The Tow Truck Never Comes

“Not to worry”, my buddy kept insisting. “The tow truck will be here in half an hour.”
I wasn’t so convinced.
“Seen that movie before”, I replied. “The tow truck never comes…”

We were cold and worn out, having already spent two hours in a futile attempt to dig our truck out of a snow filled ditch – using an ice scraper for a shovel. The small sign nailed to a tree overhead read 22 ¾ miles, serving as a grim reminder of just how far we had ventured up this logging road. The last rays of sunshine were long gone from the surrounding mountains. We had no other option. It was going to be a long, cold walk back to civilization. The similarities to a Jack London story were not lost on us.

It’s amazing how quickly even the simplest of plans can change. Consider, for instance, the casual afternoon of steelhead fishing that my buddy Dustin and I had planned for this past weekend. We had forgone our usual routine of getting on the river at first light for a much more civilized first cast at 1 PM. Whereas a normal day of steelheading starts with a 4 AM wake-up call and bad take-away coffee for the drive in the dark, this day was more about spending a few relaxing hours away from the city. Fish or no fish, we were going to be happy just being in the wilderness, surrounded by nothing but eagles, forests and mountains.

The day seemed ideal for such a plan. The weather forecast had called for rain, but as we stepped out of the truck at the crack of 1 we were greeted with brilliant sunshine that warmed the air pleasantly. We took a couple of hours to work through one of our favorite runs. No fish, but already the city and it’s frantic pace seemed far behind us.

It was a little too early to call it a day, so we decided to drive upstream and try a spot where Dustin had landed a large steelhead the previous spring. There was quite a lot of snow in the area, but the logging road that follows the river had been plowed, so we stored our gear in the back of the pick-up and headed upstream. We soon discovered that the snowplow had only cleared the road as far as a small hydroelectric facility, and our spot was another several miles further. Someone else had carried on up the snow-covered road from that point, as indicated by relatively fresh tire tracks, so we decided to follow suit.

We hadn’t gone very far before we realized that we had probably made a mistake. Our tires were restricted to the ruts left by the previous vehicle while the differential dragged through the snow. As we progressed, we saw snowmobile tracks in the snow next to the truck. Note to self for future reference: “If you see snowmobile tracks in the snow where a road should be, don’t drive down the road.” We decided to press on to where the other guy had turned around, and attempt to do the same.

About 2 ½ miles further we came across the spot. It looked dodgy, but doable. Dustin turned the wheel and followed the tracks to the right. We inched forward and had just put the vehicle into reverse when we felt the front end drop. That’s never a good sign. We piled out of the truck and stared in dismay at our front end, firmly settled down into a ditch. I pulled out my cell phone and wasn’t surprised to see the “no service” message. Still, we were somehow convinced that with just a little effort, we’d succeed in digging ourselves out and we’d be on our way.

There’s a classic Simpsons episode where Bart and Homer chase a roast pig in vain through the streets of Springfield. As the situation becomes increasingly futile, Homer keeps insisting, “It’ll still be OK!” Even as the pig blasts through the air over the nuclear power plant, Homer is convinced they’ll get it back. Dustin and I shared in Homer’s optimism, but unfortunately we were likewise blinded by it. Our digging efforts seemed to only bury the truck even further. The harder we worked, the more entrenched the truck became.

At one point a group of guys came by on snowmobiles and offered to call us a tow truck once they got to an area that had cell phone coverage. Several hours later, exhausted from digging and pushing, we sat back and pondered the likelihood of the tow truck arriving. Dustin seemed confident that it would only be a matter of time. I wasn’t so convinced, and felt it was time to start hiking out. Darkness had pretty well set in, and we were a long way from another human being.

This is the part of the story where my ever-prepared father will shake his head and wonder out loud “Will Dave ever learn?” My Dad is notorious for having every imaginable piece of equipment you could possibly need in his backpack. We’d go on hunting trips and I swear he could have built a small warming hut, complete with hot tub, out of items from that pack. His buddies and I would often rib him, but we were always thankful when he’d supply us with some extra gloves or spare batteries.

