Glacier National Park, to the bitter end

Aside from the physical process of riding a bike, of moving through this world and the world moving around you in response, the endless opportunity for discovery, solitude, companionship, self-discovery, challenge, and pretty much everything that happened between the start and the finish of this trip, the purpose was to visit my sister, Amy, in Glacier Park before she finished her summer-long indentured servitude. For the mere pittance of a dank and cramped room to stay and an equally meager wage, she has spent the last four months giving her soul to the thankless world of food service, all for the ever-present but ever-elusive promise of adventure that beckons just outside the door of the almost nonexistent town of St Mary, Montana. As fortune would have it, however, I stood to benefit directly from her sacrifices, by way of a free place to sleep, shower, and shit, and even the possibility of pilfered kitchen goods, to boot. Now I like to think that I am gracious and polite in my acceptance of hospitality, and am sensitive enough to never wear out my welcome, but this, this was different. This is my sister. This is family. There are no welcomes to wear out, so, far from stepping on eggshells, I took the opportunity to stomp around the place with muddy cleats.

By a meticulous amount of laborious planning on both sides, the day after my arrival was auspiciously marked by the return of Shannan, coming in to Glacier by train. By that time, she had managed a couple of weeks of rest and recovery for her knees, and though she wasn't able to continue biking past Victoria, there was little reason for her to miss the grandeur that northwestern Montana has to offer.

And Oh! The Grandeur! Glacier National Park stands as the proud centerpiece of a protected wilderness area sprawling more than 16,000 square miles, collectively known as the Crown of the Continent. Glaciers carve the landscape into knife-edged peaks and scoured valleys, leaving behind a pristine wilderness teeming with impressive megafauna; virtually all species of life which were found when European settlers first passed through the area can still be found today. It is no great exaggeration to say that Glacier Park currently holds the distinction of my favourite place I've ever been (I've visited the park numerous times, living in Missoula as a child, visiting family in my adolescence, and returning as an adult). Though I'd hiked around a respectable amount before, this trip marked my first opportunity to get off the more beaten paths and backpack into the more remote back country which makes up the vast majority of the park, and is only accessible by foot. (Shannan and I had mailed our backpacks ahead to ourselves.)

Glaciers, sheer cliff faces, scree piles, billion-year-old rock formations, stromatolites and fossils, passes, peaks, valleys, forests, tundra, lakes, rivers, all were ripe for exploration.

Wild Goose Island on St Mary Lake.

Elizabeth Lake Valley.

Unfortunately, Glacier only has two seasons: winter, and something that a little less resembles winter. We were timing our visit with the end of the tourist season, arriving at the end of Labour Day weekend; though this drastically decreased the number of people in the park, it had us constantly gambling with the weather, and there were many, many days where we got rained, hailed, or snowed out. Though we came prepared to spend a solid week or two backpacking, we ended up spending the majority of our time going out on long day hikes, and returning back to Amy's place for the night to dry out. The weather was kind enough to let us get a good three-day hike in, but other than that, it proved to be mostly little fits and bursts into the park, rather than the luxurious forays we had envisioned.

Backpacking over Ptarmigan Pass.

No matter the situation, no matter the weather, no matter the duration, we were constantly inundated with the sensational wildlife that surely everyone hopes to glimpse at least once. Mama and baby grizzly bears fed on berries in startlingly close (but safe!) bushes nearby, black bears crossed our paths in search of food, herds of bighorn sheep surrounded our car to lick it clean of salt, and families of moose tromped along the hiking trails just a stone's throw ahead of us. The most sensational sighting of this trip happened not in Glacier, surprisingly, but in the Rattlesnake Wilderness Area just outside of Missoula (we drove down and spent a few days in Missoula for Amy's birthday), where we startled a full-grown mountain lion that was nosing around the banks of a creek. Though they are comparatively common to many other animals I've seen in the wild, sightings of them are intensely scarce due to their secretive and crepuscular demeanour; generally, if you see one, it's only because you're in trouble, i.e., being stalked. It astonishes me, even now as I write this, that such a large animal can be so ubiquitous and simultaneously so well-hidden.

Bighorn sheep ewes out for the "hunt".

I expected to help cover my food expenses while I was there by lending a hand in Amy's restaurant, but they proved to be more than sufficiently staffed. Baulking at the idea of paying for two persons' worth of restaurant fare for every meal for such a long period of time, we ended up working out a system with my sister and much of the rest of the wait staff, whereby they would collect the remains of whatever didn't get eaten by the customers, and this arrangement largely sufficed for the two weeks we were there. Though occasional meals would come up with nothing, more often than not an entire burrito or salmon fillet or salad would make its way onto our plates.

Fishing for a meal in St Mary Lake.

