Reel, of sorts, with people swinging on each others' arms, ducking under arches made of hands, and generally having a whale of a time, in and out of time.
The final shakedown was a free-for-all, and saw a heck of a mash-up on the dance floor. Some, like Nene and I, put into practise the dances we'd been learning, with variously-successful modifications intended to make them fit with each piece of music. Others busted out steps they'd learned goodness-knows-where: two couples two-step Amerikan country-style dancing traced pathways around grandparents dancing waltz-derivatives with children, circumnavigated the groups still frolicking their way through Virginia Reel variants, and spun through and around conversational gatherings.
All-too-soon it was time to say farewell to all those we'd met and danced with, regretfully declining the invitations to join people for after-parties. We wandered out to the parking lot, past the Oldsmobile with steer-horns attached to the grill, and hit the road homewards, past our squirrel, past the store, past the old ferry landing, past its bell on the gate. The house was warm and the dogs were pleased to see us. We went to sleep still smiling.
* = I'd overheard him grumbling to no-one in particular when the how-to instructions were being issued: "Which is it: swing hips, or stamp-stamp-stamp? Can't be both." His solution: ignore the footwork, plant feet side by side and swing hips in giant circles
** = Completely deaf, I'm guessing, although possibly completely obstinate
*** = We found out later that she climbs mountains when weather permits and plays the Alpenhorn up on the high places of the world. Apparently her husband - who wasn't present but is also, apparently, tiny - is the world's greatest French Horn maker, and to-flight orchestral French Horn players have bidding wars on each of the few instruments he makes in a year
We dance the night away, just like Leo Sayer (but with less leotards)
Long Version:
On the way to the dance, we saw a bear on the side of the road. Then we saw a bear running along the road in front of us. He eventually ran into the bushes on the right, and when we looked for him we found instead a Mama Bear and her three cubs running across a field. Very cool. The car coming the other way had stopped too, and we felt a sense of comradeship with the occupants - a kinship based on having shared such a magical wildlife moment. Then we drove past them and realised that from where they were they couldn't actually see the field, let alone the bears, and that they'd been sitting patiently, waiting for us to get out of the way so they could carry on. Tragicomedy in action.
People were already lined up and learning an Irish Reel when we arrived at the dance. Blokes on one side of the hall, facing the women on the other, with the instructor-chap - a short, silvering man I'd have picked as a New York Jew had I been asked at random to categorise him - in the middle. He gave instructions and demonstrated with a counted beat, then had everyone join in with him for a while before turning on the music.
It was complete chaos, and was both wonderfully funny and marvellously fun.
Following the Irish Reel was the Old-Time Waltz, which we learned in our rows and then partnered up to dance as couples, adding a new element to the carnage, and heightening the laughter factor even further. The French Minuet was followed by the Cha-Cha, which provided one of the highlights of the evening for me when I got the move nailed (maybe) and looked to my left along the line-up of blokes. Every single one of them was doing something different. Two or three were going right when everyone else went left, some had reversed the forwards and backs, and one chap near me appeared to be doing the Twist* or the Washing-Machine. It was glorious.
During the snack break we ate biscuits and various other home-made more-or-less deliciousnesses, and met/re-met a bunch of people including woofers Stu and Danielle; Rob the giant-zucchini pirate; mountain-bikers from up in the Rockies Nick and Jailin; and a couple who hailed originally from Monrovia. Others we didn't meet included a boy in traditional Austrian garb (with added knee-length stripey socks); an ancient couple who danced only once or twice, and did so with no reference whatsoever either to what others were doing or to the music then playing**; a late-arriving group of youngsters who danced barefoot and with gay abandon; and a lady so tiny she'd've made the women of Janine's family look like giants***. The evening was completely, marvellously mad, and the post-snack dance was as close to a physical expression of the glorious lunacy as it could possibly have been; a Virginia Reel, of sorts, with people swinging on each others' arms, ducking under arches made of hands, and generally having a whale of a time, in and out of time.
The final shakedown was a free-for-all, and saw a heck of a mash-up on the dance floor. Some, like Nene and I, put into practise the dances we'd been learning, with variously-successful modifications intended to make them fit with each piece of music. Others busted out steps they'd learned goodness-knows-where: two couples two-step Amerikan country-style dancing traced pathways around grandparents dancing waltz-derivatives with children, circumnavigated the groups still frolicking their way through Virginia Reel variants, and spun through and around conversational gatherings.
All-too-soon it was time to say farewell to all those we'd met and danced with, regretfully declining the invitations to join people for after-parties. We wandered out to the parking lot, past the Oldsmobile with steer-horns attached to the grill, and hit the road homewards, past our squirrel, past the store, past the old ferry landing, past its bell on the gate. The house was warm and the dogs were pleased to see us. We went to sleep still smiling.
* = I'd overheard him grumbling to no-one in particular when the how-to instructions were being issued: "Which is it: swing hips, or stamp-stamp-stamp? Can't be both." His solution: ignore the footwork, plant feet side by side and swing hips in giant circles
** = Completely deaf, I'm guessing, although possibly completely obstinate
*** = We found out later that she climbs mountains when weather permits and plays the Alpenhorn up on the high places of the world. Apparently her husband - who wasn't present but is also, apparently, tiny - is the world's greatest French Horn maker, and to-flight orchestral French Horn players have bidding wars on each of the few instruments he makes in a year
Monday, September 13, 2010
For Sale: Everything
Short Version:
Market forces at work, with pirates. We check out our harvest and some pot then get molested by some enormities.
Long Version:
The Dunster Market was awesome. Quite apart from the happy-meat cheeseburgers and more Mennonite cinnamon buns, there was locally-grown produce galore, and an assortment of characters selling it, or giving it away, depending on how well they liked the cut of your jib. One particularly piratically-attired local, Rob (Hi Rob!), gave me some apples gratis and told me tales of giant zucchini pranksterism in the far-north town of Terrace, from whence he hails. Nowdays he's a Dunsterite* for seven months of the year, and spends the other five months caring for autistic kids in Vancouver, which is an interesting pair of lives to be leading. I can only imagine what the autistic kids think of the leather hat, big beard, dreadlocks, and artificial leg. Also at the market was Stefi and Archie's cross-river neighbor, Alfie, wearing his latest business advertisement: a beige jacket, with "FOR SALE: EVERYTHING. IF I DON'T HAVE IT, YOU DON'T NEED IT" written across the back in marker pen. He looked like a curmudgeonly grandpa from an Amerikan sitcom, crossed with a widowered horse-racing follower who chain-smokes hand-rolled cigarettes outside the TAB somewhere in the Hutt Valley.
The Market is held in the parking lot of the Dunster Hall, near the "Dunster Mall": a shed full of no-longer needed items too good to throw away. Folks drop by, have a looksee, and help themselves to whatever's there that they want or need. We poked our heads in and saw: ice-skates; books; audio tapes; shoes; hats; clothing; a child's car-seat; assorted kitchen implements; knitting needles; and much, much more.
