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.