Yeah I know, you didn't get travelog 16. It doesn't exist. What's with that Will?
I'm not sure. Maybe I just felt I was on the road so long there should have been sixteen already!
Or perhaps its the travelog I never get to write. The one that puts you inside my head as I'm up there in the stirrups, and describes all the zen I must go through each day just to get myself moving, let alone make the miles vanish beneath my wheels. Or how it is I overcome difficult passages, climb long hills, or survive winter weather in August. Maybe Travelog 16 is the one you're all wishing you'd receive, and the one I wish I could write. Perhaps 16 is the perfect travelog!
Whatever Travelog 16 is, shall remain to your imagination, and mine.
In Jasper, when I wasn't being scared from my seat by Elk sneaking up on me in the night, I was inadvertantly locking my keys in the bear proof lock boxes in the middle of pouring rainstorms at midnight, or getting gouged in downtown Jasper, or talking it up with the many other cyclists who came and went over the four days, I was busy getting rained on!
Some of the other cyclists I met there were fairly cool, but many seemed wary of me. I guess I've been spoiled. In the past most of the Europeans I've met were open and friendly. They wanted to hear my stories, asked me about roads, even took a shine to this odd scruffy little Canuck cycler. The ones I met in Jasper were not nearly so friendly as the many I've met in the past. We did not share email addresses, or one burner dinners, stories around the fire, camp fees, or even knot-tying and fire-starting workshops. No, they treated me more like some sort of huckster, who was secretly planning to get them alone and steal all their nice rubberized waterproof gear.
It wasn't until one particularly wet and stormy night, the night I eventually locked my keys in the bear locker, that I actually got into an exchange with my fellow grinders. They were all huddled in a picnic shelter, trying to light a fir in the giant woodstove with wet wood, and smoking the place out, when I walked in. Once I managed to sort out the fire for them, I finally got some respect. After hours of banter, map gazing, and storytelling I came out of it feeling I'd finally connected with some fellow riders, in particular a pair who'd ridden down from Anchorage. They were AJ, a North Carolinian, who told me: "John Edwards is a great trial lawyer, so he knows how to lie very well," and Maria, a Chezk, who'd met up with AJ in Alaska somewhere. She was in the process of riding around the world, and was doing Anchorage to New York, before going back to Europe, after being all over Asia, Africa and the Mideast.
They'd hooked up after AJ, getting out of his tent to pee, fell over a log, knocked himself out on a metal fire ring, and laid for some minutes unconscious with his right arm in the fire. She'd smelled the burning flesh and come to his rescue, then served as his nurse. Finally she decided to ride with him, because she simply could not believe a guy who'd been so badly burned would want to keep going! The burn on AJ's arm was incredible, about eight inches long, most of his upper arm, all the way through the muscle. It had literally been barbequed! They were neat, and I made coffee for them before they headed down the Parkway, enroute to the East Kootenays then Montana.
There was another couple, Germans. Very standoffish, until I correctly predicted the rain, and got the fires lit in it. They were about to ride to Kamloops, then take the Fraser Canyon route to Hope. I talked them into taking the old Kettle Valley instead.
Probably didn't need to stay in Jasper five days. Well, I tried to stay only four. I got in on Friday and tried to leave on Tuesday. I'd hung around an extra night in order to visit the local thrift shop, which I suspected, in a wealthy burg like Jasper, would be good. I needed better rain gear, some more warmth, and a few things to make the suddenly cold weather bearable. It got down to one degree one morning. That morning, while I sat in my down jacket, with my mitties on, writing, I looked up to find an Elk licking my tent and ropes. You see, I'd put the tarp up while cooking dinner, and think I must have left some residue of bean and vegies on the rope. It showed me I had to be more careful of stuff like that. In Bear country you don't want to be getting food smells on your sleeping gear!
As I said, I tried to leave Jasper on Tuesday morning. I packed up, after making a good score of a full body rain outfit, a cashmere sweater, a pair of gloves, and a new pair of riding pants, at the thrift shop. I went around, said my goodbyes to the attendants, who'd shown me how to break the lock on the bear proofing, and headed out. A single K up the road, just after the Miette River bridge on Hwy 93, I noticed some glass on the road. I breathed a sigh of relief as I rolled over it, then seconds later, when I thought I was in the clear, I heard the old familiar hiss. My back tire was flat.
