Eat, Sleep, Ride

by Paul Howard

  The outskirts of Sparwood, criss-crossed by railroads and strewn with workshops, revealed just how much the town, like Elkford, owed to its proximity to major coal mines. It was bigger and busier, however. It also had a certain sense of civic pride, made evident by the prominence afforded on the way into town to one of its most famous inhabitants. The mustard-coloured ‘Titan’, or to be more accurate a Terex Titan 38-19, was, at the time of its construction in 1974, the world’s biggest dump truck, capable of hauling 317 tons of coal or earth in one load. The display signs nearby proudly boasted of its 236 ton net weight, 66 foot length and 23 foot height (56 foot when the tipper body was raised – higher than a Brachiosaurus). Modern designs and more efficient hauling techniques had rendered the Titan redundant, however, even if it still found a useful role in its enforced retirement as a draw for tourists. I wondered if Sparwood and Elkford would be able to say the same when the coal supplies had been exhausted.

  I drew inquisitive glances from local residents as I hosed down my bike at a car wash and then booked into the town’s second-best motel (out of a choice of two). It had been recommended by ‘BlackBerry Ken’ due to its relative cheapness and the fact that it had a Chinese restaurant next door. I took a bath, simultaneously washing my already filthy cycling kit, and hung out my still damp tent to dry. Cadet and Jeff arrived and we went for dinner. Rick declined to join us, insisting he had to find a pizza restaurant, even if it meant cycling a mile uphill into town, and Martin had already decided he needed the laundry facilities provided at the town’s other motel at triple the cost. He obviously intended to keep his kit as pristine as his panniers.

  Just as we were about to go into the restaurant we saw Deanna cycling past in the wrong direction. Of course, it turned out only to be the wrong direction if you were not stopping for the night as we were.

  ‘I need to keep going so I can get a bit of a head start for tomorrow,’ she explained.

  Rather sheepishly, I asked where she intended to stop.

  ‘Oh, I’ll just bed down at the side of the road. It’ll be fine.’

  Our guilt at our apparent indulgence and lack of adventurousness knew no bounds. Deanna was right about the difficulties of what lay ahead. The new route through the Upper Flathead valley consisted of 105 miles of rough going, with a complete absence of services or any other form of civilisation. I told myself that a good night’s sleep and a big meal would be more beneficial than a head start, but it seemed like hollow consolation.

  Peculiarly, the sense of guilt lasted only as long as it took to inhale the appetising aromas from inside the restaurant. As we tucked in to chicken chow mein, sweet and sour chicken and stir-fried vegetables, my stomach having temporarily decided that a full repast was the only antidote to its ongoing tribulations and my mental unease, we were joined once again by BlackBerry Ken.

  ‘After you left, eh, I just got to thinking about having a Chinese meal, eh, and then I couldn’t stop, eh, so I decided to see if you guys had made it here, eh, and wish you good luck for the rest of the ride.’

  CHAPTER 6

  ............................

  WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE

  DAY 3

  The phoney war had ended. Partly through choice, but mainly through necessity, the first two days had been something of a gentle introduction to the rigours of the Rockies. The previous day’s Upper Elk valley may have seemed remote, but it was only the uppermost 40 miles that had been left undisturbed by main roads and the Trans-Canadian railway. Even then, mining and logging activity had penetrated another 25 miles up the valley from Elkford.

  The Upper Flathead valley, by contrast, is unique in southern Canada in its isolation. It is the only low-altitude valley to have resisted permanent human settlement or opening up to through-transport. In spite of this, it has been under relentless pressure from mining companies.

  Aside from its isolation, which on its own was a major preoccupation for cyclists faced with 100 miles of solitude, the valley also represents a unique wildlife habitat, particularly dangerous wildlife. According to Flathead Wild, the group campaigning to have the area classified as a national park, the Upper Flathead supports a greater diversity and abundance of carnivores than any other area in North America. That means not just brown and black bears (there are estimated to be 100 grizzlies alone), but also mountain lions, wolves, wolverines and lynx (there have been no recorded human fatalities caused by these last two creatures, but they both possess lots of sharp teeth and I was keen not to establish a precedent).