On the way back to the farm we saw the corpse of the squirrel we'd harvested the previous day, lying in the middle of the road with his little paws curled up under his chin. The fir-cone he'd been carrying in his little mouth when he made his ill-fated dash across the road was nowhere to be seen - carried off, no doubt, by his nearest and dearest, for use as post-service snacks at the funeral. We wouldn't have felt so bad about our first (confirmed) mammalian kill if he weren't so darned cute, but when it comes down to it, if we had to run over a mammal I'd far rather it was a tiny, cute squirrel than a half-ton moose or angry grizzly bear**.
After a tour of the pottery studio, where we met not only clay but also kittens and pack-rats, we helped pick apples from some of the many trees, and then Archie took Nene and I (and the two dogs: Momo and Foxy) for a hike: along the river bank to Beaver Point, then up along a gully to a meadow, where we spooked a herd of horses. They soon regained their equilibrium, and came back to check us out, which went from kind of neat to a wee bit scary as they changed from beautiful majestic animals galloping away on the far side of the paddock to blimmin enormous critters, up close and a little too personal: one tried to eat the jacket Nene had tied around her waist, another was blowing in my ear. All of us humans had an enormous muzzle pressed into the middle of our backs, hurrying us along, and each of the dogs had a pursuer that outweighed them at least several hundred times. They were, Archie told us, log-haulers and their descendants, and they were absolutely huge - near as high at the shoulder as a Clydesdale but far more massive. It was kind of nice to get on the other side of the fence and watch them from comparative safety, although their continued enthusiasm to get close to us had the fence bowing and creaking alarmingly, so we wandered down into the wooded gully into which the original homestead was bulldozed by a previous landowner, up the other side into the sloping paddock above the house which doubles as a ski field in winter, and back to the house just as delicious foods were ready to be snarfed.
And then it was time to get dressed up in our best eveningwear finery and our dancing shoes****, and hit the road to the Dunster Hall, to the Old-Time Family Dance.
* = Dunsterian? Dunsterer?
** = Apparently grizzlies have been known to take a disliking to certain automobiles, and use their enormous, clawed strength to peel their way through the metal skins to the soft parts inside. Also, we're told, they like gin***. Not sure if the two are related.
*** = Actually, we were told they like juniper berries - which is where the flavor of gin comes from - and that at this time of year the big bears are quite high up in the mountains seeking them
**** = Jeans and sneakers and off-road running shoes.
Market forces at work, with pirates. We check out our harvest and some pot then get molested by some enormities.
Long Version:
The Dunster Market was awesome. Quite apart from the happy-meat cheeseburgers and more Mennonite cinnamon buns, there was locally-grown produce galore, and an assortment of characters selling it, or giving it away, depending on how well they liked the cut of your jib. One particularly piratically-attired local, Rob (Hi Rob!), gave me some apples gratis and told me tales of giant zucchini pranksterism in the far-north town of Terrace, from whence he hails. Nowdays he's a Dunsterite* for seven months of the year, and spends the other five months caring for autistic kids in Vancouver, which is an interesting pair of lives to be leading. I can only imagine what the autistic kids think of the leather hat, big beard, dreadlocks, and artificial leg. Also at the market was Stefi and Archie's cross-river neighbor, Alfie, wearing his latest business advertisement: a beige jacket, with "FOR SALE: EVERYTHING. IF I DON'T HAVE IT, YOU DON'T NEED IT" written across the back in marker pen. He looked like a curmudgeonly grandpa from an Amerikan sitcom, crossed with a widowered horse-racing follower who chain-smokes hand-rolled cigarettes outside the TAB somewhere in the Hutt Valley.
The Market is held in the parking lot of the Dunster Hall, near the "Dunster Mall": a shed full of no-longer needed items too good to throw away. Folks drop by, have a looksee, and help themselves to whatever's there that they want or need. We poked our heads in and saw: ice-skates; books; audio tapes; shoes; hats; clothing; a child's car-seat; assorted kitchen implements; knitting needles; and much, much more.
On the way back to the farm we saw the corpse of the squirrel we'd harvested the previous day, lying in the middle of the road with his little paws curled up under his chin. The fir-cone he'd been carrying in his little mouth when he made his ill-fated dash across the road was nowhere to be seen - carried off, no doubt, by his nearest and dearest, for use as post-service snacks at the funeral. We wouldn't have felt so bad about our first (confirmed) mammalian kill if he weren't so darned cute, but when it comes down to it, if we had to run over a mammal I'd far rather it was a tiny, cute squirrel than a half-ton moose or angry grizzly bear**.
After a tour of the pottery studio, where we met not only clay but also kittens and pack-rats, we helped pick apples from some of the many trees, and then Archie took Nene and I (and the two dogs: Momo and Foxy) for a hike: along the river bank to Beaver Point, then up along a gully to a meadow, where we spooked a herd of horses. They soon regained their equilibrium, and came back to check us out, which went from kind of neat to a wee bit scary as they changed from beautiful majestic animals galloping away on the far side of the paddock to blimmin enormous critters, up close and a little too personal: one tried to eat the jacket Nene had tied around her waist, another was blowing in my ear. All of us humans had an enormous muzzle pressed into the middle of our backs, hurrying us along, and each of the dogs had a pursuer that outweighed them at least several hundred times. They were, Archie told us, log-haulers and their descendants, and they were absolutely huge - near as high at the shoulder as a Clydesdale but far more massive. It was kind of nice to get on the other side of the fence and watch them from comparative safety, although their continued enthusiasm to get close to us had the fence bowing and creaking alarmingly, so we wandered down into the wooded gully into which the original homestead was bulldozed by a previous landowner, up the other side into the sloping paddock above the house which doubles as a ski field in winter, and back to the house just as delicious foods were ready to be snarfed.
And then it was time to get dressed up in our best eveningwear finery and our dancing shoes****, and hit the road to the Dunster Hall, to the Old-Time Family Dance.
* = Dunsterian? Dunsterer?
** = Apparently grizzlies have been known to take a disliking to certain automobiles, and use their enormous, clawed strength to peel their way through the metal skins to the soft parts inside. Also, we're told, they like gin***. Not sure if the two are related.
*** = Actually, we were told they like juniper berries - which is where the flavor of gin comes from - and that at this time of year the big bears are quite high up in the mountains seeking them
**** = Jeans and sneakers and off-road running shoes.
An Accidental Hike
Short Version:
Eat, run, meet, kill, ogle, eat, drive, walk, walk, walk, make yellow snow, walk, walk, walk, talk, cook, eat, talk, drink, sleep
Long Version:
Having eaten an incredible amount of delicious Chinese foods the previous evening, starting the day with a run seemed like an appropriate thing to do. Right up to the point where we had to go out of the warm house. Still, we completed 7km without meeting anything that wanted to eat us, and were hungry again when we arrived back at the farm.
