Part III Even though the landscapes were as beautiful and majestic as I had remembered them, my journey through the mountains gradually became much more—a tale of chance encounters and engaging conversations, and of the kindness and generosity of strangers, their offers of water, beer, food and lodging gratefully accepted. There were many examples, almost daily it seemed. Here are just a few — The first hint of another story was immediate, improbable, and utterly unexpected. Some 30 kms west of Hinton on my first afternoon, I stopped at the kiosk marking the eastern boundary of Jasper National Park. The young guy at the wicket asked me for $30 for the three nights I planned to stay in the in the park. I rummaged in my handlebar bag to fish out my wallet. “Hey!” someone shouted behind me. I turned around and a burly fortyish fellow in a ¾-ton pickup said to the young guy in the kiosk, “I’ll pay his registration.” He eased his truck forward and handed over a couple of 20’s for his ticket and mine. I walked over and thanked him for his generosity, so surprised that I was fumbling for words. “Don’t mention it,” he said. “It’s the least I can do. Guys like you riding the Parkway on bicycles – I could never do that!” And with that, he wished me good luck, waved, and headed off to his stop in Kimberley in BC, 500 kms to the southwest.
Later that same day, I had pitched camp at the Snaring River campground just east of Jasper. Heading to the self-registration site, I fell into step with a couple in their early thirties. We charred, and they offered me a handful of cherries from the small basket they were carrying. I gratefully accepted, and said, “Where did you get these? Not around here, surely?” “No,” they said. “They’re from our back yard.” “And where’s that?” I asked. “We’re from Kelowna, [BC],” she said. “We come here regularly to camp and hike—there’s nothing like this at home.” “Nothing like this where I live, either,” I said, understating the obvious. Turned out that they are both massage therapists, she an Anglo from Kelowna, he a Franco-Ontarian from Cornwall, a little over an hour southeast of Ottawa on the St Lawrence. They had met at college in Toronto, and had set up their practice in Kelowna, its rapidly growing population of retirees assuring a market for their skills. They kindly gave me the remainder of their home-grown cherries, and I wished them well on their hiking holiday.
A few days later, I left the splendid hill country of Kananaskis and headed south on Hwy 22 through the rolling benchland pastures to Crowsnest Pass. I covered 135 kms in six-plus hours of riding, pushed along by a friendly tailwind. At the pretty sundrenched campground of Lundbreck Falls, I set up camp and wandered over to the old hand pump atop the well to refill my bottles and get ready for supper. But the pump was completely kaput—not only was there no potable water, there was no water, period. I walked over to a nearby RV and asked two folks relaxing in the shade if they knew what options there were for water, and what advice they might have. They confirmed that the pump was broken and that there was no water on site. The only nearby source of potable water was in town, a few miles east; the river was OK for bathing, but the cattle pastures upstream made drinking it inadvisable unless it was treated. But there’s no problem, they said: “We’re leaving tomorrow, and we have several gallons we can give you. In fact, why don’t you join us for supper, as we’re cooking up the last of our food. Take whatever water you need, and come back in half an hour, and we’ll have some cold beer.” That wonky old hand pump, nostalgic and useless as it was, led me to spend a delightful three hours in the company of Bob and Norma, and Max, their cat, all from Red Deer, a few hours to the north. We had a well seasoned and filling supper of mac and cheese, BBQ’d sausages and salad, and several cold beers. I thanked them profusely, and complimented them on the simplicity and good taste of their meal.
Our conversation covered the waterfront. They were nearing retirement, and told me of Bob’s decades of work in transporting oil-rig equipment throughout the province, and of Norma’s in admin, both in firefighting and health care. They were thoughtful and candid in their assessment of the way we had built our economy and our cities—our current patterns and practices, they said, were simply unsustainable.
Later, and much further west, I was nearing the base of the climb to Washington Pass, the final pass before my descent to the Pacific Coast. It was early afternoon, and I was about 40 kms from my likely campground. There were rain clouds and squalls in the mountains to the west across the valley, so I started to wonder when and where the curves of time and distance would cross, and how much shelter there would be when they did. Two cyclists pulled abreast of me, one on a touring bike, the other on a road bike. They were unladen, and kindly slowed a bit to chat. They were headed to Winthrop, the next town along, and asked where I was. “To a campground on the lower slopes of Washington Pass,” I said, “so that I can get an early start on the climb tomorrow.” “I know a much better place to stay than that,” said the older of the two, the rider of the road bike. “Oh?” said I. “Where would that be?” “My place,” said Kurt. “It’s just a few miles up the road. Come and join us.” With the heavy grey clouds now beginning to roll down into the valley, I said, “I’d be delighted to. Thank you so much.”
