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
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