As snow ushered me into the park, so did it usher me out. On our last full day there, the skies let loose the first real snow of the coming winter, and a good eight inches covered Logan Pass, the very pass we needed to cross in order to get to the train station to go home. The plows worked assiduously, though, and we made it through in time to cash in on our tickets home. Though we didn't know this in advance, we ended up scheduling our train the day before the pass closed for the rest of the season, so we barely got out by the skin of our teeth.

Logan Pass, before the storm.

True to form, we made it home, peacefully and predictably. I'm currently up in Seattle for a few days right now, picking up Shannan's bike and visiting some friends, but I'll be back in Eugene to stay soon enough. I'm looking forward to staying put for a while now, bedding down for the winter, and weathering the inevitable 5-month-long storm with a tempest of winter soups and roasted vegetables.

I have a few more things to write about my experiences in Canada, which I hope to do in the next week or so, so feel free to drop back in on me here once in a while. Until then, happy autumn!

Just Like That

The last few days have been rather uneventful ones, post-Ferdinand. I spent that morning replacing my torn tire and blown-out tube from the skid, and sewing up my saddle bag and jacket, and just generally regaining my composure. By the time I was all back together again, I had lost much of the day, and I was already running behind schedule in my goal of making it to Glacier before my sister's upcoming birthday. I decided to hitch a ride to make up for lost time, and to dull the growing monotony of the seemingly endless mountains and valleys. I was carried down the highway by a lovely recently-retired couple from Vancouver Island, who fed me homemade cookies, and laded me with a bag full of produce and salmon sandwiches before parting ways again.

One of many, many passes.

My last night on the road had me climbing into the Rockies, ever closer to the continental divide, the mountainous seam that separates and distinguishes the Pacific and Atlantic watersheds. Wind brewed threateningly, and the smell of rain was on the air. I found a bucolic, abandoned old barn to spend the night in, tucking myself in to a perfect bed of hay, and watched as the clouds continued moving on, revealing the blazing night stars behind them. I slept peacefully and soundly, warm and content, and even more so when I awoke at 5am, liminally aware of the downpour that had belatedly begun outside, accentuating my dry and serene state.

As the downpour continued on through the morning, I met my sister on the road, and got a ride across the border and down to her temporary home of Saint Mary, just outside the park itself. By this time, the rain had turned into a heavy snowstorm, and, antithetical as it may be to the notion of bike travel, I was endlessly grateful for the comfort and amenities that the car offered. I settled in to the pie that has been promised me all summer long, a fresh salad larger than my cranial capacity (insert self-deprecating remark here), and my first shower in almost two weeks of sweat, dirt and sunscreen. It's good to be here, and despite the forecast of continuing rain, I am perfectly content to relax in a dry place for the next few days in good company, and enjoy the simple pleasures.

I may've earned myself some downtime, but, to be sure, this trip is far from over. Stay tuned...

Bowling for Ungulates

My morning began with a light drizzle awakening me from my slumber, instead of the typical first rays of dawn. Fortunately, the clouds were generous enough to hold off on the downpour until I was able to get my gear all packed up and weatherized for the day. Prepared for the morning showers, I climbed onto my bike and started back toward the road, a single-lane, minimally-traveled back country offshoot of Highway 3, nestled in the foothills of the Kootenay Mountains. As the highway wound through a narrow valley bed, virtually every road off it was a climb into the mountains, and this one proved to be no exception. Having done the climbing the previous night in order to find a camp site, I enjoyed the prospect of a quick downhill jaunt back down to the highway, to be back on my merry way.

I quickly built up speed as I descended to the valley floor in the pouring rain. As I made my way around one of the tight bends, though, I suddenly came across a monstrous bull moose who was standing directly across the roadway, legs ever so slightly splayed, peeing in the middle of the road and looking quite content to do so. Much like having a wall appear in front of you as you hurtle down the highway at 40 kph, this was no trivial matter. I quickly jammed on my brakes and tried to swerve around it at the same time, a predictably poor combination, all the more so on wet roads. My rear tire skidded out from under me, and down I went, still careening directly toward the moose, who seemed in no particular hurry to move. It was about at this point that it started looking like the end to me.

It was also at this point, however, that time started moving in slow-motion, as it is fabled to do in dire enough circumstances. I remember sliding under the moose and looking up at it, and, in the same way that that kid from Free Willy must've surely thought during the climactic slo-mo jumping scene, "Oh god, this whale is going to crush me," I thought, "Oh god, this thing is going to come down on me." But as I continued skidding, through the damp mat of hanging hair and through the stream of pee (yes, I was peed on by a moose, okay?), I began to think differently. Indeed, I continued my slide, bike and all, right between those four gangly legs, and on down the road, coming to a stop a few metres past him. (I suppose the combination of the smooth asphalt, the rain and my rain gear turned the whole road into something of a slip'n'slide.)

