Polebridge to Seeley Lake, Montana
September 29, 2009
Delving into Montanan forests...
For this next segment of the ride, I’m travelling with Robert – who came on one of our trips in Northern India and then joined me on an epic, impromptu high altitude hike and bike – and his friend Chris, from Cambridge. Chris is a dab hand at the wheelie, so he’s promised to teach me the tricks of the trade. Maybe not fully loaded though…
Originally we’d planned to meet further south in Bozeman, but I’m running so late (what’s new, hey) that they’ve headed north instead. Which will mean I’ll have some company over the next few weeks.
Chris, on his Trek hardtail, pulling an Edingburgh Co-op singlewheel trailer.
Tearing ourselves away from Polebridge after one last, lingering resupply at the bakery, we began the long climb up to Red Meadow Lake. Up top was a clear pool of water and a lovely picnic site, which preceded an epic, at times rocky descent down to the well groomed resort town of Whitefish.
This is hunting country, and ammo shells were scattered about like cigarette stubs.
There, we pulled over for spares at Glacier Cyclery. Tim, sporting a blond shaved head, long sideburns and a moustache, invited us over to his place for a house party in Colombia Falls, ten miles down the road. I love tapping into these local bike cult scenes, where everyone lives and breathes two wheels. For this occasion, the required bike dress was an old, beaten up cruiser – curvy, balloon-tyred Schwinns and Konas filled the yard. After supping dubious moonshine, we leapt on our steeds and headed out to a local bar to sample the night life…
Nice attention to detail...
It's a small world. At Tim's I bumped into Jeff and Jason (fag in mouth), who I'd first met back in Northern Alaska. The two brothers have been riding south with their dad and, unbelievably, Jason's dog Lucy. In a welcome break from Ortlieb's watertight panniers, Jason's Soma Groove sported homemade cat litter crates; he also carries a good five pounds of food for his hound. I don't know how he makes it up those passes.
We all crashed out at Tim's. Including Lucy.
Unfortunately for Chris, who’s allergic to cats and dogs, Tim and his girlfriend Megan live with two boistrous hounds, as well as their sinister pet tarantula Cheryl. Not only that, but it seemed everyone who partied that night brought a hound too, until the place was overun with furry animals chasing each others tails. Poor Chris had to beat a hasty retreat to the garage. It wasn’t so bad though, as he got to sleep the night beside Tim’s enviable bike collection.
In the morning, the gang piled their cruisers onto a makeshift trailer and headed up a local mountain, only to tear back down again, swigging beer as they went. No such debauchery for us; we had to take to the road once more.
From Columbia Falls, we skirted round the Swan Mountains. Running parallel to the highway, our route unravelled on the other side of the river, a world away from tarmac.
Although the Great Divide Ride isn't exactly abundant in singletrack, there are some nice moments to spice things up.
Robert takes a cruise down towards Swan Lake.
Camping out for the night by Elk Creek.
After some 6500kms of hard, loaded use, my rear Schwalbe Marathon Extreme finally gave up the ghost. Luckily I had a spare Marathon Supreme to keep me rolling.
Rugged, rustic Montana is flag-flying country, no doubt about it.
Much of the time, the The Great Divide Route weaves through National Forest, where we could cycle alongside each other. On the long climbs, we all found our own pace.
Our next pass wound its way up towards Richmond Peak, skirting round the mountain side on a gravel road that spiralled ever higher in concentric circles, dwindling down to little more than a loose slice of singletrack, high above the valley floor.
Half way up, we detoured over to Clearwater Lake, for a picnic lunch, a tent drying session after an icy night, and a refreshing dip. The waters were turquoise - ignore the frigid temperature and it could have been Thailand...
Then it was back on the bikes again, head down, hearts pumping, higher and higher, riding amongst wild flowers and tufts are grass swamping the trail.
As we climbed ever higher, the road funneled down to singletrack. This is Jeff - having crossed Africa, he and his brother are now is on their way down to the tip of South America. Lucy the pooch is just ahead.
Finally. Reward for our toils came in the form of a sweet, swoopy descent down to Seeley Lake. Very, very nice. Running a slick tyre at the back wasn't ideal, and I just managed to hold it together until the bottom, where I pinch flatted.
From here, Chris and Robert are heading on to Helena, while I’m taking a detour to bike-friendly Missoula, to meet the guys at the Adventure Cycling Organisation – and get myself a new tyre…
Paradise Polebridge
September 28, 2009
Welcome to Polebridge, a little slice of paradise.
Once in a while on a long journey, a traveller comes across a real gem of a find. A sublime spot that strikes a resonant chord with the soul: an idyllic setting, a place to rest for the night, and perhaps most importantly for the roaming cyclist, a fine bakery, filling the air with anticipation and temptation.
Polebridge rests at the very edge of Glacier National Park, North Montana.
Polebridge is such a place, and when I cycled down its dusty lane – hot, sweaty and exhausted – I was filled with the warm glow of having arrived. Greeted by the sight of the old Mercantile store, dating back to 1914 and contrasted intently against the burnt blue Montana sky, I leant up my bike, took a few steps back, and soaked it all in.
Thankfully, the Coca Cola reps seemed to have long forgotten about this quiet and little travelled side road.
A few rusty pickups were parked up, and some young but strikingly grizzled Mountain People had converged around the one, rustic cafe, home to local artwork and an old uptight piano. Who knows from what rocks or forest they had emerged from; they might have come straight from the pages of Into the Wild.