Well, Dad, not only was I without batteries last weekend, I didn’t even have a flashlight. Perhaps if you had made me suffer more when I forgot things, maybe then I would have heeded your warnings?

We stumbled almost 5 miles in the dark before we reached the first ranch house.

All I can say about the man who lives in that house is that he is a SAINT. He drove two perfect strangers all the way back up the valley to our truck, and pulled us out. It was one big hairy deal too, as the roads and snow had frozen and conditions were treacherous. Even so, he stuck with it until we were out of the ditch and back on paved road. He wouldn’t accept a penny from us for his troubles, either, stating that people had done similar for him and “whatever comes around goes around”. Needless to say, as we drove back to town and came across another fellow struggling to push his truck out of a snow bank, we didn’t hesitate to stop and lend a hand.

Oh yeah, and about the tow truck? It never came.

Head Over Heels: How Not to Ride A Mountain Bike on the San Juan Trail

There’s nothing quite like the feeling of utter helplessness that overcomes you when you’re pitched head first over your handlebars and down a steep, rocky slope. Now, any experienced mountain bike rider will tell you that there are three simple rules you need to follow to avoid just such a situation. They are:

1. keep your weight to the rear of the bike by getting your ass way out behind the seat,
2. don’t use your brakes (especially the front ones) when working over the tricky bits, and
3. be sure to maintain enough momentum so that you don’t unexpectedly stop and fall over.

These rules seem simple enough; yet, at the most inopportune times I inevitably forget at least one of them, resulting in the aforementioned cranium led launch into the abyss.

My latest encounter with some challenging downhill single track mountain biking occurred in the mountains just outside of San Juan Capistrano near the coast of southern California. My good buddy Mike has been attacking trails on a mountain bike throughout the west for a good ten years, and currently makes his home in Orange County. During a recent business trip to the area, he assured me that a ride on the famous San Juan Trail is a “must do”. He also insisted that anyone in possession of some basic riding skills (like those I mentioned above) should be able to do it “no problem”.

Now, far be it from me to doubt my buddy’s claims, but I know Mike to be one of those slightly crazed thrill seekers who fearlessly throws himself out of airplanes and thinks it’s cool to push the depth limits of his SCUBA gear. He’s a semi-pro skateboarder that likes to go surfing to “relax”. I figured I’d better get a second opinion.

According to an article in Singletrack Mind (http://www.singletrackmind.com/), the San Juan Trail is “virtually 19 miles of exquisite single track through delightfully scenic and rugged wilderness with not a shred of intervening fire road or pavement.” So far so good. Unfortunately, it goes on to say that the trail is located in “California's most appealing yet unforgiving terrain”, and that “regardless of the distances traveled on the San Juan Trail, one's body and mind are completely drained by trails' end.” If that wasn’t enough to put the fear of God in me, the following description had me convinced my time would be better spent sipping beers in the stands at a baseball game. “The panoramic views are staggering. However, for those who take their eyes off the immediate trail ahead the penalty can be life-threatening, as much of the trail clings to steep hillsides and ravines.”

Still, far be it from me to show any sign of weakness (or sense), and by mid-afternoon this past Wednesday I found myself perched atop an unfamiliar, undersized mountain bike at the top of the San Juan Trail. The trail boasts some pretty large elevation changes, and can be done one of two ways:

1. Really insane riders can start at the bottom and push like hell up 10 miles of steep switchbacks to get to the top, and then turn around and ride back down. This is how Mike usually does it.
   
2. Slightly less cerebrally challenged riders can use the shuttle technique, where a vehicle is left at the bottom, and a second is used to ferry the bikes via back roads to the summit.

Since my conditioning is suspect, Mike opted to swallow his pride and we used option 2. All I can say about that is THANK GOD!! Using the shuttle option, it becomes an eleven-mile ride, with a total elevation drop of around 2,500 ft. Even so, there are numerous uphill grinds, including one climb that goes on for the better part of a mile. Oh yeah, and did I forget to mention the part about it being August in Southern California? We Canadians aren’t used to doing anything in that heat, let alone attempt to ride a bike up the side of a steep, sun-drenched slope.

