Day 14 - Coalmont to Brookmere 45 km

If we wanted to get an early start we would have to forgo the hotel breakfast. Because the owner's late night working the bar, breakfast would not be available until after 8 o'clock. Trying to be as quiet as the creaky stairs would allow us, we carry our gear out onto the porch of the hotel where we prepare breakfast. Grey clouds hang low in the early morning light. A couple of local dogs wander over to check out the menu. Getting rather adept at dealing with critter encounters, M.J. stomps her feet, chasing them away.

The hotel is on the main road through town and, as we eat, a couple of cars pass us, slowing to make a sharp turn at a jog in the road. Curious glances find two cyclists having an early morning meal on the front steps. Our curbside breakfast must seem a little odd to them. We wave back. I find the instant oatmeal that we had purchased the day before to be unappealing. M.J. with her usual good appetite eats two helpings. Wanting to dispose of my leftover breakfast, I try to entice the dogs that are cautiously sulking at a distance. They don't find the menu very appealing either.

The trail leaving Coalmont has a distinct black tinge. For years, coal from the mine on the hillside southwest of town had been carried down to the railroad for shipment by a cable car system. The dark granular surface of the old railbed is deeply embedded with decades of coal dust.

A few kilometers down the trail, we pass several large clearings full of campers. There are tents of every size and description covering every bit of level ground. Accompanying the congregation of tents is a seemingly equal number of pickup trucks and vans. We don't see much activity.

As we approach Tulameen, we see more "encampments" that also have their entourage of appropriate vehicles. The festive "Tulameen Days" seem to be a popular summer attraction, the weekend's activities well attended. As we cycle quietly past the still sleeping partyers, I'm mildly curious as to what kind of festivities attract this large a following.

In the small town of Tulameen there are a few people milling about although it is quite early. Our intent is to have the condition of our wheels verified but we realize that it is too early to disturb the bikeshop owner. If we want a consultation, we will have wait until a more appropriate hour.

The town is slowly starting to buzz with more activity as sleepy-looking campers start to appear. People are queuing up outside the little store. When the store opens, the shopkeepers already look harried. We purchase a treat of some chocolate milk and return to our bikes. A young man sitting outside asks us where we have come from. We proudly answer Castlegar. He then asks us how long it took us. "Oh about two weeks," I reply. He dismisses our accomplishment with a sneer, "I could have walked faster than that."

M.J. and I both start to bristle. We ask him if he is familiar with the trail. No, he's not. Like evangelists we enlighten him. We also add that trail riding is not like road riding, you expend a lot more energy on the often loose surface. We ramble on about how one must take time to enjoy the journey, not race to the next town. Soon the young man is edging away, happy to escape what I'm sure he now perceives as two fanatical KVR pilgrims.

After the young man retreats, I find that I don't want to hang around waiting. I realize that my initial alarm at the state of our wheels has faded over the last couple of days, I suggest that we continue on our way. Although a twinge of uncertainty flashes across M.J.'s face at my suggestion, she's not keen on waiting around either. We're happy to continue our "pilgrimage."

Despite the activity in town, the trail is reassuringly quiet as we cross a pretty trestle outside town. Rock outcroppings that were cut for the railbed along the length of the north shore of Otter Lake create a rugged contrast with the tree covered hills slopping to the water's edge on the south side. The morning is still grey, the lake smooth, silent. For years, winter ice was cut from the lake's desirable clear waters.

We have only gone a short distance when my lack of appetite for this morning's breakfast is already haunting me. I insist on stopping by a bench overlooking the lake. Last evening, again to my amazement, I had watched M.J. devour her huge steak dinner while I had to ask for a "cyclist bag" for my leftovers. Extracting it, I offer to share it with M.J. She declines. Several wasps join me though, demanding their share.

They pursue me aggressively zipping back and forth. I assume that they want my chocolate milk, so I deposit some on the ground. They are still pursuing me, it is my steak they want. When a couple and their daughter cycle up, they find a true vision of "Trailness"— a cyclist sharing an early morning steak meal with several determined insects. The woman and her daughter hang back, the gentleman comes over and asks about the trail.

He inquires where the trail goes to. "Hope," I answer. He gives me a strange look. I'm not sure if he is surprised at my answer or he's alarmed that I'm sharing my meal with the pesky wasps. "Hope...," he repeats looking down the trail. "Really? Where are you riding from?" We tell him we have ridden the trail from Castlegar. Eyeing the wasps, he appears more impressed than the young man at the store, "Really? The trail is that long?"