I quickly scrambled to my feet and wheeled around, yelling, "What the HELL?", and "Have you no sense of self-preservation?" (well, given the circumstances, probably something considerably less eloquent and more profane). The bull turned and glared at me, still peeing, and I quickly realized my place, which was, quite simply, to be scared out of my wits. I hastily hobbled to what I perceived to be a safer distance, and surveyed the damage. Though my gear took some hits (torn saddle bag, ripped bar tape, etc.), I seemed to come out relatively unscathed, save for a sore shoulder, a slightly wrenched back, and an oncoming bout of nausea from the adrenaline.

I looked back up the road at the moose, who had by now sauntered off to the trees. I looked at my iPod, which I had only just put on to an episode of This American Life, and only a small fraction of time had passed. Did that really just happen?

Now, I know that I seem to have missed all four legs, but I'm going to go ahead and chalk that up as a strike anyway. And to you, Mr. Moose, I officially dub thee Ferdinand. May you enjoy a long and happy life sniffing daisies under a peaceful tree somewhere.

Into the Okanagan

Number of kilometres: 1,839

Starting from the touristy town of Hope, the TCT picked right back up again, with a popular and promising section known as the Kettle Valley Railway, a stretch of abandoned rail corridor that passes through the mountains, all the way to Castlegar, more than 600 kilometres eastward. I held high hopes for this stretch, in that it was considerably more established and straightforward than the roundabout winding that the trail had heretofore been doing through more urban areas. It started off with a bang with the Othello Tunnels, one of the most stunning places I've seen in my life.

The Othello Tunnels in Coquihalla Canyon Provincial Park are a relic of one the most hubristic engineering feats in rail history. Andrew McCulloch, chief engineer of the KVR (one hundred years ago), was determined to carve a railway route through the treacherous canyon, contrary to other engineers' opinions about whether or not it could be done. McCulloch spent weeks dangling in a woven basket suspended from ropes on sheer cliff faces, chipping away ledges to set up surveying equipment. In the end, he successfully built four tunnels in quick succession, attached by two bridges, while achieving the status as the most expensive mile of railway to build in the world. McCulloch was something of a Shakespeare aficionado, and in addition to entertaining his workers with the Bard's tales by evening firelight, he named many of the railway stops after his characters (I passed through Juliet, Romeo, Portia, Jessica, Lear and Iago). The result of his work was truly unbelievable, even while standing in the middle of it.

The Othello Tunnels.

Unfortunately, the trail quickly descended to its usual state soon thereafter, and after getting lost twice, rescued by several phone calls to Google Maps, and a particularly difficult stretch that took me the better part of a day to make a mere 22 km, I decided once and for all that I am officially done with the Trans Canada Trail; there is simply no reason to continue putting myself through the hell that this trail provides, not on this trip, and not on this bike. So it's back to the highways for me, hurray! I am much, much happier at the notion of riding on the familiar pavement once more, my nose raised to the wind instead of buried in a book that's dictating the adventure I'm supposed to be having. We now return from Scott's Cycling Slog to our regularly scheduled Biking Blag.

Passing through the Northern Cascades and back to Highway 3, I entered the familiar Okanagan Valley, where the aggressively verdant forests of the west gave way to the more subdued sagebrush of the east, and fruit trees, fruit trees, fruit trees. Whereas Vancouver gets more than 100 centimetres of rain per year, the Okanagan, hiding in the rainshadow of the Cascades, gets less than 30. Of course, much of those 30 would opt to fall as soon as I got here; the last two days have been a soggy, wet affair. As I descended in the valley, wildfires raged in the mountains alongside the highway, but the smoke intermingled with the clouds to become an indiscernible fog amoungst the trees.

The Okanagan Valley.

I stopped in the city of Keremeos for a reprieve from the rain, but the only laundromat in town was closed, for the owner's wife was in labour. I settled into a nice little French bistro, where I quickly discovered a teeming population of wayward youth in an otherwise backward little town. Turns out Keremeos is something of a mecca for cultural flotsam, bringing in people from all over the country for a summer's worth of fruit picking, and slow country life. I met some lovely folk who offered me a free place to camp, and even some work picking pears if I wanted it, but I was determined to get over the upcoming Richter Pass, and hopefully out of the rain.

The appropriately-named Spotted Lake.

After spending an entire morning tied up in the eternal balagan of international commerce and banking, I decided that the easiest solution to my monetary crisis would be to just pop back over the border to Oroville, WA, and try and work out my banking woes here. (While waiting for the financial gears to do their grinding, I ran into an old roommate from Seattle, Chelsea, who now lives 'round these here parts.) After one more stop at the bank, it's back up to Canada for me, where an eastward highway, a nice tailwind, and maybe even some sun to dry my sodden feet await me. Ah, life is good, once more.