Romantic rustic cabins abound in Polebridge.
Old wooden cabins dotted the parched earth amongst the swaying, sandy toned grasses, set to a peak-lined backdrop of Glacier National Park. Past the public phone booth (a wooden beer barrel sliced in two), I stepped through the rickety door of the settlement’s one store, to be welcomed in by ex-Detroit-based Annie. There, I was confronted by a cabinet crammed with freshly made produce, bathed in the particle-filled golden light of the afternoon. Cinnamon rolls wrapped around huckleberries, bears claws doused in icing and plump blueberry muffins all vied for my undivided attention.
Parched from the sun, in my sugar-deprived, confused state it was hard to decide what to gulp down first... The deer head wasn't helping.
Worth a close up.
I phoned home from this phone barrel for the first time in two and a half months.
The Northern Lights Saloon, which had actually lost its liquor license for reasons I didn't manage to glean. Outside its sporadic opening hours, someone could be heard pounding away on the piano. The food there was quite delicious.
Suitably satiated, I headed over to the traveller-renowned North Fork Hostel, run by cycle-tourer Oliver, where I pitched my tent in the garden.
Sunrise. As I peeled myself out of my sleeping bag cocoon, a rainbow was gracing the sky.
I soon made myself at home in this most characterful of abodes, unearthing its strange and wonderful quirks – I leant the secrets of lighting its propane lamps and delighted when the old fashioned pressure dials flickered to life, like a mad scientist’s experiment, on the kitchen tap. The main building was once a dude ranch, transplanted from Glacier National Park and floated across the river.
German Oliver has cycle toured here, there and everywhere, before steering his way to Polebridge. He's run the North York hostel for seven years, and liked it so much he bought it...
With a hiss and a clonk, water spurted out of the tap, like it was the first time it had done so for years.
That evening, Oliver invited me to some of the venison from the deer he’d hunted the precious winter, dished up alongside the salad he grows in his bountiful greenhouse, and washed down with a glass of wine and some great conversation.
Yes, I’d found a home away from home…
Don't forget to turn off the (propane) light. Polebridge is off the grid.
Montana = Big Skies
Funky old trucks parked up in the fields.
Autumn is here. Winter next. Time to head south.
The ride from the Eureka, near the US border, wound its way along the rather ominous sounding Graves Creek. Another beautiful, remote spot.
Just 15 miles away, you can cool off in Kintla Lake, Glacier National Park.
The road to Polebridge. One I'd highly recommend.
Bearanoia: Banff to the border.
September 19, 2009
Lakeside reflection, or the profile of the Great Divide Route?
Phew.
This Canadian section of the Great Divide has completely surpassed my expectations, both in its natural beauty and its sense of complete remoteness.
It was harder than I’d anticipated too, thanks to a real fusion of trail styles; these first few days have covered everything from buttery smooth tarmac to flowing singletrack and loose, tyre-sucking gravel, mined with rockfests, grunty, off-the-bike pushing and even a hike and bike thrown in for good measure. All set to the zigzag backdrop of North Rockies peaks, jagged and saw toothed in profile, cupping forest and snow within their folds.
Crystal clear water through a hole in a bridge.
Riding alone in the wilderness definitely adds a certain edge to the experience too. I’m at the tail end of those attempting the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route in its entirety – of which there are said to be only 20-30 a year. Maybe I’m even the last one. With September comes the threat of snow, and the approach of the hunting season. The guidebook I’m following offers this handy advice to make yourself known to hunters: wear bright coloured clothing and make lots of noise…
The trails may not all be idyllic and remote like this, but they sure beats hammering down a highway.
In fact, I’m not just carrying a guidebook to consult, but a whole wad of maps too – the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route is completely covered, in amazing detail, by the Adventure Bicycling Organisation. Beginning in the Northern Rockies of Banff, it wends its way down the Dividing Range, emerging finally on the dry and dusty Mexican border: via Alberta, British Columbia, Montana, Wyoming, Colorado and New Mexico. Perhaps the most remarkable aspect about it is the route keeps almost exclusively to gravel roads, forest tracks and backroads, with just a few handfulls of highway miles knitting them all together. As such, it’s a real insight into quiet, backwater America; it veers well clear of major cities for its entire length of 4500kms – or 60-70 riding days. There’s also a list of navigational cues: turn right at the next forest service road (0.6 miles), or camping available by creek (3.4 miles), or tasty pies to be found in Pie Town (yes, this place really exists). Although this level of detail brings with it an aspect of riding by numbers, I’m sure I’d never have found half these trails, let alone connected them, without it.
Excellent maps and cues helps unearth little-used forest back roads, where locals look incredulously as you trundle past.
On departure day, Scott accompanies me to the official start point, behind the gargantuan, Scottish Baronial-themed Banff Springs Hotel, giving me one last pep talk for dealing with bears. It’s at this point, in fact, that I finally get round to snipping the safety zip tie on the bear spray can I’ve been dutifully carrying since Alaska.
And he's off. All packed up and ready to roll.
It’s exciting and daunting – but mainly exciting – to be taking to trails once more; ones that don’t waste a moment roller coasting up and down straight out of Banff, crossing crystal clear streams, and occasionally opening up into open meadows below towering walls of rock. Then I skirt round one placid lake after another; they too are bathwater clear, with that same fake hint of Banff turquoise, revealing submerged bleached trees like skeletal remains, or reflecting in perfect mirror image the row of mountains before me.
