2009 August, British Columbia Motorcycle Trip

It was a spur of the moment trip. Hannah, Audrey, and I were actually making plans for a backpacking trip, but at the last moment, Mom but the kibosh to it (Con can tell you the details if she cares to). So, no backpacking, and me with a day off of work. Not wanting to waste the time away from work I was given permission by the boss to go on a motorcycle trip (I think she was glad to see me go). But, to where? Points north beckoned (as is usually the case for me). I unloaded the backpack and transferred most of its contents into the saddlebags. A piece of cake. The KTM 990 Adventure was already fueled so it was good to go. All I had to do was get the BC map out of the stash and put it on the tank bag. With my trusty Nexus card in hand I headed to the Port Townsend Ferry (6:30 departure) and then headed across Whidbey Island for my breakfast stop at the Farmhouse Restaurant east of Anacortes (a place where Mom and Aunt Grace enjoyed). The Nexus card allowed for a fast, uneventful entry into BC at Blaine’s truck crossing. The only (miniscule) delay was in entering the motorcycle’s license plate into the computer, and that was it. The time spent by all of us to enroll into the Nexus program was probably less time than most folks spend waiting for a normal weekend summer crossing. . . . . . . It is the only way to go in my book. Eastward towards Hope I reminisced about all of our trips to Harrison Hot Springs, a favorite destination for the family (Yes, to let the truth be known, I was ALREADY missing Hannah & Audrey). North from Hope along the Fraser Canyon (Hell’s Gate) I reminisced about our 2007 trip when H and A were singing while Oooohing and Aaaaahing along the same stretch of road. Similar summer temps both times in the low nineties. Very dry with wildfire smoke hanging in the air both times. While this time a small wildfire burning along the uphill side of the Canadian Pacific railroad bed was probably sparked by a train cars’ sticky brakes. Larger fires to the northwest sparked by lightning contributing too much of the smoke in the Interior (of BC). It is fire season in the Pacific Northwest. Our family has been as far north as Cache Creek but this time I continued north instead of turning east towards Kamloops, Revelstoke, and Banff. New territory. The scale of British Columbia is hard to comprehend for this American boy. My travel options included leaving Port Angeles at what is more or less the northwest corner of Washington State and driving (or, riding as the case may be) to San Diego and then crossing into Mexico; or, I could head north into BC (which I look at every day from our living room) and spend all of my time in BC; and cover the same distance that it would take to go to Mexico (and folks, California is a LONG state (the third largest state behind Alaska and Texas)). All of Washington State, Oregon, and California can fit inside of BC and there would still be space leftover (BC’s 365,946 square miles to the three states 326,599). It is huge. Often times the next larger BC town is listed on highway signs as being 700 kilometers away, not 70 miles. And, that’s just the next substantial town. The place is simply massive. The BC interior north of Cache Creek is forested, but the large mountain ranges (the Coastal Range and the Rockies) are hundreds of miles to the west and east while you are simply moving through a high plateau of greenery. The mountains that are around reminded me of the Appalachians (geologically older and eroded over the millennia by wind and water). Towns have huge logging operations that seem to be going gangbusters. And, for the first time in decades, I saw working teepee burners incinerating mill debris (sawdust, bark, and woodchips). Such structures are long gone here in the states. Logging trucks, semis hauling skidders, and flatbed semitrailers with finished lumber products were on the highway. Hay seemed to be the only thing in the fields that were also full of beef cattle and horse pastures. I saw numerous riders of the English style. Quesnel and Williams Lake were interesting towns. Firefighters were in both towns staging to combat wildfires to the west. Air Tankers and helicopters were operating out of airfields in both towns. Heavy smoke in Clinton leant to an evacuation of the town even though the actual fire was “over” the mountains to the west. I stopped west of Prince George, and camped at Beaumont Provincial Park near Fraser Lake. That evening clear skies were replaced by thunderclouds as the white flashes of nearby lightning illuminated the tent and the sound