Quickly pulling over, I unhitched BoB, pulled out my took kit, and went to work. Cleaning out the tire, I found and patched the hole in the tube, put it all back together, went to ride away, and it was flat again. I repeated the process, putting a different tube and tire on, same result! ThenI tried again, double and triple checking the tire and tube, same result!
Another cyclist came along. He tried and failed, using his own tools. Then another cyclist came along. He somehow managed to fix the tube and put it all together for me. They left. I went to ride away and the tire was flat again!
I cried. Well, not real tears, just fake ones. Then I got mad for a bit. Then I decided to walk the thing into town.
I'd left the Whistler Campground at noon. I got into town, three K later, at 4 pm! By time the guys at Freewheel Cycle replaced tube and tire, trued my wheel, and took $50 out of my pocket, it was five in the evening!
Tired from all the jacking around, with storm clouds looming, I went back to the campgrounds, this time trying Wapiti, instead of Whistler.
When it turned out they had no walk-in sites, and I would be stuck near a road, I got my money back and headed back to Whistlers, negotiating a huge six-point buck Elk, who was herding one of his harum out for the tourists to take pictures of. The Elk cooperated and stepped out of my way, I don't think the Winnibegos even noticed me.
I ate and slept, then slid into town in the morning to do some banking and postal business, before taking off. By mid-afternoon I was back in BC! It was something of a relief to cross the border, and know I was somehow, back home. I'd been six weeks plus a few days in Alberta, and had my fill.
That night I pulled into Lucerne Campground in Mt. Robson Provincial Park, a lovely little spot of pure serentity, on a tiny lake ringed by rocky peaks, and wedged between the road and the railway. When traffic dimmed and the trains were gone by, it was idyllic. When both traffic and trains were present in the same moment, it was like sleeping on the insides of a boom box. Still, the beauty of the place totally outshone the noise, and there were even a couple nice little walk in campsites, so I had a gorgeous campsite with a private beach.
Met a couple German cyclists there, Wolfgang and Maria. They were funny, very upright, and somewhat uptight. My exchange with Wolfgang was weird. Everytime I told him something about the road from there to Lake Louise, he would give me a helpful piece of advice about the road from there to Tete Jaune Cache. It was like he had to trade me, tidbit for tidbit. Odd.
Lucerne was manned by a very friendly fellow named Ranger Dave, who was quite friendly and unafraid to sit himself down and talk a bit with each and every camper. I would see him the next day, numerous times, as I rode the 60 K to Mt. Robson, and he busied himself with cleaning the roadside reststops in between. At one point he, and two other BC Parks employees, took some time out to tell me horror stories about the highway, and more precisely, cyclists on the highway. They had countless tales of head-on collisions, cyclists knocked out after bailing off the highway, and even showed me a place where a car took flight, wiped out a ten-foot-high sign, and wound up on its roof in Moose Lake. All the accidents, they said, were caused by excessive speed.
I told those boys: "Thanks, now I'm suitably scared!" which I really was, just by the shear number of drivers who were passing when I was in the oncoming lane. It is a problem I have now had to live with for many days, and its been bloody scary to the point where I too have almost bailed. Bailed right out of the whole operation!
Well, it ain't all the drivers fault, some of its been the weather!
I pulled into the village of Deep Gouge, I mean Mt. Robson, early in the afternoon. I'd misread my maps and was convinced that Valemont was still a good 60 K away, so I stopped and took a campsite at the Meadows Campground. It was quite nice there, big trees, showers, little tenting sand boxes on many sites, a friendly and nice looking staff.
Soon as I pulled in I blew the BoB tire. Quietly pulling into a site, I got out all my tools, propped the BoB on a picnic table, took off the wheel, and laughed when I saw the inside of the tire, which was totally shredded! I mean, it was so warn out I could put my finger right through it! I laughed because it had survived the glass on Highway 93 but couldn't take a stone on the campground road! I changed it, replacing it with a new one I've been carting around since I started the ride. It took about five minutes. When I was done making the change, I said out loud: "There will, changing a tire doesn't always have to be a fiasco and cost fifty bucks!"