The little girl over by her mother is fidgeting. She's tired and she wants to "go back now". "Well what's down the trail from here?" I tell him that it should be nice ride along the lake for several kilometers. The man rejoins his family. The little girl doesn't want to go any further. The man is insistent, "I just want to see what's around the bend." They head down the trail in the direction of Hope, the little girl trailing behind whining. Soon we see them backtracking towards Tulameen, the little girl happily leading the way.

Just past Otter Lake, we come across a large animal skeleton on the side of the trail. The horns on the skull among the bleached bones indicate that it is the remains of an unfortunate member of a cattle herd. I realize that we are passing through the very location where a fateful event happened during the early operation of the railway.

Brookmere, further down the line, was a meeting point for trains coming north from Hope along the Coquihalla line and trains heading south from Spences Bridge. Depending on their destination, groupings of boxcars were often exchanged in a large siding at Brookmere.

One day when an exchange was being made, unknown to the railway men, a coupling broke severing a grouping of boxcars from the train. By the time the mishap was noticed, the runaway cars had picked-up speed on the downhill grade towards Tulameen and were hurtling down the tracks. Five boxcars of cattle derailed on a curve several kilometers outside Brookmere, the cattle meeting a violent demise beside the KVR railbed. The remaining cars managed to stay on the tracks and came to a stop on the more level grade in this area near Otter Lake.

The trail is pleasant, crossing and recrossing the small creek. All of the trestles are newly repaired, evidence that dedicated volunteers from the local trail association have been hard at work. We cycle past ducks paddling in the pretty creek, the young ducklings now nearly as big as their parents. Rounding a bend, I'm startled to come face to face with curious cattle resting under the shade of pine trees.

When the railroad was built in this mountainous interior region, the easiest route was to follow the river valleys which afforded small corridors of fairly level ground. The proximity to the creeks and rivers has resulted in a constant battle against the changing course of these waterways. One of the newly repaired trestles near Thynne Lake has already been a victim of the unpredictable force of nature. A large tree has been pushed up against the trestle by high water, damaging a section of railing.

The unpredictable force of nature

Unlike some of the large hilly valleys to the east, the long river valley is fairly green. The trail stretches out across the grassy fields in a long, straight tangent westward, creating the illusion that we are headed downhill even though the grade is slightly uphill. As I cycle along, enjoying the strange perspective, I realize that our days on the trail—our pilgrimage will be over all too soon.

A long straight tangent through the Otter Valley

We stop for a rest in the shade of a large clump of Saskatoonberry trees. The presence of cattle in the area is very evident, every inch of shade is covered in cattle dung. Looking down the trail, we see that it will be a while until we find more shade. The dung is pretty dry... It doesn't smell too bad... So we spread out my tarp and plop down.

The branches of the trees are so full of ripe berries that they are bending under the weight. M.J. simply has to reach up to be able to pick several handfuls. We lie in the shade and gaze through the branches of berries at the high, fast moving clouds.

After a small detour around a missing trestle, the trail becomes very washboard because of local vehicle traffic. The gravel road winds its way uphill through scrubby overgrown meadows. It is bone jarringly tiresome. I try to divert attention from my discomfort by concentrating on counting the different types of wildflowers along the edge of the road. My concentration is short lived.

We try to sing. The warbling in our voices from the jarring is mildly amusing for a short time. Soon we are having a serious one-sided conversation with the trail. The stern remarks don't include any acclamations.

We stop at Burt's Horse Motel which is also a cyclist's reststop, but Burt is not at home. M.J. tries her usual charm on the two horses standing in the paddock. She's disappointed when they are more interested in their meal than in the helmeted visitor.

Exploring Burt's rustic yet charming setup for cyclists, we find a bike rack, picnic tables, a kitchen shelter and off to one side, a newly installed solar shower. A large fire pit sits in a grassy area where cyclists can pitch their tents. Wandering back to the trail, we find two families stopped under the shade of the large trees.

As part of their vacation they are cycling different sections of the trail as day trips. We tell them that it is really too bad that they have chosen this particular section, that it is the worst washboard that we have encountered since leaving Castlegar. We suggest a couple of areas to visit that we have particularly enjoyed.

After the washboard diminishes to the point of being more tolerable, we hear a motorized vehicle approaching from the direction that we are headed. As it gets closer, we see a figure clad in bright green leather atop a bright green motorcycle. A full helmet with a reflective visor masks his features from view. We pull to the side, stopping to let him pass. We continue to hear the sound of the roaring engine somewhere in the vicinity of the trail.