Mirror-like reflections you could shave in. If you weren't growing a right-of-passage beard, like me.
The trail delves into thick woodland – sometimes I need to haul my bike over fallen trees – then it joins wider gravel roads, with rare but sometimes fast and dusty traffic. In places the freshly laid gravel is thick and mushy, making progress slow. The sun beats down relentlessly, and dust sticks to my tongue and gums like sherbert.
The path wends its way through forest trails lit by scattered shafts of sunlight.
This little cabin was unlocked, and free for passing hikers and hunters.
So far, I’ve been blessed with fantastic blue sky weather, though the mornings are cold, and an icy crust has begun to crackle around the tent. When I wash up in the morning in a river, my hands become fumbling claws that refuse to defrost until the first beams of easterly light strike the tent, at long last.
The heart warming first beams of sunlight.
I’m feeling increasingly comfortable in my skin of solo riding, though travelling alone does make me feel that more more vulnerable to bears. Of course, I know in my mind that although I may well see them, as long as I follow the standard bear etiquette, the chances are being mauled are probably a whole lot less than being hit by a bumbling, rental RV…
Bear Etiquette: cook well away from your tent, hang your food, and make sure your rubbish is stowed in these nifty boxes.
Yet…. it doesn’t take much to get spooked when you’re alone, and the various signs around tiny Elkford reporting an influx of bears in the ‘town’ centre encourages me to seek a camping spot close to the road. I get chatting to Hank, an ex-miner with a Presley-style quiff drawn miraculously out of his thinning hair, who suggests a spot beyond the long climb that leads of out of town. Apparently, 14 bears had been seen in the streets over the last couple of days, he tells me with a big, happy smile. Let’s hope they’re the same one, I think…
These days, a can of bear spray is my bedfellow.
In fact, the place I find is not far from the mining company’s railway tracks. And sure enough, some time in the early hours, the coal train clunks by. With my head close to the earth, it sounds so extraordinarily loud it that for a moment, I think it might be bearing down upon me. When it honks, needlessly long and discordant, it’s like a church organist slumped on his keys. I peek out of my tent into the dead out of the night, and I’m rewarded with a fabulous view of a rising moon set to a cloudless sky – stars shine brightly like pin pricks of light against a jet black canvas.
The Canadian segment of the ride is full of wild camping spots like this.
The following morning, I disturb wolves, coyotes and elk in the early hours. It’s a beautiful ride, and leads me to Sparwood, home to a monster truck once used in the coal mines that mole their way through these parts. I lean up my bike for a sense of scale, which looks positively Lilliputian next to it.
Tonka truck x 1000.
That reminds me - I must change my tyres.
At the foot of Elk Pass, hunters Mario and Mike show me through their scope a magnificent Rocky Mountain goat, its back arched proudly as it stands on a rocky outcrop. They're after its hide, but luckily it's too far for them to get...
This year, a new diversion to the route avoids a busier but more direct section of highway, veering off wildly up and over a medley of passes into the Flathead Valley instead, one of the most remote parts of the entire ride. Aaron from Adventure Cycling has sent me the cues, but they look woefully incomplete compared to the notes I’ve been following. Seeking brain food – yoghurt, fruit and a box of muffins – I spend some time pondering the merits of this lengthy detour, reading and rereading through my notes, then contemplating my lack of both map and compass.
Of course, in my heart I know that now I’ve thought about it, and talked about it, I’ll have to try it. But I do admit to being a touch nervous; Bearanoia, as it’s called, is itching my skin. For final reasurance, I call Aaron from the sweaty confines of a random, bashed up and fly-ridden phone box near the gates of Corbin Mine. Having ridden parts of the new diversion, he gives me the extra encouragement I need.
And the route certainly is beautiful and remote. I may be late in the season and risk the fall of snow, but at least I’m enjoying the dramatic onset of autumn. A flay of colours, from a palette of burnt yellows and oranges, greets me as I break out of the first pass and descend down to the pebbly, dusty valley floor below, catching up with the last beams of sunlight as they retreat over the hills.
The golden glow of autumn approaches.
Before long, a lone funnel of light sweeps across the valley, like a lighthouse searching for life, leaving a landscape bathed in silhouettes. I bump into Tom, who’s hunted all over the world – in as faraway places as Tajikistan and Eastern Russia. He immediately starts to fill my hands with muesli bars, chocolate, water and, somewhat randomly, even a can of oysters that he rummages around for in his truck. He recommends a spot to camp too, by the river, which turns out to be a blissful pitch with a firepit, an old, rusty chair and a solid, primitive bench. As I set up my tent and cook up food, I sing away to myself, clattering some dishes every once in a while to ward off imaginary hungry grizzly bears.
Between the noise I try to create, I can hear owls coo-ing, and even an elk bugalling – the distinctive call for mates. Initially, my ears at night feel hyper sensitive, straining to decipher each crack of a twig above the flow of river water. Soon though, sleeps gets the better of me; I’ve always felt bizarrely safe in a tent, easily forgetting there’s merely a paper thin wall between me and the outside world.
New life spurts out of the ground in areas cleared by forest fires.
Keeping to my notes, I ride on, deeper into the valley. And despite the occasional encounter with hunters, the sensation is one of complete remoteness. The endless corridors of trees makes me feel suffocated at times, and I’m glad when the track breaks out into a meadow, cleared by fire or felling, and for the relief offered by its big views. I get trigger happy with my bicycle bell – ring-a-ling-a-ling – at anything that makes the merest hint of a noise around me, finger stroking the trigger button in anticipation.