A hurried half-hour or so later, just as the first huge raindrops were hitting our helmets, I rolled into Kurt and Susan’s front yard a mile west of Winthrop in the Methow River valley. They opened their spacious wooden house to give me a warm dry shelter, and a well-made shed-cum-bike-garage ensured the same for my Raven and gear.
Kurt is a retired physicist from Seattle, and Susan, a retired self-employed weaver. Their house is full of brilliant art and artisanal creations—the latter not only her own rugs and blankets, beautiful to look at and to touch, but also pottery, sculpture, and photography. Awed, I asked if everything was their own creation. “Oh no,” said Susan, modestly. “At the end of any craft show, there’s a lot of bartering done.” Some of the pottery held a superb meal of grilled chicken, pasta, pesto, and salad; some of it, local craft beer. We ate and drank and watched and listened as the rain poured down. Serendipity can do marvellous things, sometimes.
After supper, we shared a comprehensive round-the-houses talk about our lives and the world: cycling and cross-country skiing, both for the love of it and also to stay young(-ish); life in the Methow Valley after decades on the coast; grandchildren, sometimes far away; dysfunctional politics in too many places, and oddly, hopeful signs of political life in Canada; climate change; and the healthcare question.
Kurt gave me good advice on my climb over Washington Pass, especially on water sources along the way. He and Susan sent me on my way with several pieces of fresh fruit from their trees and nearby orchards.
I was touched by numerous smaller acts of courtesy. In the first week or ten days of my ride, still getting my micro-routines embedded, I often forgot to keep a firm hand on my map atop my handlebar bag whenever I stopped at cafés and supermarkets. I must have dropped it 3 or 4 times at least, and every time, a customer or the proprietor graciously said, “Sir, I think you’ve dropped this.” My forgetfulness extended more than once to water bottles left on café tables. Neither maps nor water bottles were irreplaceable, but I was still grateful to friendly strangers for paying attention, if slightly embarrassed that I wasn’t.
My bike attracted lots of attention –At an early-morning stoplight near the eastern edge of Canmore, en route to Kananaskis, a young guy in his 20’s passed by in front of me on his mountain bike. He gave me a thumbs-up and a “Sweet rig, man!” I gave him a thumbs-up in return, and a “Thanks!”
And from a thirty-something mum from Park City, Utah, who was about to duck into the Dragonfly Café in Salmo, BC with her hubby and their 8-year-old daughter, the same “Sweet rig!” I thanked her, and we chatted about bikes and their hometown, which our family used to visit years ago. They asked about the Dragonfly, and I told them they’d made a first-rate choice for lunch.
In the parking lot of the Visitor Centre atop Logan Pass, about 9:20 on a bright sunny Canada Day morning, I stopped beside a clutch of a dozen or so cyclists, all on West-to-East routes, some to mid-western destinations in Minnesota, others heading for the Atlantic Coast.
“Wow! Love those fenders! Where’dja get ‘em? And the Arkel waterproofs!”
“Oooh—is that a Rohloff hub? Never even seen one of those. What’s it like?”
There were more W-to-E cyclists at a lunchtime break at Glacier Cyclery in Whitefish, Montana. One older fellow, seventy-ish, was well informed and curious about the Rohloff, particularly wanting to know whether I had thought about a Gates belt-drive system.
At the Smallwood Farms café-winery-and-fruit-stand extraordinaire, at the foot of Loup Loup Pass, I met John, from a small town some miles further west. He and his wife are touring cyclists, having done both a W-to-E crossing of the US and a N-to-S tour to Central America. On this day, though, he was riding his BMW F-series 800cc twin, and we chatted about motorcycle touring as well. I mentioned my transcontinental ride a few summers ago on my old-but-still-sound 800cc airhead, and nodding, he said they really were wonderful machines. We share an appreciation of the quality of German engineering—not surprisingly, he knew about and was intrigued by the Rohloff.