Breakfast was both copious and delicious, and we we set off into town pleasantly stuffed. We stopped on the way at the Dunster General Store, where we met some more locals* (Hi Stu and Danielle!) and then harvested a squirrel on the way to Beaverdam Falls, where we saw two golden eagles soaring in circles above the river and a bear on the far bank. By the time we made it to town at noon we were well ready to try the Mennonite cinnamon buns we'd been hearing about all morning. Mennonites are a Christian Anabaptist group, who espouse non-violence and adult baptism**. The women we saw were dressed like they were living in the 19th century, which indicates that they're members of a conservative branch of this proto-Amish sect. Not sure how much any of that contributes to the deliciousness of their cinnamon buns, but they're certainly blimmin good. We ate one each, then headed off to hike to the natural rock arch high on the shoulder of Beaver Mountain.
First, though, there was a stop at the liquor store, where both the woman at the counter and another patron gave us things to add to our travel itinerary, including a quick hike to a worth-seeing waterfall not far from where we were. The directions to the trailhead were comprehensive and accurate, and the only thing missing was an instruction to ignore the "No Trespassing" sign, which was an unfortunate omission as it meant that instead of parking at the bottom of the hill, we drove on up it. Several kilometres. Our suspicions about having missed our trail were confirmed when we reached the Halfway Viewpoint and Cabin, where we made our second Believing Signs error; this time a "Steep, 4x4-only road from this point" sign had us parking the van on the flat and walking the 5.5km of entirely-driveable dirt to the turning bay at the end of the road. From there it was a 45-minute scramble over steep rocky terrain to the summit, with marmot and pika sightings along the way and a stop to eat sour dinosaurs at the old fire lookout. We were well above the snow line by the time we reached the peak, and some locals we met on the way back down said they'd had two dustings of fresh snow in the last couple of weeks.
They also told us that Christchurch had been hit by a significant earthquake, which was ungood to hear, but it was reassuring to be told that no-one had died. A quick stop at the closed Beanery*** for internet access and then we were on the road back to Stefi and Archie's, where we found a fire lit in the woodstove insdoors, and another under the grill outside. Archie had this one pretty much perfectly placed to start cooking Buffy, the recently-deceased cow, and so soon he and I were standing around sizzling chunks of bovine while enjoying a delicious beer or two.
A bout of serious weather rolled in just as we started eating, bending the trees a long way over, shaking the house with thunderous thunder, and lighting up the growing darkness at ever-decreasing intervals. The rain was torrential, but it was wind v trees which ended up knocking the power out**** and forced us to finish eating Buffy by candlelight. We kept Stefi and Archie up well past their bedtime, drank a coupe of drinks too many*****, and then went to bed to the sound of the driving rain. Which was really rather nice when heard from inside a warm, dry house.
Buffy was delicious.
* = Not actually permanent locals; rather, they were woofers, which means that they travel about the place, working on organic farms for 4-6 hours a day in exchange for food and a place to sleep. The Robson Valley, which houses both Dunster and McBride, is a hot-bed of woofing, much like the Nelson region of NZ, only without the Asian-bashing skinheads. In this instance, we'd met a British graphic designer, and a chartered accountant from Calgary. Just before we arrived, Stefi and Archie had farewelled an Australian woman, who'd taken a 19-hour bus to the ferry terminal at Prince Rupert (it's something like a 17-hour ferry trip from there to Vancouver Island), and they'd not long before said Auf Wiedersehn to a pair of German frauleins, who'd apparently had more than a few of the local lads trying unsuccessfully to get past the (occasionally usefully obfuscatory, it seems) language barrier
** = As opposed to the practise of dunking infants, which Anabaptists contend is rendered meaningless by their non-choice in the matter
*** = Closed wifi-enabled cafes are a grand source of free, unlimited, no-purchase-required internet access
**** = We found out the next morning that the storm had knocked out power not only to the whole valley (1100-odd people), but also in a number of sizeable patches all over the province. Several thousand people affected, power still out through to late morning for us, later for others. Mainly trees down on powerlines, apparently, and the response to one local's call to report exactly that indicates why it took so long to rectify: power company said call 911, who said call power company. Eventually a call to the Forest Service got some action, but they were surprised to be hearing from a private individual, rather than from either the power company or 911 folks. Meanwhile, the tree was causing arcing across lines, and was on fire.
***** = May have just been me, as no-one else seemed any the worse for wear the next morning.
Eat, run, meet, kill, ogle, eat, drive, walk, walk, walk, make yellow snow, walk, walk, walk, talk, cook, eat, talk, drink, sleep
Long Version:
Having eaten an incredible amount of delicious Chinese foods the previous evening, starting the day with a run seemed like an appropriate thing to do. Right up to the point where we had to go out of the warm house. Still, we completed 7km without meeting anything that wanted to eat us, and were hungry again when we arrived back at the farm.
Breakfast was both copious and delicious, and we we set off into town pleasantly stuffed. We stopped on the way at the Dunster General Store, where we met some more locals* (Hi Stu and Danielle!) and then harvested a squirrel on the way to Beaverdam Falls, where we saw two golden eagles soaring in circles above the river and a bear on the far bank. By the time we made it to town at noon we were well ready to try the Mennonite cinnamon buns we'd been hearing about all morning. Mennonites are a Christian Anabaptist group, who espouse non-violence and adult baptism**. The women we saw were dressed like they were living in the 19th century, which indicates that they're members of a conservative branch of this proto-Amish sect. Not sure how much any of that contributes to the deliciousness of their cinnamon buns, but they're certainly blimmin good. We ate one each, then headed off to hike to the natural rock arch high on the shoulder of Beaver Mountain.
First, though, there was a stop at the liquor store, where both the woman at the counter and another patron gave us things to add to our travel itinerary, including a quick hike to a worth-seeing waterfall not far from where we were. The directions to the trailhead were comprehensive and accurate, and the only thing missing was an instruction to ignore the "No Trespassing" sign, which was an unfortunate omission as it meant that instead of parking at the bottom of the hill, we drove on up it. Several kilometres. Our suspicions about having missed our trail were confirmed when we reached the Halfway Viewpoint and Cabin, where we made our second Believing Signs error; this time a "Steep, 4x4-only road from this point" sign had us parking the van on the flat and walking the 5.5km of entirely-driveable dirt to the turning bay at the end of the road. From there it was a 45-minute scramble over steep rocky terrain to the summit, with marmot and pika sightings along the way and a stop to eat sour dinosaurs at the old fire lookout. We were well above the snow line by the time we reached the peak, and some locals we met on the way back down said they'd had two dustings of fresh snow in the last couple of weeks.
They also told us that Christchurch had been hit by a significant earthquake, which was ungood to hear, but it was reassuring to be told that no-one had died. A quick stop at the closed Beanery*** for internet access and then we were on the road back to Stefi and Archie's, where we found a fire lit in the woodstove insdoors, and another under the grill outside. Archie had this one pretty much perfectly placed to start cooking Buffy, the recently-deceased cow, and so soon he and I were standing around sizzling chunks of bovine while enjoying a delicious beer or two.
