The World's Largest Truck

Yup! Our final stop in BC was to the World's Largest Truck! 700 gallons of diesel per working hour.

Oh, Hummer drivers. How can you sleep at night knowing your ridiculous lifestyle choices could be this much more wasteful and damaging to the environment? Don't worry. I'm sure if the oil executives have their way, it's just a matter of time until you'll be able to taxi a commercial jet for your daily commute to work.

And can you believe there was a head-in-the-hole picture opportunity here and we FORGOT?!? We got too wrapped up in buying an Alberta map.

What is There To Do in Midway, BC?

Midway turned out to be the surprise hit of British Columbia despite the fact that neither of us had ever heard of the village until we found ourselves rolling onto its Main Street. The surprise hit to the point where, at least once daily since our stop there, Kieran brings up a ranch we saw for sale and details all the ways in which we could make a life in Midway work (yes, family, that one can go to print in the Family Gossip Weekly).

So what is there to do in Midway? Why, go to the Kettle River Inn and Saloon, of course! The saloon was situated across the street from the town's campground (and the campground is just lovely, I must add, as it's right on the Kettle River). The potential for nuisance in this arrangement was quickly swept aside by a fantastic guitar riff that caused both of us to look up sharply from pounding in our tent pegs and consider the saloon anew. It seemed as though there was live bluegrass music coming from the saloon. We decided to check it out.

I have to say, the band was fantastic. A motley crew of cowboys, aging hippies, and a couple of stay-at-home moms and...damn, they were good. Even Kieran wanted to get up and dance. Dance as in two-step. Kieran. (Of course, one needs to know how to two-step in order to two-step and even though I've tried to teach him more than a few times, we've both conceded that the two-step dream is a lost cause for this Alberta-Girl-BC-Boy couple.)

And then there was the food.

First, Kieran went up to the bar to see what was on tap.

"Kokanee or dark beer."

"...Dark beer. Uh, what kind of dark beer?"

"Dunno. Just dark beer. Two bucks a glass."

So we got the Dark Beer (I mean, two dollars a pop!). And it turns out that Dark Beer is good. Like, really, really good. Kinda like Trad, but...crisper. More refreshing. Satisfied with the Dark Beer, we asked for menus.

"There is no menu. We only serve chicken wings. It's Wednesday."

"...Alright, we'll have chicken wings then."

"No, no. You have to sit down and I'll bring you the list."

"Okaaaaaay."

The "list" turned out to be a list of chicken wing varieties. Forty in all. Ranging from classic Buffalo wings to rum pineapple and tequila lime. Along with the list, you're provided a notepad and complimentary pen with which you're expected to provide a running tally of all the wings you want to sample, the idea being you can sample different varieties of wings all night and keep a running tab. Only being a few months off of the vegetarian wagon, an all night chicken wing bender seemed a little extreme to us. We went for a relatively moderate order of Jamaican spice rub wings, Cajun spice rub wings, and some Indian butter chicken wings.

The wings were prepared and served up by a man who looked for all the world like Nick Nolte in his notorious mugshot photo, complete with long greasy hair that screamed out of his head at awkward angles and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt. This dude would appear from the back with paper plates overflowing with wings, dump them on the bar, scan the room with his glassy half-lidded eyes, refill his mug with Dark Beer, and stumble back into the kitchen in a drunken haze to make more wings.

I was a little nervous about the chicken wings.

I'll tell you right now, if they would have brought me a bowl of the Indian butter chicken sauce, I would have stuck my face in it to blow bubbles. And not just because we were ravished from having biked The Anarchist or because we were slightly buzzed on Dark Beer. But because Nick Nolte's long lost Canadian cousin, despite his drunken stupor, knows how to make wings. We all have our gifts and that dude's gift is surviving fatal doses of Dark Beer and a real flair for making chicken wings.

All told, it was a night of great music and great food with friendly relaxed locals.

The Anarchist

It never bodes especially well when the mountain pass you're about to scale has been dubbed with an intimidating moniker. And, truth be told, whoever decided to name the climb out of Osoyoos "The Anarchist" pretty much hit the nail on the head, aptly capturing the mountain's personality. Adding to the Anarchist's intimidation factor is the fact that the mountain looms over the east side of the lake and you can't help but watch a grim parade of toy-sized looking trucks winding their way up through the various switchbacks before becoming tiny and disappearing into the ether.

Every now and again during our rest day, I would find Kieran tracking a truck's ascent in silence and he would turn to me and ask rhetorical questions in a tone that was at once resigned and determined. "Oh, so are those SWITCHBACKS?" he would ask and sigh when I nodded. (I once descended The Anarchist while driving a heavy moving truck with shoddy brakes and possess a rather vivid recollection of its various features.)