Mike and I posed for photos at the top of the climb. He’s looking fit and happy. I look like I’m about to collapse.

Which brings me back to the subject of rather unceremoniously ejecting oneself from one’s bike. I was amazed at how skillfully Mike was able to guide his bike over, around, under and through some of the gnarliest mountain biking terrain I have seen. At the same time, I wasn’t at all surprised at how these same challenges regularly resulted in separating me from my bike – sometimes on purpose, other times… And sure enough, at one point fairly early on, bursting with confidence, I hit a rocky stretch at speed, completely oblivious of my neglect for at least two of the three simple rules. Leaning forward to get a better view of the trail I hit the brakes to avoid a big rock and there I went, over the handlebars and into the boulders. Needless to say, I dedicated some skin to the San Juan Trail.

Without a doubt, the San Juan Trail provides some spectacular views of the Santa Ana Mountains and the Cleveland National Forest in Southern California. At the same time, it presents riders with some ridiculously advanced mountain biking challenges. If you get a chance to ride it with someone like me, keep one thing in mind: make sure the dinner reservations are for really late, because it’s gonna take me a long time to get to the bottom!

Warner Lake to Tyax Lodge: Alpine Mountain Biking Mayhem

Imagine taking a floatplane up into a remote alpine wilderness area, then cruising back down on your mountain bike along miles of single-track alpine trails. Just picture the stunning vistas and flower covered meadows that abound as you gently glide by.

That’s basically what was going through my mind when I signed up for the Warner Lake flyout from Tyax Lodge. Three friends were planning to make the trip this past week and invited me along as the fourth. “How hard can it be?” I asked myself. “After all, I commute to work on my bike most days.” Little did I know what I was getting myself into. Words like “cruising”, “glide” and “gentle” most certainly did not apply.

Our group consisted of three old guys and one young one. My buddy Dave, his friend Daniel and I are all 40-ish. Dave’s son Ewan is closer to 15. Regardless of age, we were confident that we could handle whatever challenges the trip had in store for us.

Tyax Lodge is located on Tyaughton Lake in the Southern Chilcotin Mountains of British Columbia. My friends and I loaded down my Explorer with four mountain bikes and mountains of gear and set off on the five hour drive from Vancouver to the lake. During the summer, the best route is to head north to Pemberton, then over the Hurley River Forestry road to Gold Bridge. The forestry road climbs high into the Coast Mountains, providing some spectacular views. It’s a pretty rough trek, though, with enough washboard to test even the hardiest of vehicle shocks. Still, we were encouraged by the blue skies on our journey, as they seemed to contradict the weatherman’s prediction of rain showers.

A wide range of accommodation is available at the lake, from five star chalets at the Tyax Lodge, to a free provincial campground (carefully located out of sight from the lodge). We chose not to break the bank, and pitched our tents lakeside. The guys were wondering whether or not to bother using tent flies. The increasing intensity of rainfall as night progressed made me glad I did.

6:30 AM came early, and the low cloud cover and steady drizzle had us worried whether the plane would actually fly. Warner Lake is located at an elevation where hazardous weather conditions can occur any time of year. Our pilot said he’d fly up to the general area, but wouldn’t decide until we got there if wind and cloud would prevent us from landing. He also mentioned that he was quite surprised that we had managed to get permission to do this ride without having either a guide or previous experience in the area. None of us said anything. My confidence began to wane a tad.

The floatplane trip to Warner Lake is quite spectacular, and often one of the highlights of the day. We were treated to a somewhat dampened version, although it was beautiful nonetheless. Once above the lake, our pilot announced that we were lucky and he touched down through the rain.

Mind you, disembarking from a plane during a downpour in a remote wilderness area while looking up through your breath at fresh snow may not be what some people consider as being lucky.

There was no time for dilly-dallying. The plane departed, we were cold, wet and had a very long day ahead of us.

Our route would take us more than 40 km, from an elevation of 6100 ft at Warner Lake to 3300 ft back at Tyaughton Lake. And, if our initial several hundred yards were any indication, we were in for one tough slog. The literature describes the first 5 km as “technical”. We quickly learned that the definition of technical is “hike and bike”, which meant that we were carrying our bikes up and down over goat trails as much as we were riding them.