A bout of serious weather rolled in just as we started eating, bending the trees a long way over, shaking the house with thunderous thunder, and lighting up the growing darkness at ever-decreasing intervals. The rain was torrential, but it was wind v trees which ended up knocking the power out**** and forced us to finish eating Buffy by candlelight. We kept Stefi and Archie up well past their bedtime, drank a coupe of drinks too many*****, and then went to bed to the sound of the driving rain. Which was really rather nice when heard from inside a warm, dry house.
Buffy was delicious.
* = Not actually permanent locals; rather, they were woofers, which means that they travel about the place, working on organic farms for 4-6 hours a day in exchange for food and a place to sleep. The Robson Valley, which houses both Dunster and McBride, is a hot-bed of woofing, much like the Nelson region of NZ, only without the Asian-bashing skinheads. In this instance, we'd met a British graphic designer, and a chartered accountant from Calgary. Just before we arrived, Stefi and Archie had farewelled an Australian woman, who'd taken a 19-hour bus to the ferry terminal at Prince Rupert (it's something like a 17-hour ferry trip from there to Vancouver Island), and they'd not long before said Auf Wiedersehn to a pair of German frauleins, who'd apparently had more than a few of the local lads trying unsuccessfully to get past the (occasionally usefully obfuscatory, it seems) language barrier
** = As opposed to the practise of dunking infants, which Anabaptists contend is rendered meaningless by their non-choice in the matter
*** = Closed wifi-enabled cafes are a grand source of free, unlimited, no-purchase-required internet access
**** = We found out the next morning that the storm had knocked out power not only to the whole valley (1100-odd people), but also in a number of sizeable patches all over the province. Several thousand people affected, power still out through to late morning for us, later for others. Mainly trees down on powerlines, apparently, and the response to one local's call to report exactly that indicates why it took so long to rectify: power company said call 911, who said call power company. Eventually a call to the Forest Service got some action, but they were surprised to be hearing from a private individual, rather than from either the power company or 911 folks. Meanwhile, the tree was causing arcing across lines, and was on fire.
***** = May have just been me, as no-one else seemed any the worse for wear the next morning.
Stalker
Short Version:
The best of NZ heralds our arrival in a small town, where we find long-lost new friends, and see some sights, including the passage of Uranus
Long Version:
On the radio as we drove towards McBride we heard the cheesiest radio ad in history - the chap hides the engagement ring in the hole on the golf course for his belle to find when she finishes three-putting for a double-bogey*. The company the ad was for?
[dramatic music]
Michael Hill, Jeweller.
Scary.
Then when we hit McBride and wandered into the wifi-enabled Beanery cafe the Feelers were being played on the radio. It's a wonder anyone deigns to speak with us once they find out where we're from if those are the cultural representations they have of NZ over here.
Still, speak to us they do, even when my conversation-starter is "You seem to know everybody."
Beanery Donna admitted the charge, and when I said we were looking for an old friend of my mother's who lived in the McBride area 25 years ago, whose name is Stefi, she knew instantly who I meant, and phoned her for me, despite my scraggy beard and (probably) malodour. Stefi, in turn, picked who I was as soon as I spoke, and we arranged to meet at the Beanery in a couple of hours, which gave Janine and I time to do some walking around the town:
- To the bird-watching gazebo, on the end of the eastern arm of horseshoe-shaped ex-river segment Horseshoe Lake. There were some birds at the far side, but they were far enough away that we couldn't see what kind, or what they were doing
- To and along the Dominion Creek walkway, where we saw several tiny frogs, ranging in size from Nene's smallest toe to my second-largest. They were wonderfully camouflaged in brown and black, and we only saw them when they moved, which made me wonder how many had NOT moved, and been trampled underfoot
- Along the highway to the start of the River Trail. A trucker on the highway tooted appreciatively at Janine, scaring both of us, then we in turn spooked a deer on the trail.
- Back into town along Main St, past the orbits of Neptune and Uranus, past fire hydrants painted as farmers and dalmatian dogs and eagles and Thomas Edison, the orbits of Jupiter and Mars, Earth, Venus, and Mercury and eventually to and past the sun (a streetlamp) and back to the Beanery
Stefi and Archie joined us in the cafe, where coffee and water were drunk, and a Skype call to Ma was cut brutally short by an incredibly long freight train thundering past, containers stacked two-high. The four of us ate delicious foods at the local Chinese restaurant, then we headed out to the farm, 45km or so southeast of town. We drove over a slightly sway-backed wood-surfaced Bailey bridge, past a big black bear on the roadside, and past where the ferry once ferried travellers across the Fraser River. The bell which once sounded arrivals and departures now lives at Stefi and Archie's, on the gate between the machinery zoo and what once was the home paddock and is now an extensive orchard and garden area surrounding house, studio, and various other buildings. Dogs and cats and horses and sheep and chickens mingle (mostly) good-naturedly, and we went to bed wishing we'd arrived earlier so we could have seen more of the place before dark fell. Still, there's always tomorrow...
* = For non-golfers: more than two putts is bad; and a double-bogey is just cause for a tantrum (no foot-stomping on the greens, though). Good time for a proposal? Maybe not so much
The best of NZ heralds our arrival in a small town, where we find long-lost new friends, and see some sights, including the passage of Uranus
Long Version:
On the radio as we drove towards McBride we heard the cheesiest radio ad in history - the chap hides the engagement ring in the hole on the golf course for his belle to find when she finishes three-putting for a double-bogey*. The company the ad was for?
[dramatic music]
Michael Hill, Jeweller.
Scary.
Then when we hit McBride and wandered into the wifi-enabled Beanery cafe the Feelers were being played on the radio. It's a wonder anyone deigns to speak with us once they find out where we're from if those are the cultural representations they have of NZ over here.
Still, speak to us they do, even when my conversation-starter is "You seem to know everybody."
Beanery Donna admitted the charge, and when I said we were looking for an old friend of my mother's who lived in the McBride area 25 years ago, whose name is Stefi, she knew instantly who I meant, and phoned her for me, despite my scraggy beard and (probably) malodour. Stefi, in turn, picked who I was as soon as I spoke, and we arranged to meet at the Beanery in a couple of hours, which gave Janine and I time to do some walking around the town:
- To the bird-watching gazebo, on the end of the eastern arm of horseshoe-shaped ex-river segment Horseshoe Lake. There were some birds at the far side, but they were far enough away that we couldn't see what kind, or what they were doing
- To and along the Dominion Creek walkway, where we saw several tiny frogs, ranging in size from Nene's smallest toe to my second-largest. They were wonderfully camouflaged in brown and black, and we only saw them when they moved, which made me wonder how many had NOT moved, and been trampled underfoot
- Along the highway to the start of the River Trail. A trucker on the highway tooted appreciatively at Janine, scaring both of us, then we in turn spooked a deer on the trail.
