Men in Tights
May 18: The unlikely name of Beaverdell (787m/2582ft), 50 kilometres north of Rock Creek, is intended not to evoke, as one might imagine, the refuge of Canada’s industrious toothy rodent, but springs from the amalgamation, in 1901, of the mining towns of Beaverton and Rendell.
I rolled into town in time for lunch: a huge clubhouse sandwich and fries enjoyed at a friendly local restaurant. I’d considered sitting down in the saloon across the street, claimed as the oldest continuously operated in B.C., but when I clacked across the floorboards on metal cleats, patrons of the Beaverdell Hotel stared agog, as though a Martian had walked in. I sheepishly continued right through to the left-hand exit. Since this trip, Beaverdell has become a stopover on the Kettle Valley Cycling Route, so townsfolk are now used to men in tights. Further up the road, I pauseed at a local jumble sale, where it appeared there was a general redistribution of spring-cleaning in progress. A line of tables were piled high with all sorts of paraphernalia, while racks of clothing swayed in the breeze. Alas, I was already loaded down. Perhaps I should have a spring cleaning too, I thought, as I sweated up to Rock Creek Summit (1265m/4150ft) in a cooling rain.
At the junction of the road to Big White ski area, an exhilarating scream down a series of hairpin turns leads toward Kelowna (344m/1128ft). On the descent, I was joined by a group of motorcyclists who were surprised they couldn’t take the corners any faster than me. Of course, they soon left me in the dust, or should I say mist, as the road straightened.
10pm: After 120 kilometres of cycling over mountain passes, a swim in a pool and a hot sauna are the ultimate luxury. In Kelowna, I rewarded myself with a soft motel bed, vowing to sleep in.
May 19, 5:30pm: I was contented as I pottered about camp, a rented spot on a creek running through the middle of “downtown” Vernon (416m/1365ft). The short 60 kilometre stretch along Highway 97 was marked by high winds and rain squalls. The reflecting light, boiling thunderheads and buffeting wind turned Kalamalka Lake into a kaleidoscope of ever-changing hues.
Native legend explains that a goose hunter missed his intended quarry here, hitting instead a rainbow, which fell into the “Lake of Many Colours.” Science puts it down to dissolved minerals that reflect the sun, but on my stormy passage, I witnessed the veracity of native myth, rainbows and all.
Life away from the hustle and bustle of Vancouver resolved into the simple chores of bike maintenance, packing panniers and waiting for a billy to boil. This, I like to think, is the road to happiness.
10.30pm: But tranquility is fleeting. No sooner had I laid down my noggin by the babbling brook, than the dreaded internal combustion engine returned, snorting, whining and farting noxious fumes. Only now I notice this private campground includes a go-cart track, just on the other side of the creek! In the opposite direction, it appears there’s a freight yard, where trains begin the deafening din that only shunting railcars can create. Well, there I was indulging both of my childhood passions: cycling and trainspotting! The cacophony continued until I passed out from sheer exhaustion.
May 20: I must have slept well at last, because leaving the train station cum race-track early and swearing to steer clear of big tourist towns, I steamed along Highway 6, through mist-shrouded Coldstream (518m/1804ft), Lumby (495m), and Cherryville (550m) — a distance of 50 kilometres — before pausing to lunch on cocktail sausages, cheese, crackers and a nice fresh tomato, topping up my fuel tank for the work ahead.
The climb over 1,241metre (4071ft) Monashee Pass required my recently-installed 33 inch gear, as well as a litre of sugary water. The day had turned hot. I took off my jersey, so what little speed I achieved, crawling up toward the summit, translated into a cooling breeze. Finally, roadside snow banks and icebound MacIntyre Lake provided air conditioning at the top of the pass. I paused to enjoy the view and shake out my legs.
Once more, I was alone under the stars … at least briefly. The twinkling firmament was soon eclipsed by leaden cloud. Then, the orange tarp was lit by a blinding flash, followed by a startling crack of thunder. The rain began, and within minutes the deluge collected into a gallon of water in the centre of the “roof,” sagging onto my back. I pushed the reservoir over the edge and onto the ground, where it cascaded under my sleeping pad, into my down sleeping bag. The un-weighted tarp, buffeted by the wind, inflated like a parachute, collapsing with a snap, while the rain bounced among the pine cones.
I feared neither wildcat nor grizzly; I was more concerned about a stray bolt of lightning. Right beside me stood a steel lightning rod, in the shape of my bike! As I pondered my fate, I heard remote voices above the din of the storm. “Are you getting wet?” they inquired. Emerging from my sodden burrow, I found I’de been visited by the Angels of Spruce Grove. With rain coat flapping around her, one of the apparitions gestured toward a small building, behind the glowing café.
“Dad says you’re welcome to use the guest cabin.”
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