The next pass takes longer to conquer; at the top, I lose the claustrophobia of the treeline, emerging onto a gently undulating plateau, where the remnants of fire-charred, stick thin trees intermingle with new growth, and fresh flowers – bright reds and yellows and blues – and plants that push their way through the space cleared out by fire.
The riot of unexpected colours at Cabin Pass top.
After a long, body jarring descent, I stop off at Ram Creek Outfitters – hunting guides- to see if anyone has any experience of the next part of this route. I’m acutely aware that it’s at this point that I need to take extra care, as I’ll be linking up two defined forest tracks by what appears to be no more than a goat trail. A few hunters are milling about in the sun, while a majestic set of skull and antlers, once belonging to a majestic elk no doubt, are bubbling away in a cauldron. ‘What’s the hunting like at the moment?’ I ask, making small talk, hunting-style. ‘Not too good’, says a gruff lady. ‘Too hot. The animals hide in the shade. Still, makes it harder. Means we’re even.’
Even? Not really, I think. As far as I can see, the animals are just standing there, minding their own business, and you’re sneaking up on them with a rifle, with the intention of popping them one between the shoulder blades, skinning them , chopping them up, then lobbing their head in a cauldron. Even? Let’s just agree to disagree.
Anyway… As I’m not too sure what the camping options are like further ahead, I pull over early at Wigwam creek: I wash in the icy cold waters, clean clothes and call it a day, resting in the shade. I crack open a can of tuna to go with my pasta, which is quickly gulped down. A sudden thought: can bears sniff out a single whiff of fish within the whole forest, in the same ways that sharks might detect a droplet of blood in a vast ocean?
The cairn! The jigsaw comes together.
The subtle indent of singletrack that will lead me to the next forest road. Or so I hope.
Following the markings trailblazed by a hunter.
Then it’s the final push, a rolling, rubbly trail with a beard of overgrown grass between its tracks, which leads me right to the hallowed cairn – a small pile of rock my notes had prophesised. I hike and bike up a steep embankment, shuttling backwards and forwards for my kit, humming away loudly when I can catch my breath, slipping and cursing in the mud, sweat stinging my eyes, tottering under the effort of carrying all my kit up this improbably steep slope. But sure enough, it links me up with another forest service road that climbs ever higher, before abruptly plummeting back down via an eight mile, ear-popping descent – in fact, there’s barely a bend in the road. Fingers off the brakes, build up some speed, and let the wheels roll…
All of a sudden, it seems I’m out of tree cover and dropping fast onto a main road where trucks prowl between countries – it’s the highway that will take me to the US border in just a couple of miles. The change in scenery is astonishing. Gone are the raw peaks, replaced by softer lines, cattle ranches and a beating, oppressive heat. Sweaty and smeared with dust, I fritter away my last 14 dollars of grubby coins on nuts and candy at the lone and empty Duty Free store, digging through my pockets like some semi-feral, grimey creature.
I’ve a dollar left, so make a call to Scott to tell him: I’m alive! I made it! And it feels good…
Back in the USA!
Banff (has someone been messing around with Photoshop?)
September 17, 2009
Just another Banff backdrop. And this one hasn't been photoshopped...
A couple of minutes down from the high street...
When I’m on the road, it’s important to set up a base here and there (and put down some mini roots), as it makes all the difference to staying motivated for the long journey ahead. It’s a chance to break things down, mentally, into bite size segments, as well as recharging the body batteries. I’ve been lucky so far, with wonderful layovers in Anchorage, Whitehorse, Hanes and Sitka.
After what’s felt like a long stretch of almost continuous riding – I haven’t had a day off the saddle in two weeks – I’m glad to be stopping now in Banff. It’s a pause for breath I’ve long looked forward as its symbolises the next major segment of this ride – the Great Divide. And it’s a break that has certainly lived up to my hopes. Especially as I’ve landed with Scott and Naomi, who have plied me with home cooking, showers and a bed, despite being in the throws of moving house. Scott, who rode the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route in 08, has taken time off work, he’s talked me through the ride, jotted down his various findings from last year, lent me a wad of maps, and generally been incredibly supportive. Heading off into the wilds alone can be a little nerve-racking at times, so gentle encouragement is really appreciated.
Bike Nerd Alert: custom Rick hunter with hand bent top tube.
What my old housemate Hat hadn’t forewarned me of, and which came as even more of a pleasant surprise, is that Scott is also a fellow bike nerd. It wasn’t hard to intuit: as soon as I crossed the threshold of the apartment, I spotted a custom Rick Hunter 29er/tourer with a Paragon slider and curved top tube, lavishly adorned with a Rohloff hub, Hope discs, Groovy handlebars and a finishing kit befitting its pedigree – Thomson, White, Brooks et al. Very nice. Naomi’s all white Sycip commuter – as specced by Scott – leant casually up against the wall in the spare room, served only to reinforce this. Bikes are a way of connecting people, and long hours of discussion ensued…
Sycip commuter. All white (practical) glam, with matching Japanese mudguards.
Okay, Bike Nerd Talk over. I’ll revert back to normal English.