After skirting its way along the edge of Warner Lake, across scree slopes and through sparse forest, the trail begins to provide somewhat better opportunities for actually riding a bike. Our group fell into a pretty consistent pattern. Ewan, the fearless teenager, was our “litmus rider”. We’d send him down the sketchy bits, and if he crashed, the three of us would walk our bikes. If Ewan struggled, but still managed to make it without ending up head first in the rocks, then Dave and Dan were about 50-50 as to whether they’d have a go. If Ewan appeared to have any difficulty at all, my bike was on my shoulder until the next flat stretch.

The trail follows Gun Creek past a number of other lakes and through countless mountain meadows. There were several places where it was tough to follow, but Dave was well prepared and had some topo-maps that came in very handy. The views and vistas were indeed spectacular, even with cloud cover. Of course, one must never take their eyes off the track while actually riding. Any time I tried to glance up at a mountain peak or glacier while pedaling, I inevitably found myself tumbling down a rock face or up close and personal with a mud puddle.

At the end of this 40 km toil through the alpine wilderness, the track gives way to a dirt rode that leads back to Tyaughton Lake. If you were on a guided tour, this is the point where your day would end. You’d be met by a van and be cracking your first beer. Otherwise, you will need to pedal your way back to the lake.

The road provides a welcome change from the unpredictable surface of the dirt track. However, it also adds an extra 6 or 7 kilometers to an already grueling day. In addition, there is a three kilometer uphill section right in the middle that proved to be the end of me. Fortunately, Dave is in much better shape than me, and had plenty of time to get back to camp, down a beer, and bring the truck back as I reached the crest of the hill. If he hadn’t brought me a cold one, I’d have almost resented the fact that it took him so long.

Our bikes were muddy and our bodies were sweaty, scraped and bruised. We each took a turn at wading out into the lake for a little hose down and clean up before dinner. Each of us except me, that is. I chose to sit myself down in the lake and stare dumbfounded at the far shore, rain drizzling all around. I drank a beer in silence, and assessed the rather extensive personal damage.

It was too late in the day to head back to Vancouver, and we were all probably too tired for the drive. Instead, we had a wonderful meal at the Tyax lodge, complete with well deserved gin martinis. I slept soundly that night, completely unaware of the cacophony of snoring coming from our little group of tents.

Warner Lake trail is a challenge for both bike and rider. I was over the handlebars several times, and got close up and comfortable with a number of trees, shrubs and boulders. My bike is a Brodie hybrid bike, designed for light trail riding and street use. It was marginally up to the task. The pads of my rim brakes, which were relatively new, had been worn down to the metal.

Meanwhile, all six foot seven inches of Dan’s frame were on a full suspension bike with disk breaks. It seemed much more appropriate for the terrain, and while my brakes had all but quit half way through the day, he could stop on a dime (or before riding into a fresh pile of horse manure – another trail hazard that I found it hard to avoid) all day long. My advice to those without a good back country bike would be to shell out the few extra bucks and rent one in Whistler or Squamish. Either that or be prepared to have to wash off more than mud when your day is done.

The most common question that people ask after hearing that we did the Warner Lake trail is “Was it fun?”
My answer has become pretty standard.
“Challenging and rewarding? Absolutely. Fun? Well, not exactly…”

For more information, check out:
http://www.tyax.com/bike.html
http://www.tyaxair.com/tours/tours.cfm?catid=1&nav=public-nav.cfm

Ode To The Seahawks

Darkness had been replaced by a hazy dim light. Thin coatings of ice cracked underfoot as I stepped down off the bank and started to make my way out into the river. The water temperature was frigid, but the air was even colder. My breath formed great billows of mist as I blew on my fingers in a vain attempt to keep them warm. The sun had not yet met the surrounding mountain peaks as I laid my first cast against the far bank. In Detroit, kick-off was still eight hours away. That’s right, I chose to spend the pre-Super Bowl hours fly fishing in a glacial fed river about 1 ½ hours north of Vancouver. At the same time the players were undoubtedly beginning their game day rituals in snowy Michigan, I was chasing the moonlight along a west coast highway, intent on catching first light in the water. We were all praying for our good fortune; the players hoping to catch the top prize in the biggest media event in America, me hoping to catch, and release, a winter run steelhead.