  Then there was the fact that the Upper Flathead was new to the Tour Divide this year, having previously been excluded from the official route for being too inaccessible. The area was served by a handful of rideable forest service roads, but there had always been a missing link for through-cyclists. The possibility of such a route had provoked much debate on the Tour Divide website until, two weeks before the start, the following had been posted:

  The preliminary news is in from Flathead reroute scouts, Bill and Kathy Love of Whitefish, MT. The beta can be reduced to one critical word: Singletrack! They spent the greater part of three days sussing out the passes and looking for a connector between Wigwam Forest Service Road and Rabbit-Phillips Forest Service Road. They returned with exalting news: confirmed trail between the two FSRs. It was getting pretty tenuous at two weeks out from TD’s grand depart, so the beta comes as grand relief. 2009 Tour Dividians will, indeed, be rewarded with first tracks along this remote backcountry passage.

  I didn’t know what beta meant, but clearly the real adventure was about to begin.

  At 5 a.m. the alarm sounded. By 5.05 a.m., Cadet had put the coffee machine on as I measured out the cereal bought from the poop-a-scoop section of the supermarket. I congratulated Cadet on what was a cheering, domesticated scene.

  ‘That don’t offend my sensibilities none,’ he replied, which I took as a sign of approbation.

  Packing after a night under canvas had been something of a trial. The luxury of a roof over our heads meant we were ready to leave in little more than half an hour, except that Cadet had to resign himself to another delayed start after realising he had left his sunglasses in the motel’s reception. Given his decision the previous night to off-load a large proportion of his more essential belongings (bivvy bag, sleeping bag, camping mat) in pursuit of a leaner, meaner set-up this seemed a curious decision.

  ‘They’re prescription sunglasses. I’d like to see the bear that’s about to eat me,’ he explained, not unreasonably.

  Once again it was below freezing as I rode back to the route. The first hour, as the sky slowly brightened into day, was along a traffic-free main road, then a perfectly smooth spur leading to a vast coal mine. I passed Bruce, who had arrived late into Elkford, and then Rick, both of whom were clearly better at early mornings than me. There was no sign of Deanna, but nor was there evidence of any bears having feasted at the roadside.

  On the approach to Corbin, the pressures facing the Upper Flathead were all too plain to see. The enormous coal mine had provided the metalled road for which I had been hypocritically grateful. It had also lopped off the top of one of the nearby mountains, and created a dense network of access tracks through the neighbouring forest. Then there was Corbin itself, a camp for peripatetic miners of the sort I would have insisted had died out at about the time of the Pony Express had it not been arrayed in front of me. The decomposing remains of mine machinery were hardly picture postcard material.

  My cheerless reverie was disturbed as I rounded the next bend to find the way blocked by a train, parked rather inconsiderately across the road. Actually, to describe the obstacle ahead of me as simply a train would be misleading. I now realised that I had been cycling past the train’s coal trucks, partially obscured by some desultory trees at the roadside, for the past couple of minutes. Further ahead I could count another 25 wagons before they disappeared from view around a bend. I had come to the Rockies prepared for all manner of obstacles, but this w
as something new.

  I began to consider my options. They seemed strictly limited. The map revealed no alternative route, leaving the equally unappealing prospects of waiting for the train to clear the road or finding a way through it. I couldn’t help but think of Molly, Benjamin, Thomas and Freddie’s likely delight at such an obstacle. Freddie, in particular, was a considerable fan of the ‘troublesome trucks’ that frequently wrought mischief and mayhem in the Thomas the Tank Engine stories.