It didn’t take long before we were out riding one of Scott’s favourite singletrack loops the following day, a mix of flowy singletrack, cheeky woodland trails and grafty climbs set to sweeping Northern Rockies views. These singletrack interludes to long days of tarmac pounding help give context to the passing days. As energetic as they may sound for what’s officially a ‘day off’, they’re undoubtedly cathartic; all thoughts and concerns dissolve away into the moment of negotiating that slender, shape-shifting thread of trail, unravelling before the blur of a front wheel. It’s all about being in the moment, intercut with blissful scenery and light.
Like the best rides, this one started just five minutes down the road from Scott's front door.
Singletrack: great for toning the mind.
Scott, his Hunter, and not his truck. Scott's a potter and and a ceramic artist. His style isn't dainty; his place is full of beautifully minimal yet chunky and earthy cups and bowls. As an aside, I thought he had a definite hint of Edward Norton to him.
Spending time in Banff also gave me the chance to give my trusty steed, the Santos Travel Master, a belated and much needed service. I changed the oil on the Teutonicaly reliable Rohloff hub gear, cleaned and greased the chain, waxed the Brooks saddle lovingly and cast a critical eye over what I’m carrying – sending a pleasingly volumous bundle of old maps and books home.
I've finally finished this wonderful, remarkable 900 page odyssey. It's tided me over from Alaska to Alberta.
TLC for the Travel Master, at long last.
The reversible Rohloff cog is showing signs of wear. I'll need to flip it as soon as I can. On the tyre front, the Schwalbe Marathon Extremes (in an ample 2.25) are almost worn out; a second are set being sent to Bozeman. Although they're definitely not as tough as the benchmark Marathon XRs, they've survived 6000 kms of dirt track touring here and in France and Cambodia. They're way lighter and grippier too.
Shiny new once again. Out with the slicks and on with the fatties, as gravel roads and forest tracks lie ahead.
I’m definitely carrying more than I’d like, what with all the electronic gizmos – netbook, portable hardrive, lenses and all the rest. In terms of layout, I’m playing around with where everything lives, as I’m trying to keep my bar bag as light as possible – my heavy camera is now being stashed in a front pannier as it has a tendency to make handling squirrely – not ideal on fast, loose gravel descent . Future plans include one of Epic Eric’s custom frame bags and strapping my light but bulky sleeping bag below the handlebars. This way maybe I can streamline my setup to two panniers, and improve off road handling.
Just popping down to the high street.
Banff itself is a remarkable place whose beauty verges on the ridiculous. The glacial river that flows almost straight through its centre is, quite literally, crystal clear, with an undeniably fake turquoise tint. In fact, Banff feels like it’s been Photoshopped by someone overly generous with the Vivid slider. From almost every angle and almost every street corner, rockfaces rise sheer and craggy, luminous in the morning light. Likewise, everyone beams with the healthy glow of living in a mountain resort. I’m glad though to be experiencing this picture perfect town in this ’in between’ of seasons; after most of the summer tourists trawling its trinket shops that line the main street have migrated south, and before the well groomed skiing hordes descend come winter.
Banff. Who'se been messing around with Photoshop?
And a slice of its more obscure history. A perplexed Scott looks upon the Merman, gathering dust at the back of the Indian Trading Post. Legend has it this freaky curio was brought back from Bangkok in 1915 as an oddity to attract tourists.
Now it’s time to take to the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route, an almost uninterrupted 4500km stretch of forest tracks and gravel roads that will lead me right down to the Mexican border…
Ready to roll. The Great Divide Mountain Bike Route: bring it on!
The Icefields Parkway – Jasper to Banff.
September 11, 2009
The Icefields Parkway - the rotund man at the tourist information centre said it was 'the most beautiful journey in the universe. Period.'
I hadn’t actually heard of the Icefields Parkway before I began figuring out the best way to get to Banff, the starting point for the Great Divide mountain bike ride. In fact, it turns out it’s one of the highlights of the Rockies, so it was certainly a very nice perk to what I was expecting to be a rather long slog to Alberta.
The Icefields is a classic bike ride that's particularly popular with roadies. It can be busy at weekends, but at least there's a wide shoulder all the way.
At 230km in distance, and rippled with a couple of 2000m passes, the Icefields boasts World Heritage Site scenery and straddles two national parks. And stunning it certainly is. It’s impossible not to marvel at the incredible, vast icefields that toter between jagged, sawtooth 3500m peaks, or gaze upon the stunning turquoise glacial lakes that appear in every tourist brochure. And each year, half a million people do just that.
Just another view on the Parkway... Move along, move along...
The glaciated waters of Waterfowl Lake.
The clue is in the name.
And there’s the rub. It is a beautiful ride, of course, but with that many people travelling through (mainly in massive RVs) and a string of facilities and picnic spots to soak it all in, the Icefields doesn’t exactly feel like the wildest and most remote place in the world. Added to this, I rode it on Labour Day weekend, the last holiday of the summer. Cue influx of tourist RVs inching their way through the mountains and Harley Davidsons burbling by in convoy, chrome exhausts glinting in the sun, piloted by grey haired men with thick, caterpillar moustaches.
Real men ride bicycles.
As expected, the ski town of Jasper proved to be a real honeypot for tourists, cyclists amongst them. For some time now,I’ve been hearing about a family from the Isle of Skye – travelling on an Orbit childback tandem and a solo bike, both with BOB trailers – so was really pleased to finally get a chance to meet them. They too are headed down to South America, stopping along the way to en sure their 9 year daughter Kate – a Scottish accented version of Little Miss Sunshine – does all her homework!
