Friday, July 3, 2009

Back home - trip thoughts

Putting perspective on an experience is a bit like looking in the rear view mirror of time while still keeping an eye on the view in front.

In five days of driving, we travelled 2190 km. If we covered that amount of road going in a straight line, we'd have made it to Thunder Bay.

In five days of driving we saw several black bears, several deer, several chipmunks, several cattle, several horses, several dogs, a few cats, a few loons, a few ducks, a few eagles, a few trout jumping and a fox. Those are live creatures by the way. If we add in the taxidermied specimens and roadkill the list is more extensive.

In five days of driving Dad won 23 jelly beans and I won 22. The highest praise a bean can receive (another old family saying) is "That's a good quality bean" and these were good quality beans. The flavours were, shall we say, robust, with licorice leading the way in the "I can smell that from here!" category of scent. We both agreed that we never could (and still can't) figure out exactly what flavour 'pink' is supposed to be. Anyone?

In five days of driving we saw the landscape change from lush valley to verdant riverside to dry hills to high grassland to mountain vistas to humid rainforest, and back again. And we only went a third of the way up the province.

In five days of driving we talked about the concurrent hockey draft, our various strategies for picking horses, Dad's golf game, my theory of the difference between being smart, clever, intelligent, intellectual and wise. We recounted familiar family histories and filled in the gaps on other ones. I learned more about how he got the name "the Bing Crosby of Maple Ridge" (he won a singing contest with 'Galway Bay', and bought a record player with the winnings), how he has dealt with various situations, both happy and sad, in his life. I learned about the names, stats. and histories (where from, where gone) of sportsmen and 'women in hockey, baseball, football, basketball, soccer, track and field, boxing, tennis, etc. etc. who participated in the 50s and 60s and 70s and 80s and 90s. I did not learn how he can remember all that. I hope he learned something about me.

In five days of driving we didn't have any grand visions on the meaning of life, nor make any earthshattering revelations to each other that would change our relationship. We shared our thoughts and opinions as we have always done, we listened to each other and agreed or not as we have always done, we repeated ourselves and laughed at our own foibles as we have always done and we talked about all the other members of our family with love and candour as we have always done. Without saying it explicitly we both felt lucky to be able to do such a trip together, to be alive, healthy and stress-free (although never worry-free - that's a birthright in my family!). We are grateful for the people who love us and whom we love, for the years of sharing time together in the past and the prospect that there will be many more years of the same in front of us. My father is a man of principles and talent - his daughter is a woman of ideas and capacity - together we are a force.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Day 5 - June 30 - Clinton to Vancouver

You could do worse than end up in Clinton. Neat, tidy, clean and welcoming in a brusque sort of way. The town is like its cafe: 'cordial'.After a quick stop at Hat Creek Ranch, a historic gold rush era stop to buy M some gold, we followed perhaps the most beautiful piece of road on the trip. Running between the Fraser river and the Coast mountains, the road along the Marble Canyon passes the romantically named villages of Pavilion and Fountain. There are several little lakes the colour of Thailand's seas - tourquise, malachite, azure. Rocky hills rise in steep cliffs that display their own part of the rainbow's spectrum - rust, ochre, pewter - with dark green conifers dotted here and there where they can form a root system and take hold. A cats cradle of electric cables perform a feat of daring in their quest to turn on lights along the valley.
The only time I ever hear the name "Lillooet" is when the nation's hot spots are read out on the weather report in mid-July or so. In actual fact, Lillooet is another surprisingly impressive little town with friendly people, umpteen restaurants and a honey empire of all things.