Was The Anarchist worse than the 1-2-3 kicks to the teeth that constitute the climb(s) out of Hope? I don't know. It's not as high or as long, but it certainly has more...personality. You're under the blazing desert sun, for one thing, and it was over 30C by mid-morning. It's steep for another thing, and you often feel like your bike is teetering on the precipice of a deadly plunge over a cliff's edge.

Since I've gone into some detail on what the climb out of Hope was like and, in the end, the climbs are basically all the same (in a word: HARD), I've decided instead to post our pictures from the climb. They kinda capture the essence of The Anarchist a little better than I can without actually writing a novel.

Ah, camping on the lake, where the water is warm and the evenings are pleasant.

Naturally, the lake is at the BOTTOM. And one must go UP from the bottom, as demonstrated here, where we are an hour into the climb (or a quarter of the way up) and already the town is starting to look quite tiny.

And here we are two hours later, about halfway up but believing ourselves to be very nearly done. In fact, the mountain messes with your head that way (ah, yes, the Anarchist) because you hit something of a plateau not long after this and then find yourself grinding up for another hour yet.

A glimpse of the switchbacks to the north:

And south:

And then, at last, your 1233 metre/30 kilometre flirtation with anarchy is done.

Stats: Osoyoos to Midway: 73 km; Anarchist Summit: 1233m/30 km; Number of times we ran out of water under desert sun: 1; Number of RVers we accosted at rest stop to ask for some of their water: 4

First, There Was the Desert

Now, you KNOW you're harbingers of bad weather when the rain clouds you've got tethered to your bike seat follow you into the DESERT. Such was the case when we started the descent into Osoyoos.

But in the morning, a great golden orb appeared in the sky. When we emerged from our tent, wary and frightened by the surreal bright light that had surrounded us, we noticed that the orb's penetrating rays warmed our skin and that, once one was accustomed to the strange stillness that came with not shivering, it was more pleasant than frightening. We looked at each other in wonder. Perhaps this was the Sun Star our elders had told us about? We had heard great legends about how, before the Rain Times had descended on Earth, the Sun Star had bathed the Earth in its golden light, coaxing food from the lands and our peoples from their homes. Once, our people would travel the world in order to prostrate their bodies in the warm ultraviolet rays of the Sun Star. Now, only a dwindling population of elders can remember the days of basking on beaches or laying beside small pools of water designed to cool your body after the rays of the Sun Star became too strong and your body became uncomfortably warm (can you imagine?!?).

We did not know how brief the appearance of the Sun Star would be and felt it would be a disgrace to our ancestors if we did not pay our respects to the great star our people had once worshiped. We decided to prolong our stay in the desert by a day so that we could lay our bodies before the Sun Star and, knowingly risking cell mutation*, watch in fascination as our skin first warmed, then browned, then cooked, just as our ancestors' once did.

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*Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, YEAH. We're wearing sunscreen.

Stats: Princeton to Keremeos: 72 km; Keremeos to Osoyoos: 68 km (140 km total); Terrible climbs: 0; Almost terrible climbs: Several between Keremeos and Osoyoos; Bags of fresh picked cherries consumed: 1; Bunches of fresh picked asparagus consumed: 1; Number of roadside produce stands selling fresh picked cherries and asparagus: Approx. 92, 000.

So.

We've been busy. (Check out those stats!)

We also took a long ramble through a whole lot of nowhere. Well, not nowhere. Charming little somewheres. But little. Little somewheres. And now I've got some catching up to do.

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.]

Hope to Manning Park: When You're Going Through Hell...

Keep going. (I think Winston Churchill said that.)

This was a leg of the journey we'd been dreading and, not to ruin the suspense, it not only lived up to our expectations, it exceeded them. There's just nowhere but up from Hope. A whole lotta up.

First, there's the climb to the Hope Slide, which according to Wiki, is a 7% grade. Or, simply put, bloody steep. We couldn't get our bikes up over five kilometres per hour, so it was slow going. Slow and...grinding. There just aren't enough spinning classes in the world to make that kind of climb any easier. For a while, I would set my sights on something about 400 metres ahead and make it my goal to just make it to that object ("I'm going to keep peddling to that big tree, just keep going until you get to the big tree, you're almost at the big tree, come on big tree, bigtreebigtreebigtreebigtree..."). This technique tricked my psyche into not sabotaging my determination for a good hour. As we moved into hour two of grinding up the hill, my psyche caught on to me ("I'm going to keep peddling to that hubcap on the side of the road, just keep peddling until--Oh sod it! This SUCKS. This hill SUCKS. Suckssuckssuckssuckssuckssucks...").

