Day 6 - Kettle River Provincial Park to Beaverdell 43 km

Derailed on the trail

The morning is not as cold as the previous day but still chilly at that early hour. When we emerge from our tents M.J. points out several deer having an early morning meal of dry grass in the woods.

We have fallen into a routine of M.J. cooking (boiling the water and stirring!) while I prepare our large supply of water and do the cleaning up. When we are leaving, I accidentally drop the heavy lid of the metal bear-proof garbage container. A loud sound resounds amongst the quiet tents. As we ride off, I feel only slightly guilty.

As the sun rises, we ride through irrigated, green agricultural fields. The trail is quite overgrown with tall weeds that brush against our bikes and trailers. Despite the condition of the trail, I'm enjoying the ever changing scenery and the trail as it winds its way along the river. Suddenly, my bike comes to a complete stop. Again, M.J. looks at me quizzically. I look around to see what the problem could be.

My back cassette and derailleur have had an encounter with a large tumbleweed type plant. The dry branches are now firmly wrapped completely around the back gearing of my bike. M.J. holds my bike while I assess the situation. I remove the chain from the front chainring to create some slack. I'm able to pull away most of the branches and I put the chain back on. I try and turn the pedals. My back wheel won't move and my derailleur is at an odd angle. I tell M.J. that this problem may be beyond my mechanical abilities. I fiddle some more. No change. I start to get worried that I might have a long walk ahead of me. I fiddle some more. Still no change.

I picture myself attempting to remove my derailleur, shorten the chain and convert my bike to a single speed. Or take a long walk... Suddenly I have some insight. Still kneeling in the dirt looking at my problem, I ask M.J. what gear the bike is in. She says second. Aha! the chain has fallen from the second largest to the second smallest cassette. When I lift it back up, bingo, my derailleur straightens out and I am able to turn the pedals. There doesn't seem to be any damage to my chain. Everything looks like it's back in order. I congratulate myself on my mechanical skill. We continue on our way. I silently resolve to myself to learn more about derailleurs.

I find myself in a fine mess

In Rhone, we stop at Paul Lautard's cyclist reststop. We exclaim to each other, what a great place. Over the last several years Paul has built a little "Heaven on Earth" for cyclists. A display of period railway tools sits to one side of the welcoming shelter. Picnic tables invite you to sit down and stay awhile. A hammock beckons you to rest in the shade. Most recently Paul has added a fullscale caboose. Lots of hard work has gone into creating and maintaining such a nice spot.

While we are wandering around, Paul drives up and tells us that he will be right over with some cold water for us. He has had to go out early in the day and he is very apologetic that he didn't have any water available when we arrived. We have a great chat. He has lived in this area for most of his 80 years and he enthralls us with stories of growing up beside the railroad.

M.J. enjoys a rest in the hammock. I pick a spot above the hammock and we add our names to the many others that are written under the eaves of the shelter. Paul tells us about a swimming hole not too far down the trail. The sun is getting higher in the sky. We reluctantly leave just as four other cyclists ride up, two middle aged couples cycling with rear panniers. Paul busies himself serving the new arrivals some cold water.

Enjoying the reststop hammock

After leaving the reststop, the trail allows us glimpses of the swirling aqua-green water in Rhone Canyon. We stop and peer into the canyon. We see two people sunbathing beside the river far below the trail. We continue on our way, anxious to find the more accessible swimming hole further down the trail. With every bend in the river, we expect to see it.

We spot the path and push our bikes down a ditch and up a steep incline into the woods. The path is over bedrock and covered in pine needles. It is a refreshing change from the hot sun. The path winds its way up to the top of a little cliff overlooking the river. It is a very pretty spot and there is a little bit of a beach below us. We climb down and test the water. It's really cold. We wade around mulling over the idea of a swim. Lunch is more tempting.

While we are eating, the other cyclists that had stopped at the shelter arrive. We can hear them above us. We chat from our beach-side seats. They take a different route to the water further downstream. Although we can't see them, we can hear great whooping and splashes followed by great shrieks of "It's cold!"