Stuck behind RVs while waiting for the ashphalt truck to move on (summer in B.C. - it's all about roadworks!) we had ample time to get a good look at the Cayoosh creek gurgling past time after time as the road looped over it (or the creek looped under it), lupins and wild tiger lilies blooming up a storm and black mountains with their shock of white glacier peeking in between the dry, pine strewm hills in the foreground. We ate mountain mix and played our last game of the Jelly Bean Travel Game (Dad won 3 games to 2 - he truly is the Jelly Bean King)











But we really felt we were on the way home when we stopped in Pemburton for lunch. I had a chi-chi warm potato salad with heritage greens and asparagus, overseen by brand new condos sporting wellness centres and cappuccino bars. There was nothing for it but to declare the roatrip done and join the hordes on the road past Whistler, past Squamish, past Horseshoe Bay and over the bridge into the city we both know so well.

Day 4 - June 29 - Bella Coola to Clinton - part B

We could have taken the ferry from Bella Coola to Port Hardy and driven down island, but we know the island well and besides, on a roadtrip, that would be cheating. So we turned around and retraced our steps after breakfast, which was eaten outside looking at waterfalls crashing down rock faces and listening to the cold, glacier-green Bella Coola river rushing past behind the trees.

Dad drove the hill in reverse which indeed proved easier. More spectacular too as it was a clear view. Context is always a necesary and oft missing element in photos of an exciting experience - this will have to do: We made few stops on the 6 hour drive back along highway 20. One was to see Anahim Lake, birthplace of Montreal Canadiens' hotshot goalie Carey Price, whose mom is the chief of the town. Seeing this place makes you realize what it takes for some people to rise above, let alone succeed in life. Kick butt next year Carey!

Another stop was to see the native cemetery at Redstone, a higgeldy-piggeldy collection of wooden and metal grave enclosures watched over by a bright blue and white statue of Mary. Heartbreaking to read of so many who didn't live to even 10 years.

We went through a hail storm along the way and I was glad yet again to have added more clothes than I would usually take on such a short trip. Lunch in Alexis Creek was in a charming old building-turned-restaurant and run by a hardworking and friendly Anja who hails from Hamburg. To honour her hard work we had hamburgers - buffalo hamburgers. Also the heartiest beef noodle soup we've ever had and a slice of her home-made lemon cream-filled cake. We always try to avoid restaurant chains and eat at local places. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. This time it did. Although it was a little offputting to eat with the eyes of so many stuffed, wild animals staring at us, looking over our shoulders as if they were saying "You gonna eat that?" Taxidermy is big in these parts, either by accident or design.
A big ice cream cone, because we obviously hadn't had enough to eat yet (that was sarcasm by the way) at Lee's Corner Gas, and a top up of very pricey gas. But in a few hours we were very glad we'd topped up!

The lesser driven road that runs parallel to highway 97 is so lesser driven it has no name let alone a number. Although we knew it was gravel, it didn't look too long on the map, and those same maps indicated it went through Dog Creek, the Gang Ranch and Jesmond. Along the way it skirts the Junction Sheep Range, which houses 20% of the world's Californiz big horned sheep and the world's largest herd of them.

The Gang Ranch was a particular attraction. Jerome and Thaddeus (now there's a name you don't hear much of these days) Harper, two West Virginia outlaws, decided to retire in 1960s, but the law looked dubiously at retirees in their particular field of endeavour, so they escaped to find the remotesat and wildest ranch location they could find. They found it and we did too. At one time it was the largest ranch in the entire continent, and it is still in operation.

However....

The maps did not show how rugged and long the road really was. For the most part it hugged the steep slope of a grassy, craggy hill that fell away, a long way, down to the Fraser River, the opposite shore rising as dramatically and providing a beautiful vista. "Meadowlark country", Dad said, "They like open land. Their song sounds a bit like 'mum mum tiddly goat'. Whereas the Swainson's thrush's is a rising 'diddly, diddly , diddly, diddly , dee.'"
Long and tight hairpin turns meant few photo stops. There was virtually no signage and we had to trust our sense of direction to ensure we continued along the right road. There were quite a few other vehicles too so we had to keep sharp. Locals of course. All looking at us with surprise and wonderment. I imagine no one that doesn't have to use this isolated road does.