All told, the climb took almost three hours. We were tired. And lunch overlooking a devastating landslide that killed a number of people wasn't quite what we needed to hearten our flogging spirits.

We checked the map and came up with a plan. There was no way we were up to the challenge of the notorious Allison Pass, but according to our map, we had a nice long descent into the Sunshine Valley, another shorter climb out of the valley and then a descent into a campground at the base of Allison Pass. We decided to aim for that campground and to tackle Allison Pass in the morning when we had fresh legs.

The Sunshine Valley came and went and the second climb and its descent came and went and there was no campground. We were tired, daylight was flattening into dusk, and we were out of water. We reasoned that the second descent must have just been a dip and that we would have to climb up a bit further before coming down to the campground we were looking for, so we started up the next climb. In any case, there was nothing else to be done, as we were on the side of a mountain in the middle of nowhere.

An hour later, we were still climbing and the more we climbed, the steeper it got. At some point, a car crossed over the centre line and the driver rolled down his window to inform us that about halfway up the hill there was a big bear. This news was alarming in two ways: first there was a bear, a big bear at that and second, we had been climbing for an hour and we weren't yet halfway up the hill.

There was, indeed, a bear further up the hill. And he was big. But not Grizzly big, thank God (I'm more scared of Grizzlies, but perhaps only because I haven't encountered as many). (No, seriously, aren't Grizzlies more menacing?) The bear--a Brown Bear, I think--was on the shoulder on the opposite side of the road. Which is to say, much closer than I ever care to come to a bear. Kieran dug out the bear spray and had it ready in his handlebar bag and we start ringing our bike bells and talking while we approached. The bear didn't get scared off, but instead became curious and turned to take us in, sniffing the air in our direction. When we were close enough to make eye contact (ungerrrt!), the bear would turn his head sideways to avoid direct eye contact (not confrontational--PHEW!) and then look back (ungerrrt!). We did the same, and I'm sure it was for the same reasons as the bear, a kind of "I see you, but I do not want you to attack me. But I have to keep an eye on you, so I see you. But let's not fight." This dance of eye contact and looking away continued for a few long, heavy moments and then, blessedly, a truck driver saw our predicament and pulled into the centre lane, slowed to our pace, and placed the length of his trailer between us and the bear and escorted us up the hill until we were a safe distance from the bear. I turned to look back at the bear and saw that he'd done the same, craning his neck around to get a good look at us (or likely to get a good whiff, as I'm not sure how well bears can see).

Post bear excitement, we had another three hours of climbing. Still convinced we were on the smaller hill, we kept expecting the hill to end at each turn and then another hour of uphill riding would follow. At one point, I felt a cold rush against my calves and realized I had just ridden past a snow bank. We were past the snow line and we were still going up!

The last of the daylight drained away and we pulled over to put our lights on and that's when we saw this:

We'd accidentally done Allison Pass. All 1342 metres of altitude (in a mere four hours! And with only one bear encounter! Oh, the FUN!).

Stats: 67 kms; 1342m altitude; 1 bear sighting; 2 broken spirits

And, for those who are interested, here's Manning Park on Google Maps.

Agassiz to Hope: The Deluge

The (first) day of torrential rains. Driving rain that hammered into the tent loud enough to wake us up with a start. We lay in bed for over an hour, hoping the rain would stop so that we could get out of the tent but instead the storm intensified with each passing minute. Kieran was the first to brave the rain and he dragged all our gear into a nearby gazebo where a number of picnic tables had been stacked and stored.

We spent the morning huddled in the gazebo, sitting on upturned picnic tables and watching the icy silver sheets of rain billowing of the roof. We spread out our gear on the picnic tables, feebly hoping it would dry out enough for us to re-pack it. Everything was wet, the tent, the bedding, our clothes and, most tragically, my wool socks.

Eventually, we accepted that the rain was not going to let up. We decided to do the short ride into Hope where we could get a room. A little rain would have been fine, but this was not a little rain. This was biblical.

Our outlook improved somewhat in Hope because we came across our first one of these photo opportunities:

We have since resolved that we will stop for every single one of these damn things that we come across. (Aside: Is there an official name for these stick-your-head-in-the-hole-and-take-a-picture things?)

