Day 15 - Brookmere to Coquihalla Lakes 30 km

Kryptonite in the rocks

Although bright, dappled sunshine dances through the trees outside the gazebo, the warming rays have not yet had an effect on the cold morning air inside our shelter. I burrow further into my sleeping bag, mulling over the day ahead. Our adventure is drawing to a close; tomorrow we should reach the end of the KVR trail in Hope. My uncle, who lives not too far away in the town of Mission, has extended an invitation for us to visit for a few days before we head home. It has been arranged that we will rendezvous in Hope.

My research regarding the next part of the trail hadn't been very satisfactory. The cyclist guide for the KVR was quite informative but details about the original KVR right-of-way were interwoven with the directions for the present trail. At times some of the directions were buried among paragraphs of historical snippets. In preparation for our trip, I had tried to decipher the contents into a more convenient cue sheet. This for the most part was quite satisfactory except for the Coquihalla section. Confident that we could compliment my notes with information picked up locally, I had weighed-in the guide book with our discarded items.

As I contemplate the day ahead, I start to feel uneasy about the lack of clarity in the information that we have regarding the remainder of our route. Twice, we had met cyclists going east but they had not ridden this section. They had been advised against it: Howard, whom we had met in Penticton, had ridden the highway north and the German couple had chosen to simply bypass the difficult trail by starting from Merritt.

Inquiring locally hasn't enlightened us at all. I'm regretting the decision to discard the guide book. Instead of getting on with my morning tasks, I continue my reverie in my cozy sleeping bag trying to remember all the details about the Coquihalla's history and what I had deciphered about the trail's present state.

The KVR's narrow river route through the Cascade Mountains was one of the most challenging sections of railroad built in Canada. During and after its completion, the Coquihalla line was plagued with repeated slides and washouts. In the early years, the snow was often so deep, avalanches so frequent that the line was closed for long periods. Several times trains became stranded for days or weeks; on other occasions the train was abandoned until spring thaw. Eventually the line itself was abandoned due to the rising cost associated with the incessant battle against the relentless encroachment of nature.

The Coquihalla Highway crosses and recrosses the former KVR right-of-way, making the trail difficult to follow. Besides major washouts, most of the original trestles have been destroyed by the severe mountain climate. Some sections have deteriorated to the point that they are no longer ridable. South of the former Coquihalla Station, where the old KVR railbed is impassable, a 25 km alternate route follows an oil pipeline road but it doesn't as yet have an official agreement for use by the TCT. The private road is usually gated and accessing it without authorization is considered trespassing. Along some of the route the only option will be to ride the shoulder of the highway.

Over the past few summers I have driven along the Coquihalla Highway through the picturesque Cascade Mountains several times. Although a designated cycling route, the north-south road is a steep, winding, four lane divided highway. The artery route is also affected by coastal weather rolling over the mountains. Cool, cloudy, wet weather along the higher elevations seems to be the norm. The only blip of civilization between Brookmere and Othello, a distance of about 75 kilometers will be Coquihalla Lakes where we are headed today. As I unzip my sleeping bag, the cold morning air brings with it a shiver of apprehension knowing that today we are embarking on a journey through uncertain territory.

When I step outside the gazebo, I'm pleasantly surprised by the warmth of the morning sun. The sky is blue with only a hint of clouds. As I look west toward the Coquihalla, it is such a beautiful day, I reassure myself that surely such perfect weather is a good omen. When I return to the gazebo I find a strange apparition preparing breakfast. M.J. was so pleased with the added warmth of her emergency blanket that she is now wearing it as a shawl. Clad in her warm layers, including black fleece hat, neck warmer, and her "unknown fibers" blanket, it is my turn to describe her comical appearance. With a giggle I tell her, "You look like a cold, bedraggled Ninja warrior."

I find a strange apparition preparing breakfast

During breakfast we discuss the day ahead. Tonight I will contact my uncle to arrange our rendezvous for our drive to Mission. M.J. says jokingly, "So tomorrow it's Mission accomplished!" With an uneasy chuckle I reply, "We Hope!"

The trail leaving Brookmere is picture perfect—a long straight stretch of smooth double-track flanked by evergreens and wild flowers. In the distance the sun shines on the hills that mark the beginning of the Coquihalla. This morning's apprehension dissipates as I take in the beautiful trail ahead.