of pitter pattering raindrops echoed off of the nylon. An animal walked by my tent in the wee hours, sniffed, and shook rain off as a dog might do, perhaps a lone wolf I wondered????? Moving west from camp I refueled and learned that the weather forecast for the area to the west was not good. Thunderstorms for two days and incessant drizzle west of the Coastal Range (where I was heading). So, if I did continue the 350 miles to Hyder, Alaska, I would be guaranteed about 350 miles of rainfall (times two, or 700 miles of rain). Plus, the view would be about the same as looking at the inside of a cloud. So, my common sense (sore butt, and numb fingers) made me realize that perhaps the better choice would be to head back towards home at a leisurely pace. At a rest stop a local motorcyclist told me about a 100 mile dirt road by which to get to Williams Lake. He also gave great advice for future trips (motorcycle and RV). He told me that there were herds of caribou in the North Country, and I felt certain that the kids would want to see reindeer. The ride to Williams Lake on dirt was great fun; making me feel a bit sad about being headed “back”. Still north of Cache Creek I turned west on Highway 99 (the same highway 99 that is Aurora Avenue in Seattle). This point was the northern terminus for this roadway and taking it only added a few miles (about a hundred) to my return home, plus it would be “new territory” instead of returning over a road already traveled. The valleys and farms leading to Lillooet were impressive and I was immediately pleased with taking this route. But, still on Highway 99 southwest from Lillooet the scenery became truly impressive. Jagged peaks, sometimes with hanging glaciers on their flanks, mountain lakes and streams; a twisty roadway that ascended and descended grades that were up to 15%. Probably a dozen wooden bridges over the rivers and creeks, the bridges most often being one lane in width. It was close to Valhalla on a motorcycle. Sparse traffic. West of Duffy Lake I wondered why the few motorists that I saw were flashing their lights at me. A few miles (or, kilometers if you prefer) later the reason was apparent. A novice driver in a Class “C” motor home had rounded a corner and plowed into the back of a compact sedan, fatally injuring an occupant of the car. Traffic was at a standstill while the extrication and investigation were conducted. The RCMP Officer said that it would take 2 hours, but as darkness fell and the hours became 4, 5, and 6, the sometimes rain and cold began to feel a bit less than fun. I counted my own travel mercies and said a silent prayer for the victim, her friends and family. Plus, the time allowed for visits with other motorists. To augment his retirement a retired guy was hauling hay from Lillooet to Chilliwack and I offered him some of my beef jerky. He returned the favor by sharing fresh picked tomatoes and plums that he had gotten in Lillooet. The tomatoes were absolutely the best that I have had recently (vine ripened and of a variety that tastes of tomatoes instead of something watered down and tasteless). I didn’t need any condiments, but simply ate them like an apple. Or, should I say a juicy orange. But, the highlight of the 6 hour delay was when I struck up a conversation with the only other two-wheeler at the scene. I had a conversation with a gentleman who looked as if he were homeless, with a black suitcase strapped onto a 48cc scooter. As it turned out, he was a Secondary (high school) math teacher from Paris, France. His summer break included his flying to Montreal where he purchased the scooter. He then rode it to the mouth of the St. Lawrence River and the Atlantic Ocean before heading west along Canada’s Highway 1 (the Trans-Canada Highway). The scooter’s top speed was 26 mph. I was in awe of his crossing the continent in such a minimalist style. I wouldn’t have the patience to cross that distance at a top speed of 26. No way. I was warm and toasty with my rain gear, he was like a wet dog as his down coat was soaked, torn, and the zipper was broken. My motorcycle was laden with clothing, food, camping gear, spare parts and tools to take care of many contingencies. His scooter was adorned with duct tape. He said that he had been stopped many times by the Police who told him that he was moving too slowly. In many spots the Trans-Canada is 4 lanes with a median much like our Interstate road system. At these locations there is usually a minimum speed listed. He was traveling from the Atlantic to the Pacific mostly on the shoulders of Highway 1. He told me that he ate a large breakfast, no