The alternative family holiday. Arctic to Antartic on a childback tandem.
There too I bumped into Meika and Niko from Germany, and along with Matt, we cycled in convoy to a campsite 30 clicks down the road. Camping in a group makes sense in Canada’s national parks, as fees range between 16 and 27 dollars (you pay for a delightful RV spot, gravel and all), which really adds up if you’re travelling alone. Seeing as my (rarely kept to) budget is around $15 dollars a day, I generally wild camp instead – but that’s not looked upon too kindly by the parks officials.
Cyclists unite! Or at least, share camping spots and save cash.
Matt's Long Haul Trucker, stacked up high, cast iron pan and all.
Matt embraces the climb.
In theory at least, you’re also supposed to fork out another 9 dollars a day to be in the park, though there’s conflicting opinions on whether this applies to cyclists – we liked to think it didn’t, so rode on through the barrier without being yelled at. That night, Matt and I cooked up dinner together; Matt calling upon his incredible larder of spices, condaments, and the trusty cast iron pan he lugs around to rustle up a delicious portion of organic potato and garlic hash browns from Pete’s garden, along with pesto, pasta and a small forest of fresh basil. Washed down with a bottle of red wine… Ah, this is the life!
What have we got here? Percolated coffee, toasted bagels and porridge with chopped fruit. Matt put my (and everyone else's) breakfast to shame.
So I had to up the ante on my offering, using the dehydrated apples Richard and Maggee gave me in Prince George.
With my early-to-start routine, I ended up riding ahead of Matt and the others. Unfortunately, the forecast was for heavy rain over the few days it would take to ride the Icefields Parkway. As it turned out, the sun shone for a good deal of the time, until a storm swept in and vented its fury upon me as I inched my way up Bow Pass, unleashing a wall of rain and dusting the mountain tops with snow. Funnily enough, (in hindesight) it was perhaps when the storm was at it’s strongest that I enjoyed the Icefields the most – it brought out the wild side of the Rockies, a change from this sometimes rather sanitised ride.
Hm. Winter seems to be approaching...
Plus, as I was descending off the last pass from Bow Lake, I spotted the kind of sign bedragled riders day dream about (and don’t quite believe) when they’re utterly soaked from head to toe: ‘Cyclists, come in and warm yourself round the fire.’ Really? Are they talking to me? Intrigued, I turned in at the Mosquito Creek campsite. Camp manager Silvia had seen me earlier that day looking wistfully out at a lone beam of sunlight permeating the murky, inky sky, and figured I could do with drying out my clothes. Not only that, but she was planning on biking in South East Asia over the winter, so we sat down around the wood burner, soon toasty and warm, and chatted about faraway places to ride. Ever the social butterfly, I was even invited by Benoit and his French hiking friends to join them for dinner – so no need to call upon the emergency delights of instant noodles…
That lone beam of sunlight at Bow Lake.
The view from the tent in the morning. It was cold, yes sirree.
Better still, after I’d peeled myself out of my damp, single skin tent in the morning, Elki, their guide, plied me with sandwiches and chocolate bagels and fruit, which tied me all the way through the following day.
A few kilometres before Banff, this view hits you square between the eyes. From the frenetic Trans Canada Highway, no less.
And rounding off this social whirpool, I bumped into three young riders in Lake Louise, cycling 4500kms to Montreal – Nuka, Luc and Julien are mates from school, and just 20 years old. We rode together the backway to Banff, where the incredible baton of hospitality I’ve experienced on this journey was taken over by Scott, who biked the Great Divide Ride with Hat, my old housemate, last year.
Nuka, Luc and Julien. They tore my legs off on the ride to Jasper - my excuse is that I'm an old man compared to them...
More on the turquoise-rivered wonders of Disney-Banff and its majestic primo singletrack soon – in the meantime, feast your eyes on this…
I know envy is wrong, so why do I feel it? Scott's ride: A Rick Hunter 29er/tourer frame, with Groovy bars, Rohloff hub and Hope discs. A Carousel frame bag is on its way. Cue nerdy late night chats about superlight offroad touring, and plans for future bikepacking trips...
Across British Columbia: Prince Rupert to Jasper
September 10, 2009
With 1500kms road kilometres to ride, it was off with the knobblies and on with the slicks. I was planning on averaging 120kms a day, but ended up riding up to 150kms to give me time to ease off for the fabled Icefields Parkway - between the national parks of Jasper and Banff. I generally try not to rush, but winter is encroaching and snow threatens on the Great Divide Mountain Bike Ride, which is the next phase of the journey south.
Now that Dan’s back in Montana resuming his studies, I’m riding alone. He’s been great company – chilled, adventurous and really easy to get along with. Indeed, the last 3500 kilometres together have been really good ones – the epic Haul Road to the Artic, our fantastic singletrack loop in the Kenai Peninsula, and Canada’s Yukon. Good times. See you in Bozeman Dan, for the long awaited Big Night Out!
I know it will take time adjusting to being back on the road by myself, but I also know it will be good for me to cover this distance to Banff alone. There’s a definite sense of strength and independence earned from complete self sufficiency, and having no one to rely on but yourself; it’s empowering.
On the downside, I won’t be able to share my experiences. Motivation can be a challenge when you’re by yourself, and there’s no one to seek reassurance from – all the decisions have to come from within. And it can be very lonely too. On the first long day out of Prince Rupert, it felt like I barely uttered a sound – the lone cyclist can be starved of conversation and hungry for words. Alone or lonely? It can be hard to tell which is which sometimes.