- Back into town along Main St, past the orbits of Neptune and Uranus, past fire hydrants painted as farmers and dalmatian dogs and eagles and Thomas Edison, the orbits of Jupiter and Mars, Earth, Venus, and Mercury and eventually to and past the sun (a streetlamp) and back to the Beanery
Stefi and Archie joined us in the cafe, where coffee and water were drunk, and a Skype call to Ma was cut brutally short by an incredibly long freight train thundering past, containers stacked two-high. The four of us ate delicious foods at the local Chinese restaurant, then we headed out to the farm, 45km or so southeast of town. We drove over a slightly sway-backed wood-surfaced Bailey bridge, past a big black bear on the roadside, and past where the ferry once ferried travellers across the Fraser River. The bell which once sounded arrivals and departures now lives at Stefi and Archie's, on the gate between the machinery zoo and what once was the home paddock and is now an extensive orchard and garden area surrounding house, studio, and various other buildings. Dogs and cats and horses and sheep and chickens mingle (mostly) good-naturedly, and we went to bed wishing we'd arrived earlier so we could have seen more of the place before dark fell. Still, there's always tomorrow...
* = For non-golfers: more than two putts is bad; and a double-bogey is just cause for a tantrum (no foot-stomping on the greens, though). Good time for a proposal? Maybe not so much
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Something's Going On!
Short Version:
A night of luxury with Ted and Trudy, a ride in the forest (on a 57 Chevy), large animal impacts
Long Version:
We'd met Ted and Tracey in Whistler, and invited ourselves to come stay when we passed their way. Arrangements made during a couple of mildly bizarre payphone calls (Telus take note: $2 for a one-minute call to a town 100-odd km away is NOT good value) from Williams Lake, and we arrived at their farm at the same time as Ted, and a thunderstorm. We spent a lovely evening, clean and warm and dry, slept wonderfully, and ate like kings the next morning before heading north through Quesnel* and on to Prince George, which welcomed us with a giant Pinocchio and a parking space right outside Cycle Logic, where we acquired an oldish trail map and hand-drawn diagram of how to get to the riding. A quick stop at the nearby bakery for delicious baked goods and we were on our way, out of town to the Otway Nordic Centre, which is a cross-country ski trail network that, like Lost Lake near Whistler, doubles as a mountain-biking area in summer.
The map was an automatically-plotted GPS output printout, and was missing a few newer trails along with a coherent view of where to access the trail network. We started up a cross-country ski lane initially, but turned back when we saw the bear and her cubs parked mid-trail a hundred metres uphill of us. Soon as we did, we spotted the access point for the bike trails, and we were away laughing - literally, in Janine's case, as she surged up the Curves and Expresso trails and then powered off into the trail network. I was a bit tired, and a bit grouchy, and it took me a good hour or so before I started to really get into the swing of things. Once I did, though, I started carrying a grin nearly as wide as Janine's down trails with nice flowing rhythm and over challenging but rideable obstacles, including a derelict 57 Chevy and a 20-foot-long ribbed 4-inch monorail. Even the uphill trails provided great riding, with the occasional adrenaline burst when we heard noises from the woods. No more large critters though - just a squirrel throwing cones at us.
Three hours later we arrived back at the van, tired and dirty and wet, but grinning. Not sure the fat people who'd chosen the Otway parking area as the location for their in-car serious discussion were entirely pleased to have us back and bustling about the place, but we were gone soon enough, back through town and out to the east towards McBride, 200 or so km away. A quick stop at a rest Area near Dome** Creek yielded some scary statistics from an informational signboard:
- On average, there are 4-8 large animal impacts every hour in Canada
- Most of these occur between 7pm and midnight
- Most of them involve moose.
We've seen a moose. Mooses are HUGE. We don't want to crash into a moose. Bad enough harvesting another bird just after leaving Prince George, let alone something that's going to give as good as it gets on the damage front.
A Mustang stopped, and a fat man emerged, carrying a full bottle of Pepsi. Which he then emptied onto the ground. We left before things got any weirder, and made it to the LaSalle Lake campground with enough time before dark to set up camp, cook and eat dinner, and admire the views of the Cariboo Mountains reflected in the lake's mirror-like surface from a vantage point at the tip of a log-and-earth jetty near our lakeside campsite. Then bed, and a good sleep except for the two pickup trucks which drove round the campground loop and away at random times in the night, and one instance where Janine woke me up to tell me "Something's going on!" before lying back down and recommencing snoring action. Freak.
* = My list of noteworthy items from Quesnel reads: Robin's Donuts; Satan's truck; lots of flowers; pretty town; big mills
** = Always reminds me of the story of the IT guy who was called upon to help a woman having trouble doing something-or-other. He needed her password to complete testing the fix. It was "DOME." Job done, his curiosity got the better of him and he asked her why she'd chosen it. She blushed and refused to divulge the answer. After much cajoling and an eventual threat of perpetual IT issues for her if she didn't spill the beans she eventually caved in and said simply: "It's two words."
A night of luxury with Ted and Trudy, a ride in the forest (on a 57 Chevy), large animal impacts
Long Version:
We'd met Ted and Tracey in Whistler, and invited ourselves to come stay when we passed their way. Arrangements made during a couple of mildly bizarre payphone calls (Telus take note: $2 for a one-minute call to a town 100-odd km away is NOT good value) from Williams Lake, and we arrived at their farm at the same time as Ted, and a thunderstorm. We spent a lovely evening, clean and warm and dry, slept wonderfully, and ate like kings the next morning before heading north through Quesnel* and on to Prince George, which welcomed us with a giant Pinocchio and a parking space right outside Cycle Logic, where we acquired an oldish trail map and hand-drawn diagram of how to get to the riding. A quick stop at the nearby bakery for delicious baked goods and we were on our way, out of town to the Otway Nordic Centre, which is a cross-country ski trail network that, like Lost Lake near Whistler, doubles as a mountain-biking area in summer.
The map was an automatically-plotted GPS output printout, and was missing a few newer trails along with a coherent view of where to access the trail network. We started up a cross-country ski lane initially, but turned back when we saw the bear and her cubs parked mid-trail a hundred metres uphill of us. Soon as we did, we spotted the access point for the bike trails, and we were away laughing - literally, in Janine's case, as she surged up the Curves and Expresso trails and then powered off into the trail network. I was a bit tired, and a bit grouchy, and it took me a good hour or so before I started to really get into the swing of things. Once I did, though, I started carrying a grin nearly as wide as Janine's down trails with nice flowing rhythm and over challenging but rideable obstacles, including a derelict 57 Chevy and a 20-foot-long ribbed 4-inch monorail. Even the uphill trails provided great riding, with the occasional adrenaline burst when we heard noises from the woods. No more large critters though - just a squirrel throwing cones at us.