The trail leaving Brookmere is picture-perfect

The trail turns south along the eastern bank of the Coldwater River. It is still early and we ride along the wooded trail in deep shade. Below us the clear blue water is basked in morning sunshine. I'm excited to see patches of snow along some of the ridges—Ah! The infamous Coquihalla where one winter they recorded a 67 foot snow fall!

At Brodie, where we come to the junction with the Merritt branch, we meet a young couple riding south towards Hope. They have been on a road tour from Calgary and they have decided to try the KVR trail south from Merritt. Although it took a little adjusting to the looser surface, they have enjoyed the trail thus far. We quiz them about the trail ahead. They explain that the detour onto the KVR was rather a spur of the moment decision and that they don't have any information to offer us. They seem in a hurry; they intend to reach Hope tonight. We warn them that there are a couple of detours ahead and they are soon off at a fast pace.

Later while we are lounging on the trail for our morning break, a pickup truck approaches heading north. M.J. restates adamantly that cyclists have priority. She's not interested in moving. Uncomfortable with the approaching vehicle, I stand up. M.J. compromises by sitting up so that the truck can pass. When the truck comes abreast of us, the lettering indicates that it is from the Federal Department of Forestry. As we say good morning, I can see the look on the fellow's face—these crazy cyclists, they are really getting possessive...

Shortly after our rest, we come to several large piles of dirt placed across the trail, indicating that we have come to a major washout. The river bed has become broader as we head south, the water spread out into shallow innocent looking channels but here we see evidence of the type of erosion that plagued the operation of the KVR. A huge section of railbed has been washed away, leaving a loose, sandy embankment. A steep slope dotted with toppled trees now edges the river for several hundred meters. We assess the winding bypass trail up the hillside. It looks like a lot of labour by the local trail association has gone into creating a negotiable alternative. Stretching up the steep slope are sets of large steps that zigzag back and forth through the tall trees.

As we unload our trailers, I wonder how the cyclists that we met at Brodie managed on the detour. I'm quite sure that this isn't what they expected when they made an impromptu decision to ride the trail. Pushing our bikes with the trailers still attached up the steep sets of steps is very awkward. It requires the two of us working in tandem, push, shove, stop, turn, shove, stop, turn—giggle. We consider removing the trailers but that will mean two more trips added to the four that we will already have to make. We continue up the steps, push, stop, turn, push, stop—rest.

We make the four trips necessary to get the bikes and bags to where the trail levels off—somewhat. I'm already out of breath. Although it is now less steep, the rough rocky trail at times narrows to a loose, shale ledge where the trees have been ripped away by the slide. I pick my way gingerly along, conscious of the loose footing. One misstep could have me tangled among the debris along the river below.

In the lead, I come to a dead stop; we both peer down to where the detour trail reconnects with the old railbed. We didn't realize the amount of elevation that we had gained as we pushed and shoved our way through the stepped path in the woods. We are now looking down, way down at the trail beside the river. A large rock outcropping has prevented fashioning the trail to reduce the grade. There are a few stepped ledges, then a long, very steep slope down to level ground. The trail association has installed some steel posts and a cable to aid with the scramble along the slope.

We team up again for the descent. I act as brakeman while M.J. takes the lead controlling the bike. We both keep one hand firmly on the cable as we slip slide our way down the gravely surface. As we near the bottom, M.J. insists that she will be OK to continue the last meters on her own. I release the bike. M.J. seems to be in control so I head back up the slope for the next bike. The crunching of my footsteps on the gravel drowns out her calls when she looses her footing and slides onto her backside. She manages to right herself none the worse for wear.

We repeat the procedure with the second bike, but before I head back up the slope for my bag, I make sure this time that M.J. has the bike under control. When M.J. catches up to me she finds me partway along the upper part of the trail sitting on a rock with my bag plunked down beside me. As she sits down, I comment that "There must be Kryptonite in these rocks… Super Gamma feels that her super powers are waning. She's huffed out."

M.J. is also tired. We start to giggle—this is quite the detour trail. "M.J. when you're my age, I hope you remember the fifty-one year old lady that talked you into joining her on the KVR." M.J. giggles back that she will "Never, ever forget this adventure…" As we continue our laughter, I admit that I think that when we get past this detour that she's going to be entitled to the greater share of the chocolate candies. "You have already scurried up that slope more than me!"

After couple more trips up and down the detour, we sit in the shade of some trees munching frenziedly on our chocolate candies. As I gaze at the steep slope that we just conquered, I blurt out, "That's a @#%$#% steep hill." I cringe slightly at the comment that just came out of my mouth, but it does describe it. M.J. gives me an astonished sideways glance; we both start to roar with laughter.