Dog Creek was only a 2km detour, so we saw a reserve that was completely empty of life - not even the usual sight of dogs rolling in the road. The Gang ranch was an 8km detour across a tiny, old, rusty bridge, and time was starting to run on, so we said 'howdy' in its general direction and carried on. We never did find out if Jesmond was anywhere near where the map said it was because we (at last) found a sign that indicated Clinton (our destination) was 62 km one way (the Jesmond road) and 53 km the other. As the road which we thought would take 2 hours was now looking like it would take 4, we took the shorter route.
There are gravel roads and there are gravel roads. This was both. What I mean is some of it was decent hard pan with little dust kick up, but some of it (which felt like most of it) was washboarded and slippery with loose scree so that everything in and on the car juddered.

The landscape changed as frequently as the road's quality, but it was all beautiful. The high dry valley that followed the Fraser turned away from the river to become rolling green fields with shallow blue pools, then forests with trembling aspen and undergrowth, then conifers huddled around dark, swampy water that cried out "Moose", but not loud enough evidently as we didn't see any, although a few deer misheard and allowed us a glance at their white tails bounding away into the trees. There were virtually no houses, just the odd ranch sign and outbuilding (this one not a successful venture I guess) and there were absolutely no services of any kind. It was a lonely, stunningly beautiful landscape that few get a chance to see.
We were never so happy to see a highway again. After driving that road for so long, turning onto a paved road was like hearing an angel choir sing Hallelujah with the heavens bursting open in a light of blessing. We rolled into Clinton and booked into the Cariboo Lodge, hardly able to move after a good 10 hours of sitting in a car, clenching for half of it in anxiety.

One of my brothers used to say "you'll never forget it - no matter how hard you try". This day will be a memorable day, and I don't want to forget it.

Monday, June 29, 2009

Day 4 - June 29 - Bella Coola to Clinton - part A

We started driving at 8:45 this morning and arrived in Clinton at 7:30pm. The car is covered in dust. I need a drink, a hot bath and some stretcheing. Enough said.

Bella Coola interlude

The humid air and dense undergrowth of the area around Bella Coola and Hagensborg are completely different to the Chilcotin and Cariboo, with their dry hills and sagebrush, but entirely familiar to us being coastal people.

I had wanted to see the rock that Alexander Mackenzie signed but a boat trip to Dean Channel was necessary and there was no sign of any such trip being available. He was the first person to cross the North American continent - 12 years before Lewis and Clark! I've seen ice break up in his river delta in Inuvik (his first trip) and now here we are at the exit point of his second trip, the route of which followed one of the ancient grease trails.

I have never tasted eulachon or oolichan - depending on which book you read - oil from teh fish of the same name (but really it's a smelt). If what I hear from those who have tried it say is true it is truly disgusting, but there is not doubt it was a valuable commodity to the natives and then, later, the traders, who took the oil all over the province and into Alaska as a high energy source of food and fuel. Someone told me once that those small fish were so greasy that, when dried, they could be lit like candles. I will probably never get to test the theory as there is no longer an eulachon fishery in the province.

In the beginning in this place were the Nuxalk people, then Captain George Vancouver, then Alexander Mackenzie, then the Hudson's Bay post, then the Norwegians. There are still some Norwegian descendants here, but mostly it's the Nuxalk people, who are still here. Perhaps there's a parable in there.

Sunday, June 28, 2009

Day 3 - June 28 - Nimpo Lake to Hagensborg (via Bella Coola)

The haunting yodel of the loon woke me soon after dawn and I lay awake listening to it. It may have been the first time I've actually heard a loon laughing in real life - previously it was always only on TV on those Audobon nature shorts they used to run between cartoons. I finally persuaded myself that there was value in leaving my warm bed and looking out the window at the lake, and I saw my loon as well as several ducks (red necked grebes? wood ducks? ring-necked ducks? Tracy, where are you when I need you?) floating on a calm sheet of water, the distant mountains clear and white in the morning sun.