Stats: 40 km travelled; 4 wet feet; 1 head-in-the-hole picture
Total distance: 184 km

Langley to Agassiz

Our first successful day. Our first great day (and our last for a while). Both the weather and the scenery in the Fraser River Valley were ideal and right away I was struck by how different it is to cycle through an area than to drive through it. It seems like you see so much more or just...really take things in. There's birds calling back and forth and butterflies and eagles soaring and the smell of flowers blooming along fences and it's all happening at once. And then of course there's the cows. We never fail to arouse the curiosity of cows, which in turn never fails to crack us up.

The Dewdney area was the surprise highlight of the day for both us. It was sweet and pretty in a nostalgic pastoral kind of way, with the snow capped mountains in the distance and the pastures dotted by buttercups. I was also surprised to see vineyards in the area, as I didn't know grapes could grow in the Lower Mainland (wait, is Mission Hill wine from Mission?).

We ended our idyllic day of riding through rolling hills by setting up Big Agnes under a weeping willow in Agassiz and we both fell asleep relaxed and secure in the knowledge that things were going to be okay and the trip was going to be a success.

Stats: 84 km; 1 flat tire (mine of course); and we both achieved a new speed record of 56kph
Total distance travelled: 144km

The Epic Yet Anti-climatic First Day

Yesterday, incredibly long yesterday, sent the strong message that planning and preparation is essential yet also an exercise in futility. The Festival of Unforeseen Pitfalls commenced with our family breakfast, as it turned out all the streets within a ten block radius of the restaurant we had chosen had been barricaded for a triathlon. As a result, Kieran's mom had to park about fifteen minutes away and my sister-in-law had to lie to the traffic police in order to get my parents a parking spot that was not on the other side of town. To top it all off, once my family arrived, Kieran had to run out and retrieve them from the opposite side of the street where they had become trapped by the metal barricades set up for the triathlon. All of this was underscored by the irony that we had chosen a restaurant downtown as opposed to somewhere near where we were staying in Richmond because we had wanted to dip our tires in English Bay, which was now inaccessible. (This irony was refreshed several times in the hour it took to ride our bikes BACK to Richmond.)

Over breakfast, we debated the merits of various backup beaches we could go to to dip our wheels in the Pacific and, in the end, reached a consensus on the beach on the opposite side of English Bay. Kieran and I biked over to the planetarium (via the Granville Street Bridge after a thwarted attempt to use the more direct Burrard Street Bridge), and it quickly became apparent that this beach was also inaccessible to bikes due to the enormous and inexplicable rubber pipe bisecting the park. We made our way over to where our families were waiting and, upon attempting to disembark, I promptly discovered that one of my SPD clips was malfunctioning and my leg appeared to be fused to my right pedal. With the help of three people who twisted my leg to and fro, I was able to detach my leg from my pedal's iron grip. This dramatic fight between man and machine was, in fact, a fight to the death, as several minutes later I discovered that our little wrestling match with my pedal had broken my SPD clip. And, hence, minutes before our official departure, I had already created the need for equipment repairs.

Having freed myself from my bike, we made our way down to remaining scrap of beach not barricaded by the Giant Pipe of Unknown Origins. It turned out to be a great spot, with a nice view of the Pacific and Stanley Park and it made for some great photos of our tire dipping ceremony (a moment nearly as well documented as our wedding), complete with a few sail boats slipping out to sea in the background. And then it was hugs and goodbyes all around and we were off on our great Canadian adventure!

Except, of course, we only went six blocks before stopping at the nearest bike store to buy me a new SPD clip. And then we were off on our great Canadian adventure!

What remained of the morning went relatively smoothly, except when we discovered that our BCAA road map is out of date by way of my biking into the industrial yard of a pulp mill and finding myself under a very noisy and rickety wood chipper. (Kieran was spared this fate due to a loose pannier holding him up while I went to find out the answer to "Where do you think that ramp goes?")

The worst of the day was on the Alex Fraser bridge, which I've always found to have an ominous and imposing vibe even in a car, so I was dreading going over it on our bikes. At the base of the bridge (yes base--the damn thing is STEEP), we found ourselves on the wrong side of the traffic/bike path divider and a cyclist on the other side had to help us lift our bikes over the cement barrier so that we could climb over to where we should be. We were then hit by torrential rains and vicious sugar crashes and the climb just...SUCKED. The view at the top was great, but I was cold and hungry and found the way the bridge shook every time a truck rumbled past to be disconcerting.

After some lunch and sunshine at Burns Bog, I was able to shake the feeling that the world was coming to an end. With our blood sugar stabilized, things went well again until Surrey when it suddenly started to feel harder to pedal and then I started to notice every pebble and grain of sand I rode over. I had a flat. A very flat flat. I seriously thought we'd be able to make it at least a week without a flat, but no. I couldn't even make it out of the GVRD. The culprit turned out to be a staple. A STAPLE. Never mind that earlier I couldn't avoid riding through a pile of GLASS and still nothing happened, but I get taken down by a STAPLE.