After some serious personal difficulties picking a site, I set camp. I'd even asked for advice from one of the attendants. She'd told me to go to the other campground, Rivers, which I'd done, but having found nothing suitable there, had returned to the Meadows, and taken up a site a few spots away from where I'd changed the BoB tire. I'd done this to be out of ear shot of an Albertan couple with a travel trailer, who seemed well on their way to being totally drunk, and had a fire as big as a small car blazing. I'd noticed them when I was changing the tire, and decided I didn't want them in earshot, in case it came to drunken blows later on, when their alcoholic shine started to wear off.
They turned out to be very sweet and helpful, but nonetheless totally inebriated people, but I wouldn't know that until the rain came.
Did I mention the rain came?
That night before I went to sleep I said to myself, out loud as has become my habit when I'm alone, or being observed my fellow campers: "Will, you should string a tarp, its going to rain."
Of course, I ignored my own advice. And, of course, the rain cameand I got soaking wet in the morning stringing a tarp above my picnic table, which became a bit of a problem when I realized my food was also strung above my picnic table, some three meters up, from an overhanging tree. No problem, I said to myself, as I lowered the food to just above the tarp, tied it off, attached another rope to my food bags, pulled them free of the tarp then, while holding the second rope, untied the first rope, and let the bags fall to the ground.
The bags were soaked, but their insides were dry and my food was okay. I made breakfast, wrote, and resigned myself to the fact that I probably wasn't going to get out of there. It was a long weekend Friday, traffic would be heavy anyway. Why tempt fate. Better to stay put, my stuff stays dryer that way.
I was singing to myself, out loud, 'it ain't gonna rain all day, all day, it ain't gonna rain all day, gonna clear up by noon, I'll be on may way, it ain't gonna rain all day.'
It rained all day, and most of the night before and the night after. It rained until dawn two days later!
Now, if I'd been wise and stayed put. If I'd sat pat, written, slept, stuck to my tarps, I probably would have got a bit damp but been okay. Of course, that's not what I did. No, I decided it would be a good idea to go for a walk in the deluge. You see, I was a little concerned if I sat around on a damp day, I would get so full of arthritis that I would just stiffen up and become part of the Mt. Robson scenery. There's Will, he sat around in the rain so long he turned into a tree!
So off I went on my walk, to Overlander Falls, some five K away. It was a lovely walk up a long, sometimes steep, hill apon a path that was fast becoming a creek, along the Fraser River to the falls, which were thundering and foaming and spraying. It was an excellent opportunity to try out my new head-to-ankles rain gear, which performed perfectly. Only problem was, the bright yellow rubberized suit did not come with shoes. I wore my cycling shoes, which were actually designed for skateboarding. They're made of cloth. They got wet, like little portable swimming pools, and so did my wool socks, and the hemp socks beneath them. My toes were drowning by time I got back to my camp.
Quickly removing the socks and putting on new ones, I also put on different shoes, plastic ones, with little holes in them. Normally, those little holes let my feet breathe. On this day, they not only let my toes breathe, they let the water in. The water was going in and out, and my toes were drowning, but it was not so bad.
Did I mention my "redneck" drunken neighbours. Randy and Sharon told me they were rednecks, then invited me to stand by their fire. After dinner I risked the drunkeness, and went and stood by their fire. Randy and Sharon's fire probably saved me that night. It didn't dry me out, but it sure warmed up the water in my shoes. My toes were still drowing, but at least they were warm. In retrospect, I should have brought my cloth shoes to the fire, but I didn't.
By time I left, Randy and Sharon were literally falling down drunk. They had to prop one another up to get to the john, and I would later hear them giggling as they found their way back in the dark. "See the fire Share," I could hear Randy slur in the darkness. "That big freaking fire, that's our fire Share, all we gotta do is get there!"
Before I left their fire Randy filled my arms with firewood and newspaper. Returning to my camp, I lit a fire of my own, heated some rocks, put some in my cloth shoes, and some in my tent and sleeping bag. Then I stripped off all my wet gear, draped it over my bike, under a tarp, and scampered into my tent out of the rain, where I promptly pulled on my nice dry woolies and put myself to bed.
In the middle of the night I woke up suddenly.
"What's that sound?" I heard myself blurt. "What's that sound?"
The sound was not a sound at all. It was silence. The rain had stopped! It was about 5 am.
At six I got up, lit another fire, strung several ropes around it, and draped all my wet crap over them. I put my shoes near the fire, until they started to melt. I also put my tent fly near the fire, until an ember burned a hole in it. I patched the hole with duct tape and moved the rest of my stuff a little further from the flames.