Dad got to the shower first, and came out laughing that he had used a sachet of lotion in his hair by accident, thinking it was shampoo (the sachets are identical in appearance). After I had carefully not made the same mistake we went for breakfast where we found a large family group of Swiss and a father and son from Alabama, although we had the most interesting chat with the waitress who was from the Phillipines. Dad got his usual Sunday pancakes and I joined him, they being an irregular feature in our house due to Martin's description of pancakes reminding him of carpet underlay and me not wanting to make a batch just for myself.

About 5km west of Nimpo Lake there is a very small and insignificant piece of paper tacked to a board inside a fence that is impossible to cross and so the whole thing is unreadable but which commemorates a sad epoch in BC's history, the Chilcotin War. It wasn't really a war in the traditional sense of the word. In 1864, a team of white surveyors were sent by Alfred Waddington (he of the largest mountain in BC fame) to find a faster route to the gold fields from Bute Inlet. The local Chilcotin, who had been supportive in the beginning, decided that the surveyors were responsible for speading small pox from blankets they had received (they weren't) and so massacred the road workers. The murderers were later found and either died in a gunfight or hung, and the roadwork as terminated.
But the real heroes of the road were those residents of Bella Coola almost a hundred years later, who tired of being told it was impossible to join their town to the road that came in from Williams Lake but which ended at Heckman pass. The provincial government said it couldn't be done, that it was too expensive, that it was too dangerous, etc. etc. and finally the locals decided to take it upon themselves and just build the thing. A couple of bulldozers worked, one going east and the other going west, and several boxes of dynamite assisted both, until the road was finally completely with a handshake across the dozers' cabs in 1953.

And it's quite the road.

Starting at Heckman Pass (1524 metres), where the temperature was 3 degrees and it starting to snow (yes, that's right, snow), we began our steep and winding descent along a single lane track with no guardrails that at some points extends at an 18% grade . The fog was so thick we couldn't see the scenery very well, but that might have been a good thing as there is a wall of rock on one side and a sheer drop on the other. Downhill drivers have to yield to uphill drivers which freaked me out at the prospect as I was driving it and I could not imagine having to back up on one of the many hairy hairpin turns on this narrow, precipitous gravel shelf threading along the cliff face. Thankfully we didn't see too many divers and I went down so slowly that the few we did meet were seen in advance so that I could shimmy over to allow them to pass. Everyone waved to each other in that universal sign of shared highway terror.
We eventually came out of it feeling extremely proud and relieved. Dad was the perfect passenger, keeping calm and quiet and not pressing on his imaginary brake too much. We celebrated with a round of the jelly bean travel game (first one to 5 wins, with the loser allowed to get 4 beans in total - "after all," said Dad, "the winner has to win something besides a moral victory". Everything is always a contest.)

To be fair, we had read about this road (rather cruelly passed off as just "the Hill" in local parlance) and were prepared for it to be even worse. Going slow was the key, and no doubt it will be easier going up tomorrow, except that then you are driving on the outside next to the sheer drop. Dad is already worrying about that.
Sorry there are no photos of the actual road here (What, are you crazy? Did you really think I would take photos while driving THAT?). If I am indeed a passenger tomorrow and Dad lives up to billing as the safe driver he has always been then there maybe some added to tomorrow's journey.

I needed to unclench my hands from the steering wheel so we stopped off for a cup of coffee at the Tweedsmuir Park Lodge, which turned out to be a fantastic place, with pristine log cabins dotted around a large lawn straddling a creek. There was one cabin dedicated to a large hottub and a room where you could get a massage! Inside the lodge, the great room had a huge log fire going, enormous leather chairs next to a full sized and full wine cabinet, and big tables looking out to a swarm of hummingbirds zooming into a feeder that bounced around with so many tiny feathery bodies hitting it at speed. Rustic my eye! Apparently the draw is watching grizzly bears, who patronize the lawn in August and September, and going hiking (summer) and heli-skiing (winter). We both decided that it was the only part of the trip so far that his wife and my husband would actually like.