Three hours later we arrived back at the van, tired and dirty and wet, but grinning. Not sure the fat people who'd chosen the Otway parking area as the location for their in-car serious discussion were entirely pleased to have us back and bustling about the place, but we were gone soon enough, back through town and out to the east towards McBride, 200 or so km away. A quick stop at a rest Area near Dome** Creek yielded some scary statistics from an informational signboard:
- On average, there are 4-8 large animal impacts every hour in Canada
- Most of these occur between 7pm and midnight
- Most of them involve moose.
We've seen a moose. Mooses are HUGE. We don't want to crash into a moose. Bad enough harvesting another bird just after leaving Prince George, let alone something that's going to give as good as it gets on the damage front.
A Mustang stopped, and a fat man emerged, carrying a full bottle of Pepsi. Which he then emptied onto the ground. We left before things got any weirder, and made it to the LaSalle Lake campground with enough time before dark to set up camp, cook and eat dinner, and admire the views of the Cariboo Mountains reflected in the lake's mirror-like surface from a vantage point at the tip of a log-and-earth jetty near our lakeside campsite. Then bed, and a good sleep except for the two pickup trucks which drove round the campground loop and away at random times in the night, and one instance where Janine woke me up to tell me "Something's going on!" before lying back down and recommencing snoring action. Freak.
* = My list of noteworthy items from Quesnel reads: Robin's Donuts; Satan's truck; lots of flowers; pretty town; big mills
** = Always reminds me of the story of the IT guy who was called upon to help a woman having trouble doing something-or-other. He needed her password to complete testing the fix. It was "DOME." Job done, his curiosity got the better of him and he asked her why she'd chosen it. She blushed and refused to divulge the answer. After much cajoling and an eventual threat of perpetual IT issues for her if she didn't spill the beans she eventually caved in and said simply: "It's two words."
Is That a Horse?
Dugan Lake campground was quite full, especially when compared to the isolated spots we'd been enjoying. It also had houses quite nearby, some of which had significant numbers of vehicles in various states of disrepair and/or decrepitude, and a float-plane on the lake. I wasn't expecting the best night's sleep I've ever had.
In the end, though, all was quiet, all night, and the only thing that stopped us sleeping well was me, waking up and checking the watch, sure that it must be almost time to go to the graveyard meeting. At 0330. And then at 0430. Again at 0450. And at 0530. Then someone suggested that I should consider getting the hell out of bed so she could sleep.
On the way in to Williams Lake, we heard an item on the radio about BC's legislative shenanigans around caring for the elderly; apparently in the early 2000's, the province set out to reform laws around guardianship, with specific focus on elder care. It was ground-breaking legislative development work, and the suite of laws they came up with have been widely-copied and implemented in provinces across Canada and in a number of other nations. In BC, though, the passage of the reforms into law stalled in 2007 as a result of the less-than-favorable economic winds then blowing. This means that today in BC - the province that started it all, bore the expense of the research and the difficulty of developing the legislation - the laws governing care for the elderly are still the bad old laws; the laws that are based on 1960's definitions of lunacy, and which have been shown time and time again to benefit the so-called carers at the expense of the best interests of the oldies. Essentially it's really easy to swipe the assets of your elderly relatives. We'd like to invite all those of our parents not yet resident in Canada to come join us in BC as soon as possible.
We met Scott (Hi Scott!) at the graveyard, and set off down the Boy Scout Trail to the valley floor. The trail from there once zig-zagged across the pond on a raised boardwalk, but a few years back the beavers got extra busy and raised the water level higher than the surface of the boardwalk. Now the trail goes around the pond before crossing the river and starting the long but very fun haul up the Spokey Hollow and Crankcase Alley trails. A quick stop to take in the views out over the lake and the town (and catch our breath - Scott wasn't hanging about on those steep uphill sections!), and then we were onto the Ravin trail, which started vehemently and got better and better before dropping us into the Max trails (Middle and Lower; Upper is still largely buried under deadfall from the last big ice-storm that blew through), which provided a fast but technical blast along the face of the hill, across a number of fallen trees with angled chocks tucked into their downhill ends, and then through a wonderful section of forest full of twisting, undulating terrain where we dived and swayed between trees at high speed, all the way back to Spokey Hollow. Which was even better riding downhill than it had been riding up. Even the horse-sized dog we met along the way was in a good mood (I'm assuming this, based on it not eating my leg).
We spent the next hour or two at Barking Spider, getting today's busted spoke replaced and acquiring a fancypants new bag to replace the one that disappeared at Whistler. Then we ignored the best-coffee advice of Scott and Mitch (Hi Mitch!) and went to the Gecko Cafe, which had truly appalling coffee and tasty food, although I'd've preferred a slightly bigger portion. Then we hit the road north to Quesnel, with some fairly mixed impressions of Williams Lake: great riding; grim industrialism; a sizeable underclass; some intelligent, interesting people; poor town planning; shitty coffee; no good beer; lots of wilderness close at hand; lots of wildlife nearby; lots of signs warning about auto theft.
We'll go back, but we're not planning to settle there.
In the end, though, all was quiet, all night, and the only thing that stopped us sleeping well was me, waking up and checking the watch, sure that it must be almost time to go to the graveyard meeting. At 0330. And then at 0430. Again at 0450. And at 0530. Then someone suggested that I should consider getting the hell out of bed so she could sleep.
On the way in to Williams Lake, we heard an item on the radio about BC's legislative shenanigans around caring for the elderly; apparently in the early 2000's, the province set out to reform laws around guardianship, with specific focus on elder care. It was ground-breaking legislative development work, and the suite of laws they came up with have been widely-copied and implemented in provinces across Canada and in a number of other nations. In BC, though, the passage of the reforms into law stalled in 2007 as a result of the less-than-favorable economic winds then blowing. This means that today in BC - the province that started it all, bore the expense of the research and the difficulty of developing the legislation - the laws governing care for the elderly are still the bad old laws; the laws that are based on 1960's definitions of lunacy, and which have been shown time and time again to benefit the so-called carers at the expense of the best interests of the oldies. Essentially it's really easy to swipe the assets of your elderly relatives. We'd like to invite all those of our parents not yet resident in Canada to come join us in BC as soon as possible.
We met Scott (Hi Scott!) at the graveyard, and set off down the Boy Scout Trail to the valley floor. The trail from there once zig-zagged across the pond on a raised boardwalk, but a few years back the beavers got extra busy and raised the water level higher than the surface of the boardwalk. Now the trail goes around the pond before crossing the river and starting the long but very fun haul up the Spokey Hollow and Crankcase Alley trails. A quick stop to take in the views out over the lake and the town (and catch our breath - Scott wasn't hanging about on those steep uphill sections!), and then we were onto the Ravin trail, which started vehemently and got better and better before dropping us into the Max trails (Middle and Lower; Upper is still largely buried under deadfall from the last big ice-storm that blew through), which provided a fast but technical blast along the face of the hill, across a number of fallen trees with angled chocks tucked into their downhill ends, and then through a wonderful section of forest full of twisting, undulating terrain where we dived and swayed between trees at high speed, all the way back to Spokey Hollow. Which was even better riding downhill than it had been riding up. Even the horse-sized dog we met along the way was in a good mood (I'm assuming this, based on it not eating my leg).