  Had I been a mere pedestrian, crawling under the trucks would have been an option, but there was insufficient headroom for a bike. I shuddered at what would happen if it or I became stuck. Negotiating the gap between two wagons seemed the best bet. I approached cautiously. The area below my shoulders was made impassable by the mass of couplings, hoses and chains that connected the two wagons together. Above that, however, the back of each wagon had a narrow metal walkway that provided a potential route to the other side. The difficult part would be lifting the bike that high in the first place and ensuring it remained there while I climbed up to join it. Cyclists may be blessed with strong legs and enviable lung capacity, but upper body strength is often most noticeable by its absence.

  I was just about to test the extent to which my arms had become as useless as those of Tyrannosaurus Rex (relative to the rest of its impressive physical attributes – I didn’t imagine a T-Rex would have had too much trouble picking up my bike) when Rick arrived, accompanied almost immediately by a crescendo of clanking. The flippant suggestion that it might have been his bike making such a terrible noise was instantly dismissed from my lips when the train – on which I was still leaning – started to move. The din was tremendous. It sounded like an iron leviathan being woken from the sleep of ages. Great, metallic booming noises shot up and down the valley as it began its slow, lurching progress. I was glad I wasn’t balanced on a wagon walkway.

  After five minutes of grinding and groaning, our vexation had become considerable. An early start was being squandered, and we still had the best part of 90 miles ahead of us if we were to avoid an impromptu night in the wild, all because of a train on the road. Then, the monster before us ground to a halt. In less time than it took to say ‘now’s your chance’, 63-year-old Rick had rolled back the years and leapt onto the couplings.

  ‘Pass me a bike,’ he instructed.

  I tried, and failed, to pass him his own bike. It was a good deal heavier than mine. At my second attempt I was more successful. It wedged nicely onto one of the walkways. Rick kept it steady while I clambered between the pair of them, jumped down the other side and lifted it off. One down, one to go.

  Even motionless, the train shuddered and juddered alarmingly. I reached my bike and fortuitously managed to wedge it, unmoving, in the same spot, jumped up and over and then retrieved it. Rick clambered down and we endeavoured to regain our composure. Instead, we descended into a fit of giggles of which my boys would have been proud. In the freshness of the early morning we exhaled plumes of spent breath that could have been smoke from a steam engine.

  ‘That was fun,’ said Rick. ‘Mind you make sure to tell your dad that I didn’t make you do it.’

  We set off again and began climbing through the woods towards the Upper Flathead valley. The sun was starting to win its battle against the chill of the night. It promised to be a hot day.

  After cresting the pass a long, rough descent beckoned. Judging by the state of the creek at the side of the trail there had obviously been recent, heavy rain. In fact, on several occasions the stream became so frustrated by the confines of its natural course that it decided to annexe the rocky path too. At times, the water through which it was necessary to pass made riding impossible. Either it was too deep and fast-flowing, or it had shifted the shingle and created patches loose enough to snare passing bicycle wheels. Or both. The cold on feet and straining calf muscles was like a knife.

  Once in the bottom of the main valley, it was immediately clear why it was deemed such a special area. The rough track apart, there was no sign of human intervention. Instead, having succeeded in resisting the overwhelming tree cover of forests grown for timber, it retained a shifting mosaic of floodplains and scrub woodland, in which no doubt lurked all the area’s dangerous animals. Yet for all its isolation, the succession of open areas and the variety of shrub and tree species created a much more welcoming, less intimidating aspect than yesterday’s man-made austerity.

  Effort and aesthetics combined to create an equilibrium that on its own provided an explanation, if any were needed, for the motivations for such physical endeavour. I rode down the valley in a trance.

  The temperature continued to rise. After a couple of hours I stopped in some shade for an early lunch of Pepperoni, pitta bread and raisins. Rick rode past. Shortly after what passed for the main meal of the day I caught him again as we finally turned away from the Flathead and began the climb of Cabin Pass. Appropriately enough, we soon passed a log cabin. The door was ajar and, in spite of the heat of the day, smoke was emanating from the little chimney. Outside stood two backwoodsmen who looked for all the world as if they might have been living there since the days of Davy Crockett. Except for the large pick-up truck parked next to the cabin. We exchanged greetings and realised how comfortable a night spent there would have been.