The river was running high due to a series of storms that had dumped over 100 millimeters of rain in the area over the previous several days. Luckily, the water had remained clear. Still, conditions were such that my chances of hooking up were remote. A betting man would not have put much money on me, even given favorable odds.

The Seattle Seahawks were facing a similar challenge. No one gave them much of a chance for success after reviewing the Super Bowl conditions. Pittsburgh was supposed to be the better team, having played a tougher schedule, and the crowd in the stands would be primarily Steeler fans. The betting line rather graciously placed the Seahawks as four point underdogs.

My day on the water passed surprisingly quickly - they all do. The sun rose soon after I began, splashing a brilliant pink over the snow capped peaks. The river had seemed sluggish in the cold, but as the air temperature warmed it brought with it a sense of opportunity. Eagles soared high above, or sat quietly in the tree tops watching me work the water. In the end, they proved to be the only thing interested in what I was doing. The fish, for their part, seemed quite content to ignore the variety of brightly colored flies I cast in their direction.

Perhaps the eagles knew something that I didn’t, because when it was over, I swear I could hear hints of laughter in their calls. Were they aware of some preordained proclamation that had ensured my coming up empty handed? Their playful mocking accompanied me for the several kilometer walk back to my car. It had been a beautiful morning, despite the lack of any tugs on my line. My thoughts turned to football.

Where to start in describing the travesty that was Super Bowl XL? Despite their underdog status, the Seahawks played admirably. They outplayed their supposedly superior opponents for most of the game. Yet, whenever they seemed ready to strike, the opportunity was snatched away. Not by fate, but by the men in stripes. When it was all over, the story line that the NFL had hoped for had come true. Pittsburgh was victorious.

Still, a day later, I can’t seem to shake this feeling that “we was robbed!”. Sound like sour grapes? You bet, and I’m not alone. But don’t take my word for it, read what some of the admittedly pro-Steeler media has to say: http://msn.foxsports.com/nfl/story/5310192. It certainly inhibits the healing process when you know that you've been duped and there's not a damn thing you can do about it...

If the Seahawks can take anything positive out of what may forever be remembered as “Black Sunday”, perhaps it is some sort of satisfaction attained just by having been there? Their main goal was sadly not achieved, but after a thirty year drought, the Seahawks were actually in the Super Bowl. They made it all the way to the big dance, and no one, not even some guy in a striped shirt, can take that away from them. They may not have caught the big prize, but they were there. I just hope they were able to stop and appreciate the sunrise while it was happening.

I Am A Steelheader

And you thought marathoners were a strange breed. Ha! Think again! For there is in fact a group of even odder, potentially more driven, and equally insane individuals in our midst. They can be found lurking about in the most inclement of fall and winter months, usually standing waist deep in cold, large rivers, all in an attempt to attract a steelhead to take a well presented fly. These outcasts of society are called Steelheaders. I should know, for I am one of them.

A steelhead is a sea going rainbow trout. Like a salmon, it begins life in a river, but spends its maturing years in the ocean. Both species return to the river after one to four years at sea in order to spawn. However, a salmon only spawns once. You could say it sacrifices its life for sex, which in the end, isn’t all that exciting or amorous for a salmon. The female “fakes it” in order to trick a male into satisfying himself over her eggs, and that’s about it. Once that’s over, both the male and female die. Hmmmm, I’ve always said we could learn a thing or two from the animal kingdom. Paying attention boys?

Anyhow, steelhead do essentially the same thing, only once finished with “the act”, they head back to the sea to get bigger. Some time later they return to the river to do it all over again, and one would assume, do it better. Practice, practice, practice - the life cycle of a steelhead is pure agony.

Catching one of these big dudes with a fly while they’re in the river is quite a feat. First off, they aren’t really thinking about eating. They have other things on their mind. Just getting their attention is a small miracle. Secondly, there aren’t that many of them, so your chances are reduced by the numbers themselves. And finally, there a lot of more efficient ways of catching them, like using nets, or bait or hardware.