We spent the next hour or two at Barking Spider, getting today's busted spoke replaced and acquiring a fancypants new bag to replace the one that disappeared at Whistler. Then we ignored the best-coffee advice of Scott and Mitch (Hi Mitch!) and went to the Gecko Cafe, which had truly appalling coffee and tasty food, although I'd've preferred a slightly bigger portion. Then we hit the road north to Quesnel, with some fairly mixed impressions of Williams Lake: great riding; grim industrialism; a sizeable underclass; some intelligent, interesting people; poor town planning; shitty coffee; no good beer; lots of wilderness close at hand; lots of wildlife nearby; lots of signs warning about auto theft.
We'll go back, but we're not planning to settle there.
Accidental Afro
Short Version:
Bull onions, mining with water, a wrong turn up a long hill, then another down a sweet trail. We set up an ominous early morning meeting.
Long Version:
We stopped at the "World Famous! Bullion Pit!" just outside Likely. Lovely Wife asked for clarification of "bullion" and received a family history lesson instead - my mother's mother's maiden name was Bullions*. The Bullion Pit is a bloody big hole in the ground, dug using water cannons, which were enormous. The engineering involved in getting the requisite quantities of water to the site was pretty extreme, and after an initial burst of productivity the mine failed to come through with enough of the shiny stuff to warrant further capital outlay. The mine fell into disuse, its equipment was sold off by enterprising staff, and little remains today of what was a significant mining exercise except for the bloody big hole in the ground. Which, as we discovered, you can't even see from the signposted touristy site; the bloody big hole in the ground you CAN see is the Bullion Pit's little brother, the Drop Pit, which is less than a quarter of the size of its neighbour and has a far less illustrious history. The modern-day success story from the Bullion Pit is the removal to Likely and subsequent restoration - for use as Town Hall - of the mine's Mess Hall and Kitchen building**.
Just after we left the Bullion Pit non-viewing area we saw a bloody big, bloody shiny-coated black bear charge out of the bushes on the side of the road and run bloody quickly to the other side, where he disappeared into the trees. Soon afterwards we saw an eagle, cruising the thermal currents of the cliffs to the south of Williams Lake.
All of which made us feel very much like it was time we got on our bikes, and ride up a hill.
For longer than we were supposed to.
Turns out that the bloke who said: "At the top of the Fox Climb, head across the road, and ride up the gravel gas pipeline access road until you hit the Hillbilly Deluxe trail," actually meant: "At the top of the Fox Climb, head across the road, and ride up the gas pipeline access road until you reach a sealed road. Turn left onto this road. At the second intersection, turn right. Turn left at the first road and ride to the end of the road, where you will find a map, and the trailhead for the Hillbilly Deluxe and Shuttlebunny trails." We rode a LONG way up the gravel gas pipeline access road, and explored several side trails, before giving up and riding back down to where we'd left the inner Fox Mountain trail network, and back onto the well-signposted Fox loop.
We followed our noses for a while, and then someone decided to take a random side-trail, which brought us - eventually - to the start of the Afro trail. Turned out to have been an inspired choice, because once we got past being slightly worried about how tough going a black/advanced-rated trail was going to be in this place, we found ourselves bombing down an absolutely wonderful trail, with some of the best flowing lines, fun obstacles, and sweet carving cornering that we've struck so far, and if it weren't for yet another broken spoke on my rear wheel, we'd probably have gone back up for another crack at it.
As it was, though, we needed a repair, and the bike shop we'd been frequenting is closed Mondays. Luckily, there's another bike shop in town, so we toddled on in to Barking Spider Mountain Biking, and found a mighty friendly chap who fixed my spoke, and drew us a map of the Westside trail network. And then offered to play ride guide for us, which was an offer we certainly weren't about to turn down.
It wasn't until we were halfway to our chosen camping spot for the night, at Dugan Lake, that we realised that we'd just arranged to meet a bloke whose name we didn't know, really early in the morning, at a graveyard.
* = Apparently other kids called them Bullonions in an attempt to provoke them. Given how many of them were redheads, I suspect they probably got their response, and then some.
** = I reckon this is where the townsfolk will gather for a crisis meeting during the lottery win civil disturbance
Bull onions, mining with water, a wrong turn up a long hill, then another down a sweet trail. We set up an ominous early morning meeting.
Long Version:
We stopped at the "World Famous! Bullion Pit!" just outside Likely. Lovely Wife asked for clarification of "bullion" and received a family history lesson instead - my mother's mother's maiden name was Bullions*. The Bullion Pit is a bloody big hole in the ground, dug using water cannons, which were enormous. The engineering involved in getting the requisite quantities of water to the site was pretty extreme, and after an initial burst of productivity the mine failed to come through with enough of the shiny stuff to warrant further capital outlay. The mine fell into disuse, its equipment was sold off by enterprising staff, and little remains today of what was a significant mining exercise except for the bloody big hole in the ground. Which, as we discovered, you can't even see from the signposted touristy site; the bloody big hole in the ground you CAN see is the Bullion Pit's little brother, the Drop Pit, which is less than a quarter of the size of its neighbour and has a far less illustrious history. The modern-day success story from the Bullion Pit is the removal to Likely and subsequent restoration - for use as Town Hall - of the mine's Mess Hall and Kitchen building**.
Just after we left the Bullion Pit non-viewing area we saw a bloody big, bloody shiny-coated black bear charge out of the bushes on the side of the road and run bloody quickly to the other side, where he disappeared into the trees. Soon afterwards we saw an eagle, cruising the thermal currents of the cliffs to the south of Williams Lake.
All of which made us feel very much like it was time we got on our bikes, and ride up a hill.
For longer than we were supposed to.
Turns out that the bloke who said: "At the top of the Fox Climb, head across the road, and ride up the gravel gas pipeline access road until you hit the Hillbilly Deluxe trail," actually meant: "At the top of the Fox Climb, head across the road, and ride up the gas pipeline access road until you reach a sealed road. Turn left onto this road. At the second intersection, turn right. Turn left at the first road and ride to the end of the road, where you will find a map, and the trailhead for the Hillbilly Deluxe and Shuttlebunny trails." We rode a LONG way up the gravel gas pipeline access road, and explored several side trails, before giving up and riding back down to where we'd left the inner Fox Mountain trail network, and back onto the well-signposted Fox loop.
We followed our noses for a while, and then someone decided to take a random side-trail, which brought us - eventually - to the start of the Afro trail. Turned out to have been an inspired choice, because once we got past being slightly worried about how tough going a black/advanced-rated trail was going to be in this place, we found ourselves bombing down an absolutely wonderful trail, with some of the best flowing lines, fun obstacles, and sweet carving cornering that we've struck so far, and if it weren't for yet another broken spoke on my rear wheel, we'd probably have gone back up for another crack at it.
