I awoke even earlier than usual
with a mixture of excitement, anticipation and with more than a little anxiety
thrown into the mix! The sun had just
popped his head over the windowsill of my makeshift bedroom, which had also
served me well as a workshop during my stay with Taz & Joel. So with the
sun shinning, the birds singing and John Denver’s Rocky Mountain High playing,
I pack up the last few items of my kit, gathered up my bedding and headed down
for my last breakfast with my hosts before heading off south. To be fair, Tax
& Joel have been far more than hosts on each of my three stays with them on
this trans-Canadian journey; wonderful friends, mentors, confidents and so much
more. To be brutally honest, were it not for their support I’d probably be back
in the UK by now licking my wounds and wondering what the hell it was all
about!
It was just gone 8am when I said
goodbye and climbed aboard The Beast. I confess to having a huge lump in my
throat and a small tear in my eye as I said a last fond farewell and rode up
their drive, knowing that this would be my last visit for the foreseeable
future. At the end of their road I turned left for highway 3 west, instead of
what had become the more familiar right to Creston Town. I had ridden the Crowsnest highway east a few
times, but this time I was heading west over the Kootenay
Pass, the Bonanza
Pass and on to Grand
Forks before heading south across the US
border and into Washington State at Danville.
The Crowsnest is always a great ride, sun, rain or snow. It twists and turns,
rises and falls with the Kootnay Pass summit cresting 1775mts after which it
drops steadily all the way down to less than 700 mts over about 10 or more
miles in a nice steady descent before rising once more to over 1500 mts for the
Bonanza Pass. If the road is great the views and fantastic, or at least they
would have been were it not for the smoke hanging in the air from the numerous
forest fires burning throughout the region, indeed throughout Canada. As I came over the hill to
drop down to Castlegar I was amazed to see an airport runway, one end of which
seemed almost to butt up to the mountains, whilst at the other the planes would
just about clear the road on which I was riding, or so it appeared!
 |
The changing landscape as I approach
the US border at Grand Forks
|
Christina Lake
was another spot which looked as though it would be quite stunning on a clear
day, alas today it was just about visible through the all pervading smoke. Even
before I turned for the border the landscape had started to change subtly with
the densely pine cladded slopes giving way to a more open aspect, the hills
weren’t quite so high or so severe. Once
through the Danville
crossing the hills all but disappeared, or should I say, the mountains gave way
to mere hills. The valley along which I was riding was flat and broad, not al
all what I had become used to. That is not to say that it wasn't beautiful, it
was just very different! Joel had marked in a few road on the maps that he
suggested were worth riding and so I just had to sort of join up the dots. I stopped
at a small roadside kiosk for a breakfast muffin and milkshake which served
nicely as an early lunch. The temperature had already hit 30c and it wasn't
quite mid-day yet; it was going to be another scorcher in spite of the smoke
casting a veil over the sun.
I followed Highway 21 for about
100 miles straight down to the south, crossing the Columbia
River for the first time at the Keller crossing on another free
ferry. Then turning right onto Highway
2, I rode past the Grand Coulee Dam, something I remembered from a song of
yesteryear which I think my sister Diane, used to play by Lonnie Donegan! As it
was a fair way off my route and time was marching on, I didn’t divert to see
it, although now thinking that I should have… It’s generally a rule of mine
when travelling, that if I’m unsure whether to go or not, I’ll always go as I
probably wont get a chance to see it again. Oh well, guess I’ll have to come
back one day! Some miles on I passed a left turn which had a huge security
entrance set a 100yds or so back from the road. Not a single solitary sign
indicated the purpose of the road or of what lay down it. Although as I
continued along Highway 240 I could see what appeared to be a town or huge
industrial complex to which the road would have undoubtedly led. Thoughts of
CIA, Area 51 and such ran through my mind; oh don’t you just love a good
conspiracy theory. My destination for the day was to be Maryhill and a really
nice campground that Taz & Joel had used and recommended, but it wasn’t to
be. My restless night and the heat had taken their toll and after a little over
400 miles I was pooped. As I turned right towards Denton City,
I spotted a sign for the Horn River Camp Ground. I turned into an empty site
apart that is from one tent that looked as though it had been abandoned with
it’s door unzipped and a heap of stuff just strewn around. I went right to the
far end of the otherwise neat and tidy municipal site and set up camp. By 8pm I
had dined, drank a nice cup of coffee and hit the sack; I didn’t move until the
sun rose in the sky one more to signal the start of another fine day.
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