Before long we were in Hagensborg and then Bella Coola. Hagensborg was settled in the late 19th century by Norwegians escaping economic hardship and seeking religious freedom. Practically every house was neat as a pin, with manicured grass and well tended gardens. The reserve land in Bella Coola on the other hand was full of houses patched and peeling, rusted ex-vehicles covered with years of grass and moss, curtainless windows looking out on bits of old upholstered furniture quietly rotting outside in the rain. Those two neighbourhoods in close proximity more than any other image highlights the cultural rift there has always been between the aboriginal and the western populations, a rift that yawns in almost every part of the country that has a native populace. Until that can be solved there will never be advancement and it makes us so sad to think that unless something truly innovative can be designed, nothing will change in our lifetimes, and maybe never. It's like cutural oil and water with two sides who have an entirely different value system. You throw in some misunderstanding and racism (both sides are guilty of these) and mix with alcohol and despair and its a potent downward spiral.
Bella Coola surprised and disappointed in another way though. We had expected a bustling town and it was very small and very quiet. The ferry terminal was just a wharf, and only a few fish boats hinted at an industry long in decline, with a distant cannery charmingly turned into a B&B. The town's real beauty is in its geography. It is located at the end of a long inlet, with forest clad mountins and snow clad rock faces plunging on either side, waterfalls etching the fault lines. Due to a marshy tidal basin, the town is located in from the shore, and it has very little more than the bare minimum of a grocery store, hardware store, gas station, credit union, rcmp office, and a couple of motels and cafes.
A notable bonus was Kopas store, one of those superlative general stores that sell everything - running shoes, giftwrap, fishing lures, fashion handbags, baseball gloves, wool socks, binoculars, bug spray, cowboy hats, souvenir tee-shirts, camera film (yes, film, remember that?), tennis racquets and CDs - and that's in the first aisle. The proprietess is the perfect person for a town like this - sharp, personable, knowledgable, compassionate and appreciative - oh, and energetic with a good sense of humour.

Another plus was the local museum, a tiny place housed in two adjoined log cabins, one being the original schoolhouse. A goodly selection of items that connected native history, Norwegian settlements and local industries was crammed in.
On our way back to Hagensborg (where we are spending the night in a huge log lodge) we took a short detour to check out the local rodeo, which is on this weekend. A stampede and a rodeo in the same week! A grassy field was ringed with tents and camper vans and pickup trucks, with small goups of people sitting around campfires. Everyone was aboriginal (the local band here is Nuxalk (pronouced Noohalk)) and wore a cowboy hat regardless of age and sex. Hordes of children ran freely among packs of mixed breed dogs. The whole thing had an air of relaxed unscheduled enjoyment.

We detoured back along a rough track to a trail head that sported a simple sign that read "Big Cedars" . That turned out to be an understatement. These giants were the largest trees I've ever seen, clustered in a spacious grove that included the odd mammoth spruce. They were so tall that although their tops swayed in the wind with a loud whoosh, there was nary a creak heard from the trunks below. Some had long swathes carved out of them, for poles or canoes or whatever, but the wounds had grown over so long ago as to appear almost natural. Thick moss clung along low boughs and undergrowth was lush and green despite the limited sun the trees must allow. No wonder these creatures have always been treated as if they were spirits - they are magnificnet and one feels awed and inspired walking among them.

Day 2 - June 27 - Williams Lake to Nimpo Lake

Highway 20 - the Freedom Highway running to the Discovery Coast (BC does love its grandiose monikers) is one of only three routes to the coast from the interior and is by far the hardest to imagine what it must have been like for those that completed the road, but more of that tomorrow when we tackle "the Hill".