The wind is picking up, threatening clouds are appearing as the day cools down. Tired from the washboard of the previous kilometers, we find the noise from the "Green Hornet" an annoying interjection to the usual quiet of the trail. Finally, I hear the motorcycle approaching from the rear. I yell to M.J. that the "Green Hornet" wants to pass. I stop, whereas M.J. refuses to cede to the motorcycle again. She says adamantly that we have the right-of-way and continues to cycle. The "Green Hornet" slows to a quiet pace to pass us before he roars off down the trail again.

At Brookmere Station the trail widens, with a view west to the mountains that surround the Coquihalla region. Gritty coal blackened soil patches delineate the old station grounds, remnants of its busy years as one of the KVR's important transfer points. Now a quiet little enclave of but a few houses, it is nice to see that an old caboose, a red shed and a watertower have been retained for trail enthusiasts to enjoy. We wave to a couple of cyclists traveling along the local road in the opposite direction.

KVR memories at the former Brookmere Station

Colley Creek Lodge, just above the old station area, is an inviting sight. Neat white cabins of various sizes surround a large grassy area. To one side nestled in a clearing is a screened-in gazebo. As we pass the office, I notice a bright green motorcycle beside one of the utility buildings.

The gazebo is very pleasant spot but a strong breeze is blowing through the large screened windows. M.J. tells me that she's afraid of being cold and that she has decided to put up her tent—inside the gazebo. While we move furniture around to make room, I have regrets that my tent is a not freestanding model and that it needs to be pegged down for support. I try to think of how I can arrange my sleeping accommodations to minimize the impact of the cold breeze. After a little creative draping which includes using a couple of chairs and a pair of shoes as tent pegs, I manage to set up my tent beside M.J.'s.

Shoes help stabilize my gazebo tent

When the owner pops back in to tell us that two other cyclist have arrived, she's a little taken aback with our unusual camping arrangement. We insist that we don't mind sharing, that we can easily rearrange things to make room. I'm sure she is relieved that the new arrivals only want to use the cooking space, that they had already opted to set up their tents—on the lawn.

It really is quite breezy and cool. After my shower I feel really chilled and put on my rain suit to cut the wind. I'm not aware of my comical appearance. A royal blue rain suit with rather baggy pants, my yellow sun hat that hides two weeks worth of helmet hair and two bright red spots on my cheeks from the cold. M.J. looks at me with a supressed smile, she starts to say something but cuts herself short. I ask her what she was about to say. She starts to giggle as she describes my appearance, "You look like a clown..." We giggle so much that soon I'm so hot that I have to remove my circus costume.

I'm sure the owner has heard the hysterical laughter coming from the gazebo. —These poor girls out in the cold, they must be losing it. She returns to invite us over to their campfire where they are cooking hotdogs. Although we have already eaten our usual boiled dinner, we accept the gracious offer.

The resort facilities include a pleasant area where there is a fire pit ringed by comfortable Adirondack style chairs. A young man, the couples' son comes over to join us. I ask him if he is the motorcyclist that we saw on the trail that afternoon. He answers yes—I chuckle to myself, —pursued by wasps at Otter Lake, I was now joined at supper by the "Green Hornet."

The other cyclists come over to join us. They had been looking for the resort when we had seen them on the road earlier. Visiting from Germany the couple intends to ride to Castlegar. Excitedly, we quiz them about the route up the Coquihalla from Hope. We're disappointed to hear that they were advised not to take that route unless they intended to ride the highway but rather to start on the KVR branch line from Merritt. They had started their KVR trip today, riding south from Merritt rather than north along the Coquihalla from Hope.

Sitting around the fire chatting, we each accept a hotdog. We have a hearty laugh over the German fellow's introduction to toasted marshmallows. His European palate doesn't see the attraction to this North American delicacy. When the German couple come back to the gazebo to cook the rest of their meal, they realize that they have forgotten to buy a fuel canister. The hotdogs provided by our hosts were a good appetizer but these hungry cyclists need more calories.

M.J. and I confer; we have only a few meals left to prepare before we get to Hope, perhaps we have enough fuel left to share. We guesstimate by shaking our canister. The amount of fuel we have left is questionable but we offer the use of our stove. While the German couple prepare their pasta, we discuss their unfortunate oversight. They may not find this type of fuel canister until they get to Penticton.

Although the strong breeze has subsided, I'm happy to crawl into my semi-stable, draped tent inside the gazebo knowing that I'm shielded from the elements. I drift off to sleep, blissfully unaware that I have left wakeful M.J. to defend us from the mice she hears scurrying about.

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