lunch, and then for supper he would have a liter of milk. That’s it. Six weeks across Canada and that was what he would eat. He told me that his favorite city was Winnipeg, Manitoba. He said it had a feel of community, with great neighborhoods and a downtown area that was vibrant, instead of a town with cookie cutter malls. When I said that I thought it might be Quebec City he remarked that it might be nice in January but during the summer there were too many tourists. After awhile he looked at me and said, “I’m tired of speaking English, I’m going to sleep.” He simply took his scooter out of the line, walked it across the roadway and down the embankment. Near the bottom, he put down the kickstand, took his suitcase off of the bike and got his sleeping bag out. No sleeping pad, no tent. He crawled in and a few minutes later he was snoring. The ground was wet from the recent rain (it rained as we were waiting for the roadway to re-open) and he was sound asleep. He had shared with me that this was his fifth such summer vacation trip; twice to Africa, once to Argentina, once to Australia and then this trip across Canada. All of his trips included touring the various countries by scooter. This guy became my hero. When I think of traveling, I think of what “stuff” I might want to have to make the journey better (I was a Boy Scout and the adage of it being better to have it and not need it, instead of needing it and not having it; has become a steadfast rule for me). In contrast his minimalist style was something that I admired. He had been to places that I could only dream of, all the while on a scooter instead of a large, well equipped motorcycle with space age gear. I’m sure there was a lesson in the story. He was planning on writing a book or two about his travels and I truly hope he does. I will eagerly search the bookstores for the stories of his travels. I gave him my business card and truly hope that he will send an E-Mail telling me that his book is in print. The roadway finally opened and I motored away as the French Math teacher slept in the ditch. The last time I was in Pemberton was with Sherman Zelinsky in 1998. The town was quite different at midnight, eleven years later and I was quite tired. I quickly forgot the lesson of the Math Teacher (how soon we forget) and I looked for a motel to rest my head. I couldn’t find one in Pemberton and moving towards Whistler I couldn’t find one with anyone at the office. So, I continued on what was the most harrowing driving of the trip (new construction with multiple lanes separated by reflective pylons). There were concrete curbs in the middle of the roadway to separate the traffic. The new pavement was void of lane striping so I couldn’t tell where I was. It was now near 1 am, pitch black, with recent rain making the pavement slippery. For most of the route there was no traffic so I could ride with my high beams on, but around Whistler the traffic seemed to be going towards me and I had to ride with my low beams only. I couldn’t tell where I was on the roadway. Finally, when a pickup truck came up from behind, I was glad to pull over and let him pass. Unfortunately, he was most likely a local, and most likely had been drinking and driving (it was Friday night after all). He sped by me and I couldn’t keep up with him. I was left in the black void. I remembered the lesson of the French Math teacher and I slowed to almost the speed of his scooter. Finally, I made it to Pemberton and holed up in the first motel that I could find. The following day the ride home was more or less uneventful. I sped through Vancouver, not wanting to stop. At the border as the normal folk were lined up for four hour waits at the Customs crossing, I whizzed by them with my Nexus card. The only delay being when the US Customs Agent asked me to remove my helmet. He saw that the face matched the one on the Nexus card and he whisked me through with nary a hiccup. I pulled into the Keystone Ferry dock as the boat was loading and I didn’t even shut the engine off as I loaded onto the ferry. The drive from Port Townsend home seemed so very, very, very short compared to the miles that I had traveled. The roadway seemed very crowded compared to the barrenness west of Prince George. I almost felt claustrophobic. At home, it was good to see everyone (H, A, C, and Cocoa). There were hugs, smiles, and conversation about the trip and the prospect of taking LaFawnduh to northern BC/Alaska. Audrey liked the idea of seeing reindeer. Audrey said, “Too bad Mom wasn’t with you. She’s fluent in French.” Yep, she is, and yep, I wish she had been there as well.