The Seven Summits

Short Version:
We ride the Seven Summits trail with a bunch of interesting people. It's awesome. Afterwards, beer is cold, food and house and company are warm.

Long Version:
The Seven Summits trail in Rossland is an IMBA Epic, like the North Umpqua River Trail in Oregon and the Plains of Abraham at Mt St Helens*. And, like the North Umpqua, you should go ride it.

We dumped the Reaper and another vehicle at the lower trailhead and drove to the top, where we geared up and set off just after 9am on a sunny but cool morning. In direct contrast to pretty much all the riding we've been doing, we were in a big group for this one: ten of us in all, most from Invermere but with an Albertan Fire Chief (Hi Paul!) in the mix to keep us on our toes.

The upper trailhead is 1500 metres higher than the bottom, which sounds like ample downwards riding in the making, no?

Not on your Nellie.

We rode up. And up. And up. There was a stop, for a while, while one of the Steves (Hi Steve O! Hi Steve 19!) fixed a puncture that had arisen from a ripped sidewall, and then we got back on the bikes and rode up some more. That first climb took us up another 600 metres before we dropped into a saddle, and then it was climb/descend all the way along the ridgeline to the Rock Knob, the seventh and last summit of the journey, from where we dropped, down 1300 metres over 8 kilometres in what Well Mark accurately described as "A really really good dessert after a really excellent meal."

Even describing it like that really doesn't do it justice though - some of the climbs along the ridgeline were killer, as were a couple of the descents. The trail was beautifully maintained, especially in light of how remote and how exposed it is, and it had not just a bit of everything, but a lot: steep ups and downs; flowing sections of screamingly fast trail; scarily-pitched descents through boulder fields; rivers of rock where crossings had been paved with big flat slabs**; switchbacks of all shapes, sizes, and gradients both up- and downwards. Everything you want in an epic ride, except for the hot pool at the end.

Both Nene and I were having a great ride day: strong on the climbs, and ripping hell out of the trail on the descents. We loved every minute of the 7.5 hours we were out there: the riding was amazing, and the breaks were all filled with the kind of conversations you only get when you're doing something difficult but achievable with an assortment of people you don't really know who are both individually and collectively interesting.

Highlights of the day included:
- Rudeword Dave (Hi, Rudeword Dave!) falling off his bike sideways while attempting to describe the joys of whitewater kayaking in the extreme wilderness of Canada's Northwest Territory
- Steve 19, unable to stop in time, colliding with a girl half his size who'd stopped dead unexpectedly in the middle of the trail while failing to negotiate a big rock
- Steve 19, unwilling to stop in time, scaring Rudeword Dave off the trail and out of his way by sounding like the Galloping Tyres of the Apocalypse bearing down imminently and unstoppably
- Well Mark hauling his bike onto his shoulder and leading the entire party up an unrideable non-mandatory trail to the peak of Summit #3, then riding down the (sketchy, borderline-rideable) other side before the potential recriminations caught up
- Tales of Steve O's epic crash, with accompanying pantomime demonstration and smashed helmet evidence presentation
- An Anne and Bruce combo, for the first time in far too long, although this one's actually a Bruce and Anne combo, and one of them's Australian (Hi Bruce and Anne!).
- Fire Chief Paul's birdcalls atop summit #6
- The look on Lori's face as she held her bike over her head in triumph atop summit #7. Actually, now that I think about it, that expression may have indicated something other than triumph
- The weather. This ride would have been a nightmare in the cold, wet filth we'd been having, and we'd heard horror stories of how hot it gets mid-summer. We had a perfect fall day: bright sun with a cooling breeze. Not too cold, not too hot, not wet.

I also really liked lunch, although I have to admit that when we stopped, and sat down in a sunny, near-windless spot, and I pulled out the loaf of bread I'd hauled laboriously up the hill, I did expect Lovely Wife to pull some stuff out of her bag to go on it. Maybe some tomatoes, or cheese, or some jalapenos. Nope. Dry bread lunch. Having said that, it was a garlic/parmesan/olive foccaccia loaf, and it was delicious. Still, what happened to equal distribution of communal stuff between the packs? I felt hard done-by for the next four hours or so, right up to the point when she pulled an apple donut out of her pack and gave me half. Nice Wife.

The beer at the end was well-deserved and delicious, and then we got an extra treat: we got to go have dinner, which was delicious, in a house, which was warm, and well-lit, and full of interesting people who were clean. That last bit left us feeling mildly self-conscious, but it was neat to be part of a community again, no matter that it was fleeting.

Fleeting it was, though, and all-too-soon we were saying goodnight, and were out into the cold, into the Reaper, and heading out to the Black Jack XC ski area parking lot, where we slept appallingly. Stupid dogs. Stupid coyotes. Why can't we all just get along, or at least disagree quietly?







* = We won't mention the Buckhorn

** = In a couple of instances, this path was not immediately apparent to look at, and it was a blessed surprise to open one's eyes and find oneself still riding instead of about to land face-first on the rocks