I examine the detour trail and the washout from our new perspective. As I gesture towards the scene before us, I comment laughingly to M.J. that, "If we had encountered this on our first day, we probably would have cried… But we're pros now. It's just part of a day on the trail."

I spot a small sign half hidden in the trees. Posted by the local trail group, the Nicola Valley Explorers Society, it describes the ruggedness of the trail with instructions that loaded cyclists should not attempt the trail with their panniers still on their bikes. The suggestion that someone might attempt to climb that hill with a loaded bike just adds to our giddiness.

Not too far down the trail is a second less severe washout. The trail association has created a narrow path along the sandy slide. We're happy to be able to walk our bikes across without unloading our trailers. We cautiously cross small retaining walls that hold back the loose surface. Although passable, scree from above is already filling in the trail. Once safely across I give my kudos to the trail association for their hard work creating the alternate trails. Without their dedicated efforts, we would have had a really difficult stretch of ground to cover.

Looking back at the second detour along the Coldwater River

A high fence has been erected in the proximity of the detour trails to prevent any motorized vehicles from accessing the trail, which up until the time of the washouts was used as a local through road to Brodie. The highway crosses the old right-of-way at this point. The detour instructions sound simple: At the nearby highway exit we can cross under the highway to the other side to regain the trail. We are to follow the fence south for about half a kilometer where we can access an animal gate to reach the Coldwater Road that runs along side, then under the highway.

We don't see a trail along the fence. We question the instructions, rereading them: Follow the fence south to the animal gate. After a short ways we do see evidence that someone else has hiked through the tall weeds. This isn't what we were expecting. I had optimistically pictured a flat path along a fence. This on the other hand is a hilly obstacle course. A couple of times we have to help each other up rugged slopes. Stopping for a breather, we notice the construction along the highway that Howard had mentioned to us. The traffic from the northbound lanes has been temporarily diverted to the south bound side of the highway.

After crossing a swampy area, we arrive at the animal gate. The one-way gates are interspersed along the high fence which prevents wildlife from crossing onto the highway. The swinging grills are designed to allow entry to our side of the fence from the highway. This type of gate is new to us and we fiddle awhile to maneuver ourselves through to the other side. One more ditch, another steep grassy slope and we're finally standing on the Coldwater Road beside the highway. As I look back at the overgrown vegetation surrounding the gate, I realize that this is the gate that Howard had tried to find to access the trail. Perhaps it was just as well that he couldn't find it—he would have had to struggle up that steep detour slope by himself.

Perhaps it was just as well that Howard couldn't find this gate

The sky is now grey, the clouds threatening rain. I stand there watching the traffic created by the detour on the highway. Maybe we should just ride the highway the rest of the way to the Coquihalla Lakes. On the other hand, perhaps it's not a good idea; the road construction has caused the traffic to detour somewhat onto the shoulder of the road. I scan the vehicles rolling past; there are lots of pickup trucks. I seriously entertain the idea of hitchhiking but we continue down the Coldwater Road.

Behind the fence that we just came through, I'm surprised to see a large number of cattle lying down under some trees. I don't know if there is any truth in the old adage that when you see cattle lying down it means that it is going to rain but with sky looking bleaker, I yell loudly at the cattle to, "Get up! Get up right now!—It is not going to rain!!"

We cross under the highway, following the Coldwater Road south past the deactivated Coldwater Recreation Area. Large cement blocks have been placed across the entrance to prevent vehicles from entering. One of the heavy blocks has been pushed aside allowing entry. My admonishing the cattle doesn't seem to be working the weather is looking increasingly threatening. Camping here could be an option, but the fact that vehicles also have access to this remote camping area makes me uneasy. We continue down the road.

The road peters out to a hard packed area that continues south parallel with the highway. It doesn't look like a trail; I'm beginning to question my information. A little further along we come to a point where the Coldwater River crosses the rough track. We wander around examining the surrounding area as we try to decipher my information. Down by the river's edge there is a small sign with a hiker on it. This has to be the right place. We can ford the river here or access the highway by the animal gate hidden behind the trees.

The river is more narrow here, perhaps ten meters across. Peering at the fast moving current, it is hard to judge how deep it is. The menacing looking clouds have now darkened the afternoon light. I'm starting to feel even more uneasy about our situation. If we ford the river, it will likely take us six trips to get the bikes, trailers and the bags across. We will also have to ford the river again not too far down the trail. I reach down to touch the water, it is icy cold. It is definitely true to its name.