So, with all our setbacks and my numerous bathroom breaks resulting from my overzealous efforts to remain hydrated, we rolled into Kieran's mom's in Langley later than we expected. But she had a fantastic meal that involved prawns and FOUR CHEESE SAUCE (the woman knows her audience), Epsom salts for her soaker tub, and a king sized bed that was, wait for it, PRE-HEATED (yes). After our night of luxury and a sleep (in a pre-heated bed!) that was only slightly less restful than flat lining, we had to accept that we couldn't hit the road this morning. Too many little problems with our gear surfaced yesterday and they needed to be addressed before we left civilization. So, riding out to Kieran's mom's and then staying an extra day made it feel like our first day was something of a false start. But, tomorrow we'll be off and our great Canadian adventure will begin (again)!

Day 1 Final Tally: 60-65 kms; 1 flat tire. (Unfortunately, our distance stat is an approximate, as neither of our bike computers were working yesterday, just one of the little problems we've fixed today.)

The Family Photo

Our camera lasted long enough to take one (1) photo last night, which fortunately was the family photo. We promised to post it so everyone could have a copy and we've miraculously remembered.

Those who want a copy can go here and click the link Download the Large size, which appears above the photo.

Thanks again to everyone for their support! xoxo

Our First (Mis)Adventure

Today was supposed to be our first day on the road and already we've had a mishap. In the middle of our big send-off party last night, Kieran grimly took me aside to tell me that our cat sitter (Kieran's sweet Aunt Tracey) had phoned to let him know that while she was at work, one of our cats had fallen out of the second story window of her office and was missing. We had no less than twenty-five guests waiting for us in the restaurant, so neither my instinct to drop everything and race to Maple Ridge to search for our kitty nor my instinct to curl up on the floor in the fetal position and sob listlessly seemed like appropriate options. Instead, we returned to the party and for about ten seconds it seemed like I might be able to maintain my composure. But then I did the thing where you do facial gymnastics in trying to suppress the Ugly Cry and then the Ugly Cry wins and you end up doing the Really Ugly Cry because of your efforts not to cry.

After the Ugly Cry incident, I think we both managed to enjoy the party through sheer will, although it did feel as though I had swallowed whole something the size and weight of a medicine ball. And my Stomach Medicine Ball had some kind of sinister anxiety time release mechanism, where every twenty minutes or so it would remind me of yet another reason why we would never find our cat again. "Logan doesn't know where he is, he's new to the province, and he'll wander off into the woods and get lost...forEVER," my Stomach Medicine Ball would hiss and then, through it's ability to generate more anxiety and then feed on it, my Stomach Medicine Ball would get bigger and heavier. So I did have fun, but I found the fifteen pounds of anxiety pressing against my internal organs physically uncomfortable.

After the party wound down, we drove out to Maple Ridge, literally catching the Albion Ferry on its last crossing, and began scouring Tracey's neighbourhood. I'm sure having two people waving around flashlights and repeatedly calling out "Looooooggggaaaannnnn" in voices several octaves higher than normal while creeping around yards and peering under cars at 1:30 in the morning didn't exactly impress Tracey's neighbours. But, just when it was starting to seem futile, I heard a familiar little meow and out popped Logan from under a fence. He was limping and hungry and covered in something smelly, but he was found. When Tracey opened her door and saw Kieran with Logan in his arms, she was so relieved she burst into tears and then the floodgates opened and I burst into tears and my Stomach Medicine Ball finally dissipated.

So, seeing as how we didn't get to bed until 3:00 in the morning, our 6:00 wakeup call didn't seem likely, so we put off the trip for a day. It all seems for the best, as it hasn't stopped raining once today. Tomorrow we'll get to leave well rested and, as a bonus, we won't have to spend our first day riding through apocalyptic rain storms.

Oh, look at our poor baaaaaaabbby who fell out of a window and has a sore paw and has to go to the vet's today and now his momma and daddy are GOING AWAY for THREE MONTHS. *sniff*


PS Because Tracey has been so kind and generous in offering to care for our three cats so we could go on this trip, we wanted to give her organization a shout out. Tracey works tirelessly for Katie's Place, a no-kill animal shelter that cares for cats and rabbits. What's so special about Katie's Place is that it takes on a lot of animals with special needs. If you're thinking about adopting, you might want to consider adopting one of their special needs kitties. Or, if you have the space, you might want to consider fostering a kitty or bunny. And, Tracey? MWAH! We heart you. Thank you for being you.