-- and once, happily, none at allThere was one moment where the bike and I met with supreme indifference. For that, I was grateful: Near Elbow Pass on the long ascent to Highwood Pass in Kanasaksis, an oncoming pickup slowed, and the driver waved to me. I stopped, and he said, “Just wanted to tell you that there’s a bear a few kilometres up the road.” “Thanks,” I said. “What colour?” “Brown,” he replied. “Thanks for the heads-up,” I said, and we parted with a wave.
Ten minutes along I saw a short line of vehicles stopped in my lane, maybe 600 metres ahead. In front of them, a young adult grizzly ambled across the road from right to left. He was big, but lanky, not yet mature. He disappeared into the bush, and the cars moved on. I continued, and in a couple of minutes reached the area, keeping a close eye on the brush and saplings to my left. About 75 metres in front of me, Bear re-emerged from the bush, and ambled deliberately back across the road, from my left to my right. I eased up on my pedals, slowing a bit to let him move completely across the road. He was young, to be sure, but at closer range, also a big rangy fellow, his “amble” more like a slow fluid lope. He was a very handsome guy, his coat a luxurious light brown. I was acutely aware that I could not possibly outrun him, but I felt no fear, perhaps because I hadn’t been surprised by his appearance. (Mind you, I didn’t take the time to stop and fish out my camera.)
As he melted into the brush just ahead of me and to my right—with never so much as a sideways glance, or a sniff of the air—I veered left into the oncoming lane, which was empty. I got on my bell as I did so, just to let him know, “OK Mr. Bear, I know you’re there and you know I’m here, and we both have an escape route—you do, anyway—so it’s all cool, eh?” (A hiking guide in Yukon, sixteen years ago, had told me that bears often had problems with cyclists, because they move quickly and with little noise, and thus often surprise the bears.) I was happy to be ignored, or—who knows?—maybe even treated with disdain.
The matter of bears and bikes had cropped earlier in my trip, in a less dramatic way. Just south of Jasper, I met up with Andrew, a Kiwi from Auckland. He was riding to Winnipeg, the end point of a tour from Vancouver. This trek was the first half of a ride across Canada, which he hoped to complete in 2017. We rode together to Kananaskis, at which point he turned east and I went south.
After a few big downhills on the Icefields Parkway, which I coasted down in my highest gear, he said, “John, I can hear your bike before I see you.” I said, “You’re right, Andrew. There’s a reason for that – my freewheel makes a serious racket in 14th. Tell me, though – have you seen any bears on these downhills?” “No,” he said. “There’s a reason for that, too,” I said, “and both reasons are connected.” He raised his eyebrows. “It’s like this,” I said. “Bears are smart creatures. When they hear that buzzy-ratchety-clackety freewheel in 14th, they naturally want to find out what’s going on. The conversation probably goes something like this –
Younger bear to older bear: ‘Yo, bro! What’s that buzzy-ratchety-clackety noise from over yonder hill?’
Older bear cocks an ear, strokes chin and says, ‘Young fella, I’ll ignore your familiarity just this once, and tell you. Listen up, if you can. It could be one of two things. First, it could be one of those trick German hubs on the silvery wheely things, the ones often ridden by the old farts. These are harmless, but you don’t want to try eating them, because they’re made of quality steel that will wreck your teeth, and they’re yucky-oily.’
‘But, there’s another possibility too. This may sound weird, but something deep in my ABM (FYI, that’s Atavistic Bear Memory, and you have one, even if you don’t know it yet, and if you want to live a long and berry-full life, you’ll heed it) tells me that it could also be a very large and very angry swarm of African bees, closing fast. If that sound is indeed a swarm of bees, it is not harmless—in fact, if you get caught up in it, you’ll remember it for the rest of your life, if you’re lucky enough to
have a rest of your life.’
‘For me, a 50-50 risk isn’t a risk worth taking, if one of those two chances is a swarm of African bees. So, I’m outta here!’
“And that, Andrew, is the reason why you haven’t seen any bears when you’re near me and my Raven-mit-Rohloff on the downhills. The uphills are another matter, of course…”
Admiration and inspirationAt a couple of points along the way, I was the privileged recipient of touching compliments:
At a lay-by on the Road to the Sun, perhaps halfway up the climb to Logan Pass, I paused for a granola bar, and chatted with a driver who had stopped. He was a visiting Scot, and we spoke about the beauty and the quiet of high country in the early morning. He asked about my ride and said, “I have the greatest admiration for you.” I thanked him for his generous words.