M.J. leaves her bike and heads off to look for the animal gate. She's soon hidden from view by the many trees. After a few minutes she yells back that she can't find a gate. Perhaps it would be wiser to backtrack to the interchange and access the highway. No, that would force us to share the shoulder of the road with the rerouted traffic.

I stand there for a moment rereading the directions yet another time. The gate seems like the easiest solution. Hidden behind the trees—I repeat to myself. I backtrack a little ways to make a search further along the fence. I'm still picking my way through the undergrowth when M.J. whoops excitedly that she's found the gate. A deer startled by the noise runs out of the trees and stops for an instant to examine me before it bounds away.

By the time we meet up at the gate, rain drops are starting to fall, thunder rumbles in the distance. I must still be under the influence of the Kryptonite—or so I would like to think because I'm startled again by the words that come out of my mouth. "We find the @#%$#% gate behind the @#%$#% trees and it starts to @#%$#% rain." M.J. doesn't even flinch this time at my unladylike remark.

While M.J. scrambles for her raingear, I look around under the low hanging branches for a place to get out of the rain. There is only one small area under an evergreen tree. It looks trampled down, perhaps there is some truth about animals lying down and rain, it looks like this may have been where the startled deer had been taking shelter. Unfortunately, the space is too tiny to accommodate us.

With Girl Scout inventiveness, I realize that there is a solution not too far away. On the grassy slope leading up to the fence, a spruce tree has fallen and is leaning against the sturdy wire. We can create a makeshift lean-to with my trusty tarp.

I break off a few of the dry branches so that I can throw my tarp over the deadfall. My tent pegs were rolled up with the tarp and I use these to quickly peg down the sides of the bright blue lean-to. We grab my Bob bag that contains our lunch and crawl under the small confines of our improvised shelter just as it starts to pour. We use the Bob bag to create a backrest and try our best to position ourselves so that we are out of the rain. After a little shuffling, we seem to be staying fairly dry.

M.J.'s "Trailness" is not dampened by the rain; she busies herself making us some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. While she's working I tell her that, "You think that I have been teasing you when I have mentioned on occasion that this trip is actually a new bizarre episode of Survivor… I bet you didn't notice the cameras hidden in the woods out there. Maybe you believe me now…" M.J. replies that she definitely believes me now. "Yes, this really is Survivor KVR." Just as we start to giggle hysterically over our silly banter, a ground shaking bolt of lightening hits somewhere nearby, the thunder echoing together with our peels of laughter.

Again my blue tarp comes to the rescue

As we are eating, we realize that it is raining so hard that small streams are snaking their way underneath us. There is great shuffling in the confined space. We manage to stuff a couple of plastic bags under our behinds and return to our lunch. As I eat my sticky sandwich, I contemplate our bedraggled appearance. "M.J. I think that my uncle will have to take us through the car wash before he takes us home." We start to giggle again. I continue my silliness. "Yes, then he will have to hose us down on the driveway, then we should be presentable enough to be invited in for a shower…"

The rain continues to fall, but with the worst of the storm over we decide that we will have to brave the elements. I crawl out to put on my raingear while M.J. wrestles with hers in the shelter. I look even more like a clown than I did last evening: Bright blue rain suit, my rain booties that have a yellow reflective stripe on the back and for added visibility I've put my bright yellow cycling jersey over my rain suit. Topping off the look, I have a black rain cover over my helmet.

M.J. starts to giggle at my costume. I giggle back, "Well, I want to make sure that I'm visible." As she emerges from the shelter, she tells me that, "Well, I want to make sure that I stay dry." Having lost one of her booties, she is now wearing her rain suit and a pair of white plastic bags over her shoes to keep her feet dry. We double over with laughter at our appearance. We stagger around unable to compose ourselves. By now I'm laughing so hard that I'm gasping, "M.J. if we don't stop laughing, I will have to take some of my rain layers off and find the facilities." When I'm finally able to catch my breath again, I wonder if any motorists have noticed two strangely clad cyclists flailing around in the rain.

While we are reorganizing ourselves to set off again, we hear an ambulance go by on the highway, the siren wailing. I catch a glimpse of it speeding by heading south. We maneuver ourselves through the animal gate then climb the slope to the edge of the highway.