  Sensing the effort that was to come, Rick decided to stop for a breather. Just as he did so, Cadet arrived, now reunited with his sunglasses. He had clearly been cycling well and was full of Texan good humour, providing a timely fillip in the midday sun. We had now descended to only a little over 4,000 feet, lower than the start in Banff, and the temperature reflected this.

  ‘I just knew I had to git rid of some stuff, and since I did I been a-cruisin’,’ he enthused from under the brim of his sun hat, scarcely seeming to have broken sweat.

  I explained that weather like this in Yorkshire occurred only once every ten years at most.

  ‘This ain’t hot,’ he smiled. ‘This is just a little appetiser for real desert heat.’

  His promise that I would enjoy New Mexico’s dry heat rang a little hollow.

  The road up Cabin Pass began under dense tree cover and in considerable humidity. Chewy sweets from my back pocket and sweat from my brow offered a reprisal of last night’s sweet’n’sour. Gradually, the tree cover reduced and the spectacular, snow-rimmed crest of Inverted Ridge mountain came into sight on the left. The purity of the air intensified the sun’s rays. Near the top I realised I could see a mirage – a cyclist riding and then walking ahead of me. In fact, it wasn’t a mirage, it was Deanna. She had clearly survived her night alone in the wild.

  As I panted my way up to her it became apparent that, while I had discarded all but the clothing strictly necessary to maintain my decency (even in the wilds one must have standards), Deanna was wearing considerably more: waterproof overtrousers and a windproof smock, with several more layers hidden underneath.

  ‘Aren’t you hot?’ I spluttered.

  ‘I’m just fine,’ she smiled serenely. ‘It’s only 92 degrees on my bicycle computer.’

  I felt strangely reassured – at least I wasn’t making it up. The gradient eased and we exchanged photo-taking opportunities.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask why you’re riding that bike?’

  ‘Everyone asks, it’s not a problem. I just like it. It’s awesome. It’s so simple, and I can get a really good rhythm on the flat on it. It stops me from going too fast, which is great for endurance rides.’

  ‘But what about the hills?

  ‘I just get to 4 mph and then stop. I can push the bike almost as quickly as that anyway.’

  And about as quickly as you can ride with all your fancy gears, she might have added after our experience the previous morning on Elk Pass.

  ‘But you can’t even freewheel downhill,’ I persisted.

  ‘No, and I broke off my front brake before the start in Banff so I only have the back brake. I get to do some awesome skids.’

  In
spite of this chastening exchange, I was beginning to feel confident that the day would end successfully. The only remaining concern was the heat. We had begun to descend the other side of the pass, a descent in which I came to resemble even further a lobster in a pot as the cooking water surrounding it came slowly to the boil. When it became clear that the turn up the Wigwam valley would lead to another upstream slog, without the beneficial cooling effects of a significant gain in altitude, I decided to take action.

  After the success thus far of having asked the fates to let me see one bear – at a safe distance – and no more, I ventured to make another Faustian pact. This time, I decided to ask for some cooling rain. The fluffy clouds ahead looked promising, if I could make it there before heat exhaustion set in. I should have known better.

  I was on my own again. The smothering humidity continued to build, and my yearning for refreshment from the heavens grew. Yet it was quite clear that I had become like a moth drawn to a flame. No sooner had I made my compact with the devil than the clouds ahead had transformed seamlessly from visions of cuddliness into bastions of battleship grey. Worse, they had now adopted the terrifyingly familiar shape of an anvil, on which it was obvious Thor was about to beat out his particular form of devastation. The only question was when. Far away, on the other side of the valley, I saw a teepee; then I realised that in this valley, of all places, it must have been a genuine wigwam.