A week later, I stopped in Kettle Falls, WA, and found that a portion of The Old Apple Warehouse now housed a café and a food store with a lot of fresh local produce. Mike, from Vermont, was selling his maple syrup. We chatted about cycling, maple syrup, cheddar cheese, the western landscapes, strange and not-so-wonderful politics, and the maverick campaign for governor of Vermont by Bill “Spaceman” Lee, the Expos’ lefty and free spirit from the late ‘70s and early ‘80s (though we acknowledged that he probably wouldn’t win against Peter Galbraith, John Kenneth’s son.) As I was leaving, Mike bade me safe journey and said, “We are all so envious of you.” Once again I thanked a stranger for his kind words, saying that I felt blessed to have the health, opportunity and budget to make such a trip.
On the Kootenay ferry, I had an opportunity to exchange compliments. A couple of hikers had boarded the ferry when I did, on my way to Nelson. I wandered over to say hello, and ask about their trek; they in turn were interested in my journey. They were German, and experienced hikers, wearing quality footwear (Lowa, as you would expect), carrying and well-organized and compact packs. I mentioned my route from Jasper, through Banff, Kananaskis, and Glacier, and they told me that they knew some of that terrain – they were hiking from Banff to Vancouver via the Trans-Canada Trail. They had begun a month ago in early June, and would complete their 1500-km trek in early September. I asked them about their journey so far, and they said they loved Canada—“The landscape is magnificent! The campsites are wonderful, so is the food, so are the people!” I could only thank them, feeling a little self-conscious with their effusive praise (this is Canada, remember), but also tickled by their evident delight. The fellow I was talking with—he spoke fluent English, his mate rather less—was not a big man, maybe 5’6” or so, and perhaps 140 or 150 lbs. (His friend was taller, a bit less than 6’, but also slender.) I asked him about the weight of their packs. “Twenty kilos or so,“ he said. “Could I ask how old you are?” I said. Said he, “I’m 73, my friend is a bit older.” He was very matter-of-fact, but I was astonished, and full of praise for them both. I said to them that my trip was demanding, for sure, but it was pretty mild compared to what they were doing–and that I’d be very happy just to think about something like that in five years’ time.
Nearing the end of my journey, I met a family beginning an extraordinary journey. Emerging from the Skagit River Gorge into the lowlands of Washington, some 50 kms from tidewater, I found a quiet walk-in campsite in the small Rasar State Park beside the river, and pitched my tent amidst the green splendour of ferns and big cedars. Here’s the photo:
http://tinyurl.com/hl73wcv I had made my late-afternoon tea, and was sitting at the picnic table scribbling notes on the day’s ride, when a couple of cyclists pushed their bikes into the adjacent campsite. After a while, and hearing Australian accents, I wandered over to say hello and offer some tea, and I listened to some of the remarkable story of Travis and Fiona, from Adelaide, and their seven-year-old son, Patrick, who bounced into camp from beyond the surrounding trees. This was the end of their first day in a ride across the country to Washington, DC, which they expected to complete in mid-October. Fiona was riding a Bike Friday, and Travis a long-wheelbase Häse cargo bike, with a seat up front for Patrick. Here are the bikes carrying them across the U.S.:
http://tinyurl.com/j2pzamr I said to Fiona and Travis that they had set out on an ambitious and challenging undertaking. They agreed, and said that they had both done some touring before, in Australia and in South Asia, but that this was the first time they had toured together as a family. They wanted to do this ride with Patrick and to make it part of his education and growth—he is autistic. They spoke in a quiet and measured way about their journey together. I felt profoundly humbled and inspired—my trek was a pretty straightforward affair by comparison. I said that I admired them all, and as a parent, Mum and Dad especially. We chatted about the route ahead, and I offered some suggestions on the climbs, and on places to camp and buy food in the coming few days. Travis mentioned that he was making a video documentary of their journey, and on my return to Ottawa, I looked it up. You can read about the family here:
https://schooloftheroad.com/ “School of the Road” indeed—Patrick’s education has broadened mine.
With moments like this, and the mountains, what more could you ask for?
- end -
PS: Later, I'll post some notes on technical matters -- the bike and my gear.
