Yup! We're in Saskatchewan! Where people actually say "yous." (And where, as you may have guessed there's simply no Internet cafes. In fact, I'm typing this on our fancy phone. Which is kinda hard, so this'll be on the shorter side.) Anyway people say "yous" and it's folksy and friendly, which kinda sums up what our week's been like.
I've been dying to post about our visit in Calgary and the trip to Drumheller that wasn't and the related issue of headwinds that have slowed us down in a serious, alarming way. Oh and we spent the night in an old one room school house that was haunted (even Kieran concedes that now) and visited my parents and stayed in a non-haunted old Eatons catalogue house.
But at the moment, it's all overshadowed by something that happened yesterday. We found a duck who had just been hit by a truck. She was stunned and sitting in the shoulder, unable to move. One of her eyes was filled with blood and her bill was cracked and bleeding and she just looked at us helplessly when we approached. It was heartbreaking to see. We put our bikes down and Kieran picked her up and carried her as gently as possible to where there were some reeds and a small pond. She was so stunned she didn't even struggle at all. We just wanted to get her off the side of the road so could be in the shade and away from all the traffic. She stood up on her own once she was in the reeds, but she was too dizzy to walk yet. We decided to just leave her in peace so that we wouldn't cause her any more stress. I really don't know if she could have survived. Her wings were fine but she obviously had a head injury. It made us both deeply heartsick, all the more so because we've been so delighted by all the ducks and ducklings we've seen on the trip.
Okay. That's all for now. We're off to catch a play at the Regina Fringe Festival. Let's hope the rest of the nation is slightly better conected than the bald prairie.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
By Popular Demand....
Our map:
We've also linked to the map in the sidebar, for future reference. Although it was a hassle to draw those blue lines and it put me off a little, so I will likely only update it when I'm having a good hair day AND have Internet access.
We've also linked to the map in the sidebar, for future reference. Although it was a hassle to draw those blue lines and it put me off a little, so I will likely only update it when I'm having a good hair day AND have Internet access.
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.
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.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
*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.
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.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Manning Park to Princeton: The Manning Park Ordeal, Denoument
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.]
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