I like checking out what's on the noticeboards of diners, gas stations and small town grocery stores - they offer little insights into the day to day goings on of these communities, and tell stories of their own.
These days, I try and be on the road for 8am, giving me the whole day to ride and relax. I don’t have a cycle computer set up yet, so I keep an eye out for the kilometre posts. They’re marked in 5km intervals, which is good, as it gives a pleasing sense of progress with each one that passes. In my head, I’m continually doing the maths. 120Km at 5km intervals, that’s 24. If I do 140km for six days, that will save me a day. And then I wonder why I’m rushing. I meet someone; I chat for longer than I ‘should’; I enjoy the conversation. And I think: who cares where I get to. I’m not here to be on a schedule but to follow my instincts, to tune into them again, and to let them lead me wherever it feels right. It can be a fine balance; staying motivated and focused on covering the distance ahead – a task that can sometimes feel overwhelming -without closing yourself off to spontaneity and chance.
By day, I listen to podcasts; storytelling, the news that I download as I travel, comedy shows. They inspire me to ride on. At times, the perfect right track will play as the sun flickers through the forest leaves, or as I crest a hill, and during these moments, the whole world seems to slot into place. At night I camp, listening to the rhythmic clunk and whir of the train going by, whose rails rarely seem far away. I lie down, read or write until the light drops and darkness envelopes the words. I know I’ll sleep well.
The road winds on. And on, and on...
The start of the ride itself, apart from a blustery headwind by the lakesides, is stunning. Highway 16 has a generous shoulder on which to seek sanctuary from cars, Rvs and trucks. It meanders between the broad Skeena River and the train line to Jasper. As I ride, I crane my neck to either the massive cedars on one side, or the bare, sheer limestone rockface on the other. White cap peaks poke out behind, adding a real sense of scale to the happenings down below.
This 1949 Ford was for sale. It looked like it had been sitting there for a long time...
From Terrace, the kilometres feel more repetitive. An endless run of cattle farms and lakes and high mountains and pastures and forest and rolling hills. Smooth tarmac unravels before me and I ride quickly, enjoying the speed.
Approaching Smithers. This is farming country, and the landscape is punctuated with enormous wooden barns and ranches.
Small towns appear occasionally. Old fashioned advertising billboards announce their outskirts, adorned with 50s typeface and washed out images. Each house seems to host a fleet of cars in various states of working disorder. Some are curvy Cadillacs from the 50s, others sport dramatic sharkfins. Several sprout long grass from their windows. I like their colours: faded cobalt blues, lime greens and caramel browns. Much of this land is made up by reserves granted to the First Nations. Past the Totem poles of Moricetown, I watch locals dip-netting, drawing a ready supply of plump, thrashing salmon from the waters – easily a dozen each in a matter of minutes.
This is prime salmon time: for locals, who smoke or can them for the winter, visiting fishermen from the States, and of course, hungry bears fattening up before the winter hibernation. In New Hazeltown, Joy and Sherry invited me in for dinner at the campsite. The menu? The finest spring salmon and basmati rice. Lovely! They even sent me off with a generous helping for a picnic the next day.
The closer to Prince George I become, the more trucks and RVs seem to whoosh by, sucking me momentarily forwards and towards them like a fishing boat in the wake of a liner. Sometimes the heavy traffic and incessant noise gets me down. So many cars, so many trucks. The world seems so dependent on them; bicycling seems futile.
When the shoulder disappears, there's not much room for little old me...
But just when the distance ahead seems almost insurmountable and my legs and mind are tiring, an experience livens up the spirits once more: an unexpected, enriching conversation with a passer by, or a small but thoughtful gift at grocery store – some juice, a piece of fruit.
Jay and Michelle, a mapmaker and a tree planter, kindly agreed to pose by this grizzly for a sense of scale. They asked me if I talk to myself while I ride. I had to think a little. No conversations out loud yet, though I do make the odd comment...
This miniature pioneer chapel in Usk could barely seat a dozen people. I'm in no ways a religious person, but it seemed a quiet and peaceful place to sit and contemplate. A bit like biking, really...
In many ways, I love the quiet existence of cycling alone, and how satisfying it is in its simplicity. There’s a deep sense of contentment born from focusing on the simple things life; biting into a sandwich for lunch, or slipping, exhausted, into my sleeping bag at night.
At other times, it’s harder to deal with. I dwell, I ponder, I imagine conversations in my head, playing through different outcomes. Sometimes thoughts are sulphurous. I lift of old stones in my mind and see what’s under them. I question why I’m doing this, and what I’ve left behind. It can be hard to steer my way back to the moment, to clear the clutter and find the present. In many ways, the challenge of riding each and every day feels like trying to meditate. The mind moves quickly and restlessly, yet progress is slow. Adjusting to this pace of life takes time and patience. Resisting the urge to continually hurry on to the next destination can be hard.
As I head inland, the skies cleared and the sun beat down.
The outskirts of Vanderhoof are marked by an enormous timber mill, and the air is palpably heavy with the odour of raw, freshly cut pine and spruce. Trees plucked of their branches and leaves lie in huge piles; an enormous machine with a lobster-like claw picks them up as effortlessly as I would hold a matchstick, feeding them into the mill. A hundred metres later they re-emerge, transformed into equally large piles of planks, as high and deep as the structures they’ll be used to build. This part of British Columbia is very much dependent on the timber industry, and I’m told that the recent economic downturn, and the ensuing effect on building houses, has hit the region hard.
