Lotsa rivers also means lotsa fishing and the World Fly
Fishing Championships are held every year in Kamloops. This year, people from
over 19 countries flocked here to compete in the fishing tournament in one of
the hundreds of lakes and streams surrounding the town.
I ride past plenty of farmer’s fields. There are black
awnings covering the fields that go on for miles. The awnings cover endless
fields of ginseng, which has become a massive cash crop in the area. They even
have their own brand of cattle around here.
I motor in looking for a food store. I buy blueberries,
nectarines, yogurt, and an apple pie. That’ll feed me or while.
I ride along hoping it doesn’t rain. I find my turnoff and
head south. To my dismay, the storm sits right smack dab in front of me. Turning
back and forth on a windy road, somehow I again skirt the second storm of the
day. I head eastward and it begins to sprinkle a little coming into the town of
Faukland.
Then it just hits me like a brick wall. This is it. This is
one of those towns. My all time favorite list. Kind of small though, I can’t
even find it on the map. It’s quaint and short, with the strangest feeling as
you drive through. It has a lumberyard, hardware store, and a rodeo arena. That’s
it. That’s all there is to it. I am so excited, I turn around and drive
through the town again. This is the only the third time in the last almost
20,000 miles of traveling across this continent this has happened. Just the
most beautiful little town, the kind people would give anything to get out of
the big city and settle in. The first time this happened it was Kiowa, Colorado,
and then Ashdown, Arkansas. Then I turn back around and head down the hill to
Vernon.
It’s getting dark and the storm clouds are chasing the sun’s
fall into the horizon. The clouds are all low, dark and foreboding. In the
distance, they extend all the way to the ground and other times bump against
mountaintops. As I ride through Vernon on the north end of Okanagan Lake, there’s
a tiny sprinkle. I debate putting the rain suit on as I ride through the
downtown area. I can see now that I’m heading right into a thundershower.
Vernon is a town of about 80,000 people and the big towns are getting more
frequent and larger. I am dropping out of the northern wilderness that I have
become accustomed to. I am slowly working my way south and am only 140 miles
from the United States border.
I ride down Main Street watching the lightening show in front
of me but no rain. I am not even sure if I’m on the right road as I pull out
of town and head for Lumby. Deeper into the mountains, the road becomes slower,
twisting its way along. I am only traveling 30 to 35 miles an hour around the
hairpin corners. Night falls and I can’t see anything. I realize that I am no
longer so far north to enjoy the very long days with all that wonderful
daylight.
I peer over the windshield at the unfamiliarity of Highway 6
as it winds through the mountains up and over 3935 foot Monashee Pass. I spot a
deer standing at the edge of the road. It just stands there as I ride by. I
round a corner at the town of Needles and there is a free ferry to get across
Lower Arrow Lake to Fauquier. I study the map with my flashlight as the ferry
makes its way to this side of the lake.
I figure only a half-hour till Nakusp to the north, the next
major town. It’s 10:15 p.m. The oldster in the rusted out pickup asks where I
am headed as I refill my tank. We make small talk waiting for the ferry. The
bike has been running on empty the last few miles, but I don’t ever worry
about running out of gas. The lights of the ferry coming across the water to us
are the only lights I can see anywhere.
The ferry picks everyone up and slides across the narrow
mountainous lake. For seven minutes, the only sound is that of the ferry as it
burbles on to the other side. Unloading and underway, I use the guy in front of
me as my guide as the mountain road becomes even more twisty as we wind our way
along the side of Upper Arrow Lake on the west edge of the Valkyr Mountains. I
can’t see the lake or much of anything for that matter and it takes all my
concentration to keep up with the van in front of me. It takes well over an hour
to make the 35 miles to the next town.
The sky in especially dark, no moon, no stars and I can’t
see a thing out here as it begins to get rather foggy. After what seems like an
eternity, we finally reach Nakusp and I turn and continue southward on Highway 6
at the edge of town. The plan is to head for Rosebery Provincial Park down the
road somewhere. It doesn’t look far on the map but my companion the weather
has other plans.
Leaving the town, it begins to rain, no gentle dribble, but
to just pour forth at first. What is with this cloud burst stuff up here? Have I
just never noticed this before? I can’t see anything riding along. The rain
settles into a steady downpour after the cloudburst. I begin to lapse into that
lone traveler depression that happens every now and then. I think of all the
people that surround me safe and warm in their homes as I ride by the lights in
the window. Then there is this odd traveler guy wandering around Canada on a
motorcycle.