By 11 am I’d had breakfast, struck my camp, packed my half-wet gear, and was off. Randy came by to say goodbye.
"We're rednecks," he said apologetically, "but we admire what you're doing. Anything you need, just say so."
I thanked him as he and Sharon headed off to Japser for the day.
"We're gonna visit Share's sister," he confided. "If we time it right we'll probably git dinner."
I was a little perterbed when I found out Valemont was only 35 K from Mt. Robson, and not 60 as I'd imagined. I could have run it the day I left Lucerne, and probably avoided the worst of the rain. The clouds got jammed up by Mt. Robson, and the park took the worst of it.
Even though Valemont was only 35 K away, it may as well been 60. Seems I'd burned so many calories staying warm and somewhat dry the day and night before, I had none left to get me down the road. It took five hours to do the 35 K, and what's worse, the BoB tire went flat halfway there! I pulled over, found a discarded pail to prop up the BoB, pulled off the tire, and went through the drill. There was a huge gash in my new BoB tire! Well, not a huge gash, but maybe a couple centimeters long, and right through the tire. I put a previously patched tube in, put it all together, attached the wheel to the BoB, and rode away.
This was September 1, the day before my belly button birthday. As I pulled into Valemont the clouds were closing in. I resolved to do one thing. I would not wake up wet on my birthday.
Checking the local campgrounds, I found one was $20. Then I checked the motels; $65, $95, $50 but no vacancies. I rode through the town, stopping at the two grocery stores, to restock, and at Home Hardware, where I got seriously gouged for a can of gas. Then I went down to the old town, by the railroad. There was a less expensive Motel there, but it was also full. I turned back up another road, crossed the tracks, and was headed for a campground when I noticed a rather run down old motel near a creek. I pulled up to the office, and noticed a woman coming towards me across the street.
"You lookin' for a room? she asked.
"Well," I replied, "I'm mostly checking prices. How much for a room?"
"Forty two," she replied.
"Does it have a kitchenette?" I asked.
"Those are more," she replied.
"How much more?" I asked.
"Eight bucks," she replied.
I went on about how tomorrow was my birthday and I really didn't want to wake up wet but “I guess I'll go camping.�
"Maybe I can give you one of the smaller ones with a kitchenette," she said.
"Can't really afford it," I responded.
"I'll give it to you for forty two," she said. "Just one night."
"Yeah, unless its raining in the morning."
Fact is I'd already decided to take the room before the woman offered the discount. I liked the woman, the shanty style of the place, and the fact that, as she showed me around, I realized Valemont is one of those towns where no one locks up anything. It felt good, and I decided it wouldn't be a bad place to wake up on my birthday.
For an extra $2, the woman let me use the washer and dryer. I managed to clean and dry all my clothes, hang all my damp camp gear, have a long hot shower, cook a good dinner, and leave some leftovers fo the next night. Mostly, I was just glad to get myself and all my crud out of the weather.
It did rain that night, but not enough to notice. I was up early, having hardly slept at all, packed up, and ready to go shortly after 8 am. I stopped at the grocery on my way out of town, then made a terrible decision. I decided to boost up the air in the BoB tire! The first air pump I went to, at the PetroCan, only drained my tire. Then I walked the rig across the highway and tried to use the air at the Esso, it was busted. So I propped up the BoB and manually filled the tire as best I could. Then I rode to the Co-Op, where I filled the tire hard and rode away. Before I got out of the parking lot it burst! Pop! Siss!
Once again I was propping up the BoB, removing the wheel, stripping off the tire and tube. I put yet another tube in, replaced the tire, and decided, for some reason, to ride back into town. Obstensibly, I was heading for a road I'd found out about that paralelled the tracks, and would keep me off the highway for eight K. Halfway into town the BoB tire blew again! Pulling up in front of a local bike shop, which was closed, I went through the drill again, this time being very careful to only put 40 PSI in the tube.
I rode away again, down the road that paralelled the tracks, and along its curves and hills to Canoe River then back on the highway.
It was a nasty ride, with heavy traffic and a stern cold 20 K headwind coming off the Albreda Glacier, which I could see, all covered in fresh snow, some 25 K ahead. Between the lack of sleep, the tiredness of changing tubes and pumping them up by hand, the headwind, and some depression about my birthday, it was all I could do to travel 25 K to Summit River Campground, at the foot of the Albreda Glacier.