A timber truck thunders past as I fix a puncture - my first in 4500kms.
In Prince George, I stay with Richard and Maggie, who are part of the cycling hospitality organisation Warm Showers, welcome cyclists into their home. They feed me wonderful, fresh food, from a garden full of lush vegetables. It’s a fun, quirky household; when I come back from shopping for provisions for the days ahead, I find Richard in the midst of a reading from Monk – the obsessive compulsive detective – for Maggie and a neighbour who are busy peeling apples – a jam and pies production line. The following morning, I enjoy a yoga and chi gong class in their very own yoga room, the perfect pre-breakfast, pre-ride start to the day.
Children's author Richard and teacher Maggie lead a car free life, which is saying something in Canada. Their house is full of creativity; a splash of colours and papier mashe animals, like the bookshelf in the shape of a giraffe, and the magazine rack that resembles a Zebra. With his volumous beard and stripy braces, Richard cuts quite a character.
I noticed there were more gun and hunting magazines in Prince George than bike magazines...
I camp 130km out of Prince George in a rest area – a clearing with picnic benches and toilets. Info panels give me the lowdown on the area. The nearby Necha-Koh, one of the main tributaries of the salmon-bearing Fraser River, has long been an important corridor for First Nation people, who used to catch fish in nets made of roots, scrape hides for clothing, and hunt deer and moose. There’s a deep sense of connection between man and land, and one sentence resonates strongly: letting the earth heal itself. Giving the earth a rest so the berries will grow again and the fish will multiply.
Still working on the beard...
And talking of berries... Stopping for lunch by the roadside one day, I suddenly remembered I had yet to open the homemade blueberry jam Marnie had given me back in Haines. Delicious! It didn't last long...
My latest addiction: licorice.
That morning I bump into Tom, riding a Surly Long Haul Trucker. He’s been on the road for several months, cycling in Russia, Mongolia and China. Lean and strong, he’s covering enormous distances – and has a 200 miler planned to get him to Prince Rupert on time for a ferry ride. Then, just out of the cute town of Mcbride in the Robson Valley, I meet Matt, 25, from Chicago, also on a Long Haul Trucker. Matt started in Deadhorse, Alaska, and is working his way south until his money runs out. We ride along together that afternoon, chatting easily, and both end up staying at an address he’s been given by someone he met down the road.
With his strong features and squared-off beared, Matt had the looks of a cycling rabbi. In fact, his parents are both missionaries. I thought his quiet but deep and resonant voice would be perfect for radio. On the long descents, he donned his Ray Ban Aviator copies for bug free riding.
Matt has also been working his way south from Alaska. Destination? As far as his legs and money will take him.
It’s an address that leads us to Pete’s Place, a veritable haven if ever I saw one. The grounds exude a mellow vibe and are abundant in organic produce; dotted around the land is an old school bus and caravans for volunteers or travellers to spend their nights. We spend a wonderful evening exploring all the nooks and cranies, and grazing off all the vegetables that sprout from the earth – carrots, potatoes, dill, parsley, turnips, brocolli, basil, garlic, peppers, squash, raspberries, strawberries, the list goes on and on. ‘The greenhouse and garden comes first, and I come second,’ Pete comments, as he shows us around with obvious pride, keen for us to sample everything we see, and pleased we’re enjoying the food so much. ‘Sometimes people are too busy making a living to enjoy life,’ he says.
Pete. A man of warmth and generosity, with a real sense of community.
In his element...
The abode where he welcomes in stray cyclists and anyone who wants to stop and help out on his organic farm.
Straight from mother earth...
Pete is a seed saver, and grows 160 varieties of tomatoes, as well as all kinds of garlic.
The next morning, Pete takes us down the road to the tiny, time-captured grocery store at Dunster; named after Dunster in Exmoor – one of my favourite spots for mountain biking back in the UK. The setting is beautiful: an almost idyllic community settled in the folds of this fertile valley. Apparently a number of hippies moved here in the 70s, and almost every garden seems abundant in flowers, seclusion and food.
Dunster post office and grocery store. When the railroad was built, the stops along the way were named after placenames in England.
The people of the Robson Valley are certainly a green-fingered lot.
The houses there are often open plan, and a have a wonderful, natural feel to them.
It’s hard to leave, but after lunching on fresh jam and food harvested from the garden (and, on Pete’s insistence, filling our panniers with vegetables for the days ahead), we push on. First though, we sign his guestbook, which we notice has been going for over 40 years. As part of the Wwoofing scheme (World Wide opportunities on Organic Farms Workers), Pete’s Place is busy with Europeans working and travelling their way around Canada over the summer. There’s a list of house rules, and one catches my eye: Please feel free to speak your mind in a graceful way. Nicely put, Pete!
Pete's been welcoming in people to his home for over 40 years.
Back on the road, the weather’s taken a turn for the worse and Mount Robson, the highest peak in the Rockies, is lost in a halo of clouds. Soon rain is drumming down hard and relentlessly, like a monsoonal downpour, drenching us to the bone within minutes. The road climbs up gently, keeping us warm, and that night we camp at Lake Lucerne, just 30 kilometres from Jasper. From here, the fabled Icefield Parkway begins…
Next up, the Icefield Parkway...