As it was, though, we needed a repair, and the bike shop we'd been frequenting is closed Mondays. Luckily, there's another bike shop in town, so we toddled on in to Barking Spider Mountain Biking, and found a mighty friendly chap who fixed my spoke, and drew us a map of the Westside trail network. And then offered to play ride guide for us, which was an offer we certainly weren't about to turn down.
It wasn't until we were halfway to our chosen camping spot for the night, at Dugan Lake, that we realised that we'd just arranged to meet a bloke whose name we didn't know, really early in the morning, at a graveyard.
* = Apparently other kids called them Bullonions in an attempt to provoke them. Given how many of them were redheads, I suspect they probably got their response, and then some.
** = I reckon this is where the townsfolk will gather for a crisis meeting during the lottery win civil disturbance
Hello Horsefly!
Short Version:
Clean clothes, grimy town. We leave Williams Lake in search of somewhere prettier to drink delicious Chocolate Porter
Long Version:
We went to Williams Lake town, to a laundromat. There were pieces of kids' art on the walls, one of which caught my eye: a pretty flower in a field, with rain. Not a bad summation of Williams Lake. Apart from, maybe, the pretty flower.
There was a bunch more riding to be done around Williams Lake, but we were starting to feel depressed by the grimness of the industrialism, and so decided to head for somewhere with a more enticing name: Horsefly. In truth, we'd been told the area around Horsefly was lovely, and it was close enough to hand that we could easily come back through if the desire to ride more began to outweigh the desire not to be in Williams Lake. More likely, though, was the road through Likely and onwards north from there.
The balance of power in the forests shifted markedly even in the short eastward distance we covered, from predominantly-conifer to mainly birch. The varying shades of green from the larger, deciduous leaves lent an autumnal feel to the woods, as did the red dead leaves on the dead bushes beneath the roadside powerlines. A number of quality free campsites meant this area featured heavily in our dirtbag camping guidebook*, and the two we eyeballed before settling in at Rafter Creek were certainly among the nicer ones we've encountered. Rafter Creek was just as good, and had the added advantage of campsite seclusion, provided by thick stands of trees between campsites. Oh, and there was only one other couple within cooee. Sweet.
We strolled on the stony beach, and drank the secret Chocolate Porter** I'd had stashed in my luggage since Vancouver, and pretty soon we were feeling right as rain again. The only real negative was the lack of wildlife compared to Forest Lake, but then we turned away from where we'd been watching columns of rain marching across the northern arm of Quesnel Lake in front of the last of the day's light, and saw a young bear walking away from us along the beach. He was no more than ten metres from us at that point, and we wondered how close he'd gotten, and how long he'd been there before we'd turned around.
It was significantly warmer at Rafter Creek than it had been at Forest Lake, but the mist on the lake and clouds draping the hills on the far side of the water were a now-familiar sight. As was the fact that it had rained heavily overnight, and was still raining when we hauled ourselves out of the Reaper, bleary-eyed and yawning. The squirrels were busy hoarding pinecones, which was a striking contrast to their cousins at Lake Tyax, who we'd watched eating half berries and discarding the other half in order to pluck new ones from the heavily-laden bushes. Maybe pinecones keep better than berries do.
Our good moods from the previous evening had not faded overnight, so we made our way across a river with a STOP sign planted mid-current and into Likely, where we bought a lottery ticket. I like buying lottery tickets in small towns we pass through - I like to imagine that we'll win, and that the town will be thrown into disarray as the assumedly-local big winner continues to delay claiming the prize. I imagine suspicion and conflict rife throughout the district; cousin-spouses searching each other's possessions; neighbours breaking in to others' houses to rifle drawers in search of the winning slip. And then we claim the prize, five hundred miles away. And buy a lot of Chocolate Porter.
* = "Camp Free (Or Really Cheap) in B.C.," in case anyone's seeking a copy with less stains and rips than ours
** = Chocolate Porters are the most delicious beers in the world.
Clean clothes, grimy town. We leave Williams Lake in search of somewhere prettier to drink delicious Chocolate Porter
Long Version:
We went to Williams Lake town, to a laundromat. There were pieces of kids' art on the walls, one of which caught my eye: a pretty flower in a field, with rain. Not a bad summation of Williams Lake. Apart from, maybe, the pretty flower.
There was a bunch more riding to be done around Williams Lake, but we were starting to feel depressed by the grimness of the industrialism, and so decided to head for somewhere with a more enticing name: Horsefly. In truth, we'd been told the area around Horsefly was lovely, and it was close enough to hand that we could easily come back through if the desire to ride more began to outweigh the desire not to be in Williams Lake. More likely, though, was the road through Likely and onwards north from there.
The balance of power in the forests shifted markedly even in the short eastward distance we covered, from predominantly-conifer to mainly birch. The varying shades of green from the larger, deciduous leaves lent an autumnal feel to the woods, as did the red dead leaves on the dead bushes beneath the roadside powerlines. A number of quality free campsites meant this area featured heavily in our dirtbag camping guidebook*, and the two we eyeballed before settling in at Rafter Creek were certainly among the nicer ones we've encountered. Rafter Creek was just as good, and had the added advantage of campsite seclusion, provided by thick stands of trees between campsites. Oh, and there was only one other couple within cooee. Sweet.
We strolled on the stony beach, and drank the secret Chocolate Porter** I'd had stashed in my luggage since Vancouver, and pretty soon we were feeling right as rain again. The only real negative was the lack of wildlife compared to Forest Lake, but then we turned away from where we'd been watching columns of rain marching across the northern arm of Quesnel Lake in front of the last of the day's light, and saw a young bear walking away from us along the beach. He was no more than ten metres from us at that point, and we wondered how close he'd gotten, and how long he'd been there before we'd turned around.
It was significantly warmer at Rafter Creek than it had been at Forest Lake, but the mist on the lake and clouds draping the hills on the far side of the water were a now-familiar sight. As was the fact that it had rained heavily overnight, and was still raining when we hauled ourselves out of the Reaper, bleary-eyed and yawning. The squirrels were busy hoarding pinecones, which was a striking contrast to their cousins at Lake Tyax, who we'd watched eating half berries and discarding the other half in order to pluck new ones from the heavily-laden bushes. Maybe pinecones keep better than berries do.
Our good moods from the previous evening had not faded overnight, so we made our way across a river with a STOP sign planted mid-current and into Likely, where we bought a lottery ticket. I like buying lottery tickets in small towns we pass through - I like to imagine that we'll win, and that the town will be thrown into disarray as the assumedly-local big winner continues to delay claiming the prize. I imagine suspicion and conflict rife throughout the district; cousin-spouses searching each other's possessions; neighbours breaking in to others' houses to rifle drawers in search of the winning slip. And then we claim the prize, five hundred miles away. And buy a lot of Chocolate Porter.
* = "Camp Free (Or Really Cheap) in B.C.," in case anyone's seeking a copy with less stains and rips than ours
** = Chocolate Porters are the most delicious beers in the world.
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