First I went in and asked how much it was to camp. The woman, an attractive creature who was stunningly cold in demeanour, told me, "twenty one fifty!" I asked if there was a discount for cyclists. She looked at me as if I was mad. I told her I'd go away and think about it, but would probably come back. She wanted to know where I planned to go and think about it, because if I planned to go to her picnic area and think about it, then I would have to give her $5 for the privilege!
Pulling the bike and BoB back out to the road, I waited a half hour to see if the wind, the weather, or the traffic, would change. The wind stayed hard and cold, the sky stayed grey and fuming, the traffic was heavy. I went back to the woman.
She was nicer once I showed up with wallet in hand, and checked me in, showed me where things were, and then set me about my chores. Setting camp,I strung a tarp, and was in the middle of cooking dinner, the previous night's pasta, when I spilled it all over the ground! I started over, and by dark was fed. Shortly after, I showered, then put myself to bed.
Moments after I put myself to bed the rain started. Moments before I pulled myself out of the tent in the morning, the rain stopped. I was able to pack up, with only my tarps and tent fly a little damp.
Today was a rather nice day. The forcasted rain did not materialize, and though it was a tad cool, there were some sunny moments. Traffic was light, for the most part, but did get thicker as the day progressed. There were several of those drivers who like to pass when I'm in the oncoming lane. I even saw a few of them second-think the decision, then go for it anyway. At another point I managed to stop one from doing it, by tapping at my helmet, as if to say, "use your head."
Those of you who drive, when you go to pass, if there is a cycler in the oncoming lane, even if the cycler is way over on the shoulder, don't pass! Don't even think about it! Its the most dangerous thing you can do.
What if you blow a tire, or the cyclist blows a tire, or an animal jumps on the road, or the car you're passing has an issue. Most cyclists who get killed, get killed by oncoming traffic, head-ons. The rule, in case anyone is interested, is: When there is any sort of obstruction in the oncoming lane, Do Not Pass!
Anyway, today I did about 70 K, and find myself in the rather funky and easy going town of Blue River. I like the place. It has the coolest General Store, Janies, and the people are sort of nice, although quite rag tag. I actually fit right in! Everyone here is a little scruffy looking. Heck, if it weren't for the bike, I'd look like I live here. Its the only town this size, maybe a few hundred, where I've ever pulled in and heard Jimi Hendrix's guitar wafting down the main drag.
There's also a baby boom going on! During my fifteen minute spin around town, I saw no less than a dozen babies, with their moms and grandmas. Its another of those no-locked-doors towns, and seems to me to be a place where all those nice people from the 1970s, who used to wear flowers in their hair and show up at peace marches, went to hide out when Ronald Reagan became president of the US, and Brian Mulroney sold our country to him!
Once again it looks like rain, and once again I've sought shelter. The campground here has some nice little sleeping A-frame cabins. They cost a little more than tenting, but provide power and a place to get all my gear out of the weather. It also affords me an opportunity to write you all. I've been a little afraid to whip out the ibook with all this rain.
So, I guess its clear by now that I decided to go south from Tete Jaune Cache to Kamloops. Some day I'll do Highway 16 to Rupert, but not this year. All this weather I've been in is coming from Rupert, and taking that route would likely make me quite mad, or I'd get so waterlogged I'd never be able to ride again. Besides, its September, if I'd gone that other direction I wouldn't have got back to the Koots until November. By then I'd need skis for the bike and BoB (which would at least save on tires).
This is an interesting road here, much like Highway 3 in the East Kootenays. I've been riding it through the holiday weekend and its not been too bad for traffic volume. Most of the vehicles are headed north to Jasper, and have Alberta plates. The worst thing about it are those drivers who think its okay to pass when there are obstructions in the oncoming lane, and I'm noticing they have both BC and Alberta plates, so it isn't just the Albertans who are bloody homicidal maniacs!
I was getting down, but today cheered me somewhat. I did the 70 K in just over five hours, and sort of had some fun doing it. I'm also safe out of the rain, and no longer have to worry about this travelog, #18.
Next major town is Clearwater, then Kamloops, then I'm not sure, but I'll likely head down through Vernon, and maybe over the Monashee, unless I go so broke I wind up fruit picking in the Okanagan.
I'll let you all know where I am when I'm there.
Hope all is well.
Will
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