It sounds like fun. We are again tempted by the idea of a swim. I wade in, but manage only to splash water on myself. I can't quite bring myself to immerse myself in the cold water. Neither can M.J.. Refreshed by our attempt, we return to the trail. My wet clothing quickly dries and I'm hot again.

The trail turns into a logging road. It is washboard and we try and keep to the side where occasionally there is a little shade. I suggest that we sing to pass the time. M. J. isn't too enthusiastic. I'm very unmusical and as M.J. has found, I know the words to very few songs. I'm sure I'm driving M.J. crazy but she stoically sings along with me as we go through my short repertoire.

We stop in a little patch of shade. I flop down on the dusty road. I can't even be bothered to get out my tarp to sit on. Stretched out with my feet in the ditch and my head resting on my helmet, I must take up a third of the width of the road. I don't care. M.J. looks at me lying in the dirt; she shrugs and does the same.

We chat admiring the formations of white clouds against the contrast of the trees. Looking at the sky from this perspective is something I haven't done in a long time. I make a philosophical remark about what a beautiful place the world is, but then blurt out "Just not right here!" We start to giggle, full belly laughs that release our frustration with this section of trail. When we regain our composure, I'm glad that no one has come by and found two grown women lying in the dirt laughing hysterically.

Now in a silly mood, I have another thought. Our Bob bags have become so dirty over the last couple of days that it is hard not to add more dirt to our already grimy selves when we unpack them. The previous evening I had devised a method to keep the dirt under control.

When I unpacked the bag, I turned the sides over as if I was going to turn the bag inside out. That way I only came in contact with the clean inside parts of the bag when I had to handle it. This worked quite well, so when I went to bed I placed it in my tent's vestibule. I then folded the clean sides together and put a large rock on it to hold it firmly closed. Giggling, I say to M.J., "What if in the early morning light, the rock had rolled into my bag and I hadn't noticed it. All that added weight could be in my bag right now." Again we start to laugh uncontrollably.

Marie-Jacques recovers from her attack of the giggles

We finally arrive in Beaverdell. Zack's camping has a large, well-groomed, grassed camping area beside the river. They also have rooms. Although I haven't mentioned it to M.J., I have been mulling over the thought of taking a room for the night.

I inquire about their rooms. M.J. looks surprised. They have several rooms with a double bed, no rooms with bunks or single beds. Knowing that I'm a restless sleeper, sharing a double bed would not be the best arrangement. I'm disappointed. M.J. and I discuss it. I think that since we have a long day tomorrow a room might be a good idea. We won't have to deal with wet dewy tents in the morning and we will not have to get up quite so early. Besides, we didn't get much sleep the night before. She's wavering. I tell M.J. that I don't mind sleeping on my Thermarest on the floor and we take the room.

After a shower, I discern that my bruise collection is indeed still growing. I feel a little self-conscious of my hardened appearance as I head over to the tiny convenience store. It is the last chance to buy supplies for the next three days. In two minutes I have perused the limited choice and bought our four essential food groups: Salty, Sweet, Energy and Whatever else you can find.

That evening, having supper in the Beaverdell Hotel, we meet up with the brave swimmers from that afternoon. They are staying in the hotel. We chat and find out that they are headed to Penticton. They have reserved accomodations at the resorts at McCulloch and Chute Lake where we have planned to camp. They ask us if we have reserved a piece of the famous Chute Lake pie. We hadn't thought that it was necessary to make any type of reservations, so we phone ahead making sure to "reserve" a piece of the tasty sounding dessert.

We have a really delicious meal. We particularly enjoy the array of fresh salads. Again I'm surprised at the amount of food that slim M.J. can eat. Once we are settled in our room for the night, a comfortable bed is too enticing. I claim one side of the bed and M.J. flops on the other. We both sleep soundly. Our "Trailness" is definitely growing.

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