I become so disorientated, I am again not even sure if I'm
on the right road. I have to a stop and pull out my military issue crook neck
flashlight. I stand at the side of the road and stare at the map illuminated in
the dim beam feeling cold and wet. Rain falls down in a steady pulse. I wipe
away the raindrops from the top of the zip loc bag. My scotch tape is starting
to curl back. Usually each morning I heap the tape on in a fan shape at each
corner of the bag. So far it is holding. The bike idles quietly as steam rises from the
mufflers and motor. The headlight shines down the mountainous road and then
nothing. No landmarks, no large signs saying, "Tim, over here." There
isn’t anything to do but go on. I can’t make heads or tails of the map. I’
m not exactly lost, but I have no idea where I am either. It can be easy to get
disorientated at times. The weather isn’t helping.
There is no going back. Go back where? I finally spot the
campground on the map, but it is hard to tell distance, I am simply using the
provincial map and British Columbia is a rather large province. I swing a leg
over the idling bike and start off.
Beneath me, the road is slick and wet. It twists through
bends I can’t see around. I sit up straight and peer over the wet windshield
inching along. The wind plays with drops forming on the edge of the shield. They
break free, big wet drops, and smack me in the face. Woe is me, woe is me. This
sucks. I am getting very wet. The motorcycle kicks up water from the tires and
it climbs the fabric of my pants. My combat boots are saturated with wetness.
The water saturates my leather gloves to the point where I can squeeze water out
of them. I keep them on because without them, the cold wet air would strip them
of their strength. No hand strength would end my ability to work the controls on
the handlebars.
When I peer over the windshield, the visor of my helmet fogs
and becomes hard to see through. I have to lift it up to see in the illumination
of the headlight off the shiny wet road. Rain drops go streaking by in the beam
of the headlight. Driving rain pelts my face and the wetness clings to every
part of me. Even inside the rainsuit, when I sweat it just sits there with no
place to go. It is miserable. I begin to wonder why am I doing this? Why am I
out here? I am on a 60 mile per hour road in the middle of nowhere in the middle
of the night. It’s pouring rain and the bike is rolling along at 25 miles per
hour.
I don’t see other cars for some time. Finally making it to
Rosebery Provincial Park, it is still raining steadily. Pulling in, I circle the
campground. Every single space is full. There is no way I am going to leave and
keep going. I ride through again finding a narrow spot between two campsites and
pull the bike to the side of the road. I reach up, shut the key off and feel as
though I am going to collapse. I am cold, uncomfortable, depressed, wet, and
absolutely exhausted.
I am so tired, I clamor off the bike and just fall to the wet
ground on my back like a dead guy. Still wearing the helmet and yellow rain slicker,
I flip down the shield of the full-face helmet. Exhaustion brings a restless sleep as the rain falls
down upon me. I’m just this body lying there flat on my back sprawled out on a
bed of pine needles. No tent, no shelter, just a lifeless body lying there in the rain.
Awaking at 2 a.m., there's no sense of time. Has it been 20 minutes or 2 hours laying on the ground? I am so dazed and out of it. Forgot to look at the time
when I arrived.
A tiny shred of instinct emerges. Pulling my sodden self off the ground, out comes my military issue
poncho, and I wrap myself in it over the top of the rainsuit like a cocoon. Too exahausted for anything else, back I go laying
flat on my back in full gear on the soggy ground still wearing the helmet and lapse into a restless sleep. The falling rain pats and pitters against the poncho, a moist rythmic cadence. At 3:30 in the
morning, the shivering won't stop, and soon becomes uncontrollable waves. It gnaws me awake. It's incredibly cold lying on the ground, a sort of clamy cold that stealthily seeps inside you.
Everything is damp and a mist hangs low in the air. The bed of plants that surround me are covered in
wetness and the thick trees above let loose of droplets each time a light gust
of wind blows by.
The rain has stopped though and I take the time to get out
the sleeping bag and mat. The temperature has dropped as the storm passes over and everything is very still. There's no movement, no sound in the dark of night. I peel off the rain suit and climb into the sleeping bag, full leathers,
chaps, boots, everything and just pull myself into a fetal position shivering away trying to get warm. Covering myself with the poncho again, I doze into the same
restless sleep. Awaking two hours later at 5:30 a.m. just as it begins to get
light out, I open my eyelids just enough to realize where I am. Then I zip the sleeping bag back up and begin to imagine what lies ahead. |