So, what is it that makes a few individuals put up with the bad weather, the expense and the remote locations to try something where they are almost destined to fail? I’d say the following picture says it all:

You Are A Marathoner!

Have you ever run a marathon? Neither have I. Maybe the better phrased question is “Who in their right mind would run a marathon?” It has always seemed masochistic to me - months of grueling training (always at very early hours in the AM) followed by an equally grueling final event (often starting at an even earlier hour). Still, many of the people I know insist on taking part in these crazy things. It just doesn’t make sense.

This past weekend I took it upon myself to figure it all out. No, I haven’t lost my marbles and actually entered one. Instead, I followed my sister to Kelowna, BC, where she was running her first marathon. I had spent months trying to talk her out of it, but she was always finished her training by the time I was getting out of bed, so the effectiveness of my pleas was somewhat diminished.

For the uninitiated, which is what I was until this past Sunday, a marathon is a 26 mile (40.2 km) run. That’s it. You start the race by running across a line with a few thousand other “hopefuls”, each and every one “hoping” to finish some four hours later by running back across the same line. Only it’s not really so simple. Those four hours or so involve a number of stages that you have to witness to really understand. You have to partake in a marathon to truly feel what the marathoner endures. So, in order to truly feel and understand, I followed my sister around the entire circuit - on my mountain bike. And, based on my first hand knowledge, I present to you the six stages of a marathon:
Stage 1 – Hope Springs Eternal
A broad smile is splashed across every face. Bodies are limber. Confidence abounds. It’s truly a remarkable scene. And it should be, for the race hasn’t started yet.
Stage 2 – Less Spring, But There’s Still Hope (km 1 to 10)
For the first ten kilometers, the air of confidence remains. Everyone has trained for this race and thinks they know what to expect. Those who have run marathons in the past are even better prepared. I was a little less organized, so I stopped off at the first Starbucks I saw and ordered a quad latte. Hey, the race started at 8 AM. I hadn’t had time to get primed before the starting gun was fired. For me, the first ten kilometers was for figuring out how to ride my bike without spilling scalding hot coffee all over myself.
Stage 3 – Reality Sets In (km 10 to 20)
This is when the marathon runner begins to realize what they’ve got themselves into. For the newbies, it’s when they begin to feel those nagging little injuries and wonder what they’ll feel like in another 20 kilometers. For all but the most experienced marathoners, it’s when they begin to feel those nagging little injuries and wonder what they’ll feel like in another 20 kilometers. The real pros already know what it’s going to feel like. That’s why they’re the ones with better drugs than Advil.
Stage 4 – Is It True That 25 km Is Only 15.5 Miles? (km 20 to 30)
Hell yes it’s true. And to make matters worse, in the Kelowna marathon they put a hill right in the middle of this stage. That’s cruel. I was exhausted, and some of the marathoners seemed to be struggling a bit, too.
Stage 5 – Mental Fatigue (km 30 to 40)
It is well documented that the beginning of this stage is the most crucial time for a marathoner. The body has already quit miles before, but the mind has been keeping it going. In the early 30’s, the mind starts to fade, as well. Marathoners struggle with delusions of self doubt, like “Why in the world am I doing this?” and “I’m never ever making a bet with Bob when I’m drunk again!” It’s only those who are able to regain focus, and realize that they are on the home stretch, that are able to go on to stage 6. Which is a good thing, because most of them are so exhausted that it makes for some great embarrassing photos, guaranteed to get a laugh from the audience at the next roast!
Stage 6 – You Are A Marathoner! (km 40.2)
OK, all kidding aside, this is why people run marathons. Those four words sum it up. It is quite an exclusive club. It signifies a level of commitment and fitness that only a few ever achieve. And, as each runner crosses the finish line, they hear their names announced over the loud speaker, and they know that each and every one of them, all ages and sizes, is a marathoner.

I’ll most certainly drink to that, as I did at the end of this race, having packed along a nice bottle of champagne to help my sister celebrate. This one’s for you, Beth. You are a marathoner! Now quit drinking all the bubbly…