Manning Park to Princeton: The Manning Park Ordeal, Denoument

Can things get worse than getting lost in the dark on a mountainside in bear country and ascending a near interminable mountain pass with no water? Well, yes. Sort of.


Hypothetically speaking, one might have to descend said mountain. In the dark. Unable to see the road ahead of you while you gather speed beyond your control, unable to use the shoulder because it's grated and, therefore, biking on the road and simply praying that motorists also gathering speed possibly beyond their control will see you in time. (Thank you Scotchbright. I think you might have literally saved our lives.) Hypothetically, of course. Uh, Mom, this totally NEVER happened.


And then, blessedly, halfway down the mountain, you might finally see the campground that was supposed to be 50 kilometres back and think that your ordeal is finally over. Unbeknownst to you, however, is that this campsite is infested with Pterodactyl sized mosquitoes. Oh, and? It's COLD. Cold as in next-to-a-spring-damp-air cold. Cold as in above-the-snowline cold. The kind of damp cold that makes it impossible to start a fire. Wet cold that infiltrated our gear and dampened all our bedding. The kind of cold that even with wool socks, long underwear under full clothing, a fleece, toque, and gloves we shivered violently throughout the night instead of sleeping.

By morning, things were beyond bleak. We were exhausted and stiff. We ate our oatmeal in bleary-eyed silence and then a drop. And another drop. And then the heavens opened up and DUMPED. And dumped. And dumped. Lashing after lashing of wind and rain that persisted throughout our 70 kilometre ride to Princeton.

And it should be noted that somewhere in that ride, somewhere near the start of our ascent to Sunday Summit, I hit a wall. I rounded a corner and there was another damn hill. I stopped to collect my thoughts, trying to rally myself, but that damn hill just yawned ahead of us through the sheets of rain, no end in sight. (It should also be noted that there is nothing, NOTHING, that will cause my morale to nosedive more quickly and effectively than being cold without respite. I simply can't stand it.) I looked at the hill and the hill looked at me.

"Fuck it."

I got off and walked. I walked for two full kilometres just to spite the hill. And ridiculously, I felt much better after that. If there was something I could have done to spite the rain, I would have done that too.

And then, finally, Princeton. We were back in civilization and it couldn't have come a minute too soon. In town, we ran into a man coming out of the hardware store and asked him about the local campground. He took one look at us, drenched and bedraggled, and suggested that we get a motel. We did. And we stayed for two nights because that's how long it took to warm up and sleep off the Park.

Stats: 70 km; Sunday Summit 1280m; 1 very much needed rest day

[Ed note: No time to spel cheque. Please forgive.]