It starts gently enough, a good wide road on high ground passing dry hills and pine trees and the occasional cattle ranch or hay farm. We crossed the Fraser river at the Chilcotin bridge, a rusting metal bridge replacing a much older and closer to the river bridge. Familar green road signs indicate the highway's length and the few settlements dotted along it. I can barely bring myself to even use the word settlement as some of these are no more than 1 general store - that's it - no houses, not even a gas station. The largest of these was definitely Redstone, a native reserve sprawled along the highway, introduced with a graveyard of ancient and weather worn wooden crosses toppling over each other along the side of the road. At regular and various intevals anew such cross would appear festooned with plastic floral wreathes, indicating a recent road fatality. As many of these sat along a completely flat and obstacle-free zone one can only imagine alcohol had a place in the accident.

It wasn't long (4 hours isn't long is it?) before we reached Nimpo Lake which was practically a metropolis with a gas station, a bakery and auto repair (eat cinnamon buns while you wait for your muffler), a couple of rugged fishing resorts and general store. It even had a post office for crying out loud.

Due to the economic downturn this well-run fishing lodge was running on practically empty and we were lucky to snag a two bedroomed cabin with a perfect view of the lake. We enquired as to the possiblity of taking a seaplane (my early birthday present - thanks Mom and Dad), a little worried at the white caps on the lake and the wind gushing through the trees. It was cold too. I had seen online before we left home that it was expected to get down to 0 degrees, with high winds, and perhaps rain and even snow flurries, so had added a sweater and my down vest to my bag and I was very glad I had. It was hard to believe that it could be so in late June, but history has taught me to respect the dictates of The Weather Network.

After some discussion with pilots who were in mid-flight, and who paused in a slightly ominous manner when asked how the conditions were, we were told to try back at 4pm.

Which we did. We're both good that way, doing what we're told. We sat and read the paper and frequently went out on the deck, the door slamming behind us, the wind howling down the stove pipe and pounding along the roofline, clouds shaped like perfect anvils sitting heavily like a gray spectre of death, and we'd say things like "I think it's brightening up". Optimistic when we really, really want something. and we really wanted this.

Up until 4pm the highpoint was seeing a Beaver take off (that's an aircraft, not an animal hurled into the air in the storm) making us feel it might be possible for a Cessna (secretly we hoped there'd be other optimists who wanted to fly as well, as the Beaver is a larger aircraft and would not be used for only us)

At 3:59pm we fought against a wall of wind up to the office, where we waited like children before Santa. Delight of delights - Dwayne the pilot came in and said, "Sure we can go up. It will be bumpy but you look like you can handle it!" (at that point we did wonder if having had a bowl of bean and bacon soup for lunch had been such a good idea after all).I got to sit up front (birthday girl's perks) and we moved across the lake before revving up and juddering against the waves. A very quick and easy take-off and we were off, heading towards Tweedmuir Park and its wall of mountains. We flew over pine forests and saw even more clearly than along the road the devatation the pine beetle had wrought - brown trees outnumbering green ones.

It was a bit bumpy, but then I'd always been fond of roller coasters and such so quite happily felt the stomach lurch at intervals. Hunlen falls joins the water from one lake to that of a second lake, 853 feets below. We circled it a couple of times to try to get a photo that was more about the falls and less about the bumping plane, before heading south towards Monarch Mountain (BC's second highest peak after Mount Waddington) and its glaciers. These slow moving rivers of ice are spectacular, especially when you see how they've carved themselves along the mountainside. From directly above they seem to have the texture of elephants' skin, and they sparkle in the sun. Several lakes with the unmistakable hue of a glacier lake shone like seaglass and jade as we turned along one valley into another, bouncing along as the cold air flowed out from the glaciers directly into us. At one point I just watched the sky above us, clouds scudding past as the propellor cut through.Our trip back to Nimpo Lake was just as lovely and it was hard to imagine a more perfectly smooth landing on the lake.

Now that was a memorable day!