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Day 11 - Faulder to Link Lake 40 km
Linking to the lake
Our shuttle arrives fifteen minutes early. The fellow has other customers to take up to Chute Lake when he returns from Faulder and he wants to be sure to be on time. We're packed but we are still eating breakfast. Not wanting to keep the fellow waiting, we throw our meal into a plastic bag, grab our gear and head for the van.
As we follow the road that climbs out of the valley, I ask our driver if he does this run often. He says no that he's only done it once before. He tells us tactfully that "Self-supported riders, usually don't request a shuttle."
The road twists and turns climbing higher as we leave the Okanagan valley behind. At a bend in the road, we pull onto a dirt lane and stop. There are a couple of buildings further along the lane, the remains of some railway tracks on one side and what must be the trail on the other. A dog barks in the distance; the fellow says, "Here we are: Faulder."
In three minutes, we are unloaded and our ride has disappeared down the road. The early morning air is much colder than in Penticton. We shiver in our light clothing. I look at the unappealing remainder of our breakfast, our pile of equipment and bikes, the trail that runs into the woods; for some silly reason I feel a little abandoned.
The dog's bark is getting louder; he doesn't like the early morning strangers. We hurriedly put on warm layers and wolf down the remainder of our breakfast.
While we are loading up our bikes, M.J. makes a confession. In the flurry of getting ready when our ride had arrived early, she had left the kettle boiling in the hostel kitchen. Headlines from the Penticton newspaper flash through my mind—Two cyclist sought for arson of local hostel. I reassure myself by saying "I'm sure someone found it. Besides don't they automatically shut off if they boil dry?" We start off down the trail.
Although the trail leaving Faulder is described as loose and sandy, compared to some conditions we have encountered, we find the uphill grade quite nice.
At Trout Creek the railway bridge has been removed. Up until a few years ago cyclists had to ford the creek but a bypass trail has been built to access a road bridge several hundred meters further along the river. I climb down the embankment from the railbed to check the condition of the trail through the woods. It is quite steep and rocky but I think that we can attempt it without unloading the bikes.
The bypass trail is just wide enough for us to walk our bikes. The large loose rocks teeter and slide. We try to advance slowly controlling our speed with our brakes but gravity and the loose footing makes walking precarious. We half roll, half skid down the rough trail which follows the contour of the river bank, wandering up and down over the hilly terrain. It is more difficult than I anticipated.
My cycling shoes don't offer the best support for negotiating the loose surface. I stop and lace them up tightly. In the lead, I can't make it up a steep incline. M.J. leaves her bike and helps me by pushing my trailer. Head down, she puts all her strength into an energetic push. She's so enthusiastic that I have to yell for her to stop. I'm out of control at the front end. My front tire is hanging over the edge of trail.
We continue up the uneven incline in fits and starts. M.J. pushes until I yell "Stop" I then hold the brakes tight while I try to get a better footing. When the trail evens out, we return to retrieve M.J.'s bike. The timing on our "push-and-shove" system is better this time.
A sigh of relief as the detour trail levels out
The trail emerges from the woods near the road bridge. As we cross the bridge we peer into the pretty gurgling creek. The water is fairly high and current is quite fast. Although the air is warming it looks cold. I'm thankful that I'm standing over the creek and not having to wade through it.
Continuing along the road we pass a recreation area where a tent is set up. Someone is cooking breakfast. It sure smells good. The aroma of bacon follows us up the road.
When we rejoin the trail, we stop to remove our warm morning layers. Spotting a photo opportunity, I climb through some brambles onto a pile of rocks where I surprise a snake. Although it slithers away, I retreat. I make a second attempt, talking sternly to any serpentine tenants to stay put so that I can get my picture. A small group of cyclists appear on the trail while I'm perched on the rock pile talking to the ground. Undeterred by my ravings, they stop to chat.
They are spending a couple of days cycling east from Tulameen to Penticton. We warn them about the detour just ahead and wish them luck negotiating the steep trail.
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Midmorning, M.J. has another confession. We had brought a small yellow trailer flag designed to make us more visible when we ride on the road. She has forgotten the flag in the garage at the hostel. I hadn't even noticed. Another thought flashes through my mind—Well at least, we will be less conspicuous when the authorities are looking for us! "Oh! not to worry" I say to M.J., "I'm sure they can mail it to us."
Surrounded by evergreen forest that grows in the sandy soil, the trail surface continues to be firm and pleasant. On occasion when the trail cuts through sandy embankments we see evidence of erosion. Wide slopes of loose scree run down to the edge of the trail. We stop to examine several interesting terraced retaining walls which have been built high up the slopes. Large boulders have rolled down onto some of the ledges indicating the purpose for the sturdy protective wall that edges the trail.
A terraced retaining wall
Near Kirton the remnants of a siding runs into the trees, the old railway ties barely distinguishable from the surrounding forest undergrowth.
An old siding is barely visible
At Thirsk Lake the trail merges with a gravel road. "Highway 40" has a fair amount of vehicle traffic. As we ride along the highway, several cars speed past us. They kick up dust and we have to squint to see through the brown haze.
After a few kilometers the road curves to the left, leaves the old railbed and the trail continues straight. As we enter the trail again, we stop for a break. We assume our usual casual position of lounging on the trail. While we are resting, I take inventory of my bruise collection. Hum, I detect two new bruises... not too bad. A lot of my collection is actually fading.
After a few minutes, we hear a car approaching on the road. It suddenly appears in a great cloud of dust. It looks like it is headed straight for us. We both jump up in fright as it gets closer. We leap to the side of the trail. The car continues around the bend in the road and disappears into the billowing dust. We feel rather foolish—Well it did look like it was headed straight for us...
The trail gets softer as we approach the Chain Lake area where there are several lakes with camping facilities. Due to the popularity of these campgrounds, the trail is often used by campers with motorized vehicles. Whenever we encounter areas with heavy motorbike or "quad" use, the trail is often in poor condition. We can hear them tearing up the trail in the distance.
Although the recreation areas seem busy with campers, we are pleasantly surprised to be the only guests when we arrive at a privately owned campground on Link Lake. M.J. exclaims that it's like a little bit of paradise. We stretch out on the wharf, put our feet in the water and watch the loons on the small lake. They are so graceful, the lake so peaceful.
We relax for a short time before the sky starts to cloud over. We choose a pretty spot by the water and we hurry to get our tents set up. During supper it starts to sprinkle. It is soon drizzling. We retreat to our tents.
Another group of campers arrive. Curious, I poke my nose under the edge of my tent. Three cyclists are setting up camp. Cozy in my sleeping bag, I'm glad that we arrived in time to enjoy this beautiful lake before the rain. I'm sure that we will have better memories of our stay at Link Lake than this group of cyclists.In our zeal to divest ourselves of extra weight we have sent home all our reading material; the only thing we have that might offer some diversion is an assortment of maps. I ask M.J. if she would like one to read. Giggles come from her tent. No, she will pass on that one.
I listen to the loons calling on the lake, their soulful lament mixed with the sound of the rain falling on my little shelter. Soon, I hear another sound coming from the direction of M.J.'s tent, gentle muffled snoring. It is 6:30 and she's already fast asleep.
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