The overcast sky has made the day very dark. The spray being kicked up by the cars traveling at high speed combined with the reflection of the many headlights is creating poor visibility. The sound of the ambulance echoes in my ears; I realize immediately that we are in a very bad position to cross the highway. It probably would have been less risky to dodge the cars along the construction area.

We watch patiently for a suitable break in the traffic then make a run for the median. I feel relieved to be standing on the grassy center verge. M.J. immediately starts to pull off her plastic "booties". My adrenaline is already racing when she explains that her white plastic rain covers aren't comical at all—that they are very slippery. My heart jumps to think what could have happened…

The highway heading north is going up the grade whereas the south bound lanes that we have to cross now are on the down grade. The vehicles are moving faster than the lanes we just crossed. Spray bellows up all around us. The day seems even darker; the many headlights menacing. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. There is no turning back now.

Time ticks by slowly as we wait for a break in the traffic. I fix my gaze on a vehicle then count the seconds that it takes for it to pass us. Our bodies tense, we analyze our strategy to make the dash across the short but treacherous distance. Finally, hearts pounding we make a run for it. Aware of how vulnerable we were, we stop on the far side of the road to catch our breath. It takes a lot longer for my pounding heart to returns to normal.

Even though the shoulder of the road is fairly wide, I don't feel comfortable with riding the highway in this rainy weather. When large vehicles pass, we have to squint into the volumes of spray that envelop us. At times the proximity of a guard rail reduces the distance between our bikes and the passing vehicles. I pedal hard not wanting to converge with any large vehicles in one of these narrow confined areas.

A few kilometers after our dash across the highway, the traffic starts to slow down. We can see flashing lights in the distance. On the side of a long curve, a car is flipped over on the grass. Several emergency vehicles are on the scene, including the ambulance that passed us earlier. We gingerly maneuver ourselves around the vehicles and emergency personnel. From what I can determine the accident looks more spectacular than serious but it makes me shudder to realize just how dangerous our dash across the highway has been. We could easily have been another one of the accident statistics of the infamous Coquihalla!

By the time we arrive at the Coquihalla Lakes the rain has stopped but drops still fall all around us from the tall canopy of evergreens. Small, dark green cabins edge the laneway to the office. As soon as I come to a stop, I can feel the effects of the stress and exertion of the last ten kilometers. M.J. watches me with amusement as I hop off my bike and immediately rip at my clothing to divest myself of my rain layers. I can feel the inside fast becoming as damp as the outside. The cool air is a calming relief from what is beginning to feel like a sauna.

I inquire about the cabins. They are expensive and I tell the gentleman that the price is beyond our budget. By the time we finish setting up our tents, it starts to rain again. The whole area is very quiet; there are no other campers except for a couple of trailers which seem to be permanent setups. Since there is no shelter for campers, I suggest to M.J. that perhaps we could cook our meal under the canopy of one of the trailers. "There is no one over there—I'll inquire if it would be OK for us to quickly prepared our meal."

The woman at the office explains that the trailers are used by the construction crew for the roadwork that we passed earlier and that the occupants should be returning soon. I inquire if there is somewhere else we could cook our meal out of the rain. She suggests under the high deck beside the office. The space is tall enough but the deck is planked with boards spaced to allow water runoff. I tell her politely that it wouldn't be very dry. Then I boldly suggest that perhaps we could use the little porch of the unoccupied cabin beside the office. From her body language I can tell that she is reluctant, but she replies that, "Well, I suppose that would be all right..."

M.J. and I are happily cooking our boiled dinner when the gentleman comes by. Unaware that his wife has given us permission to use the porch, he strides over, impatiently demanding, "What are you doing?" We are a little taken aback by his gruff question. I reply sweetly that his wife said it would be just fine for us to use the porch for a few minutes to get out of the rain. The gentleman turns and walks off without a word. M.J. and I look at each other. After the day that we have had, I'm glad to hear that, "Grumpy old man" is the only thing that comes out of my mouth.

While I'm using the payphone, two cyclists, a man and a woman, ride up to the office. With rain still falling, it is prematurely dark and their black rain suits are creating a dangerous camouflage. When the woman enters the office, I notice that she is not wearing sturdy footwear but rather leather loafers without any socks. Glancing outside I can see that they are traveling lightly. They have only rear panniers and no tenting equipment. While I'm still on the phone, she buys a few groceries and arranges for a cabin. They disappear into the dark, rainy night with only a tiny glint coming from reflective tape on the back of their rain suits.

Despite several attempts, I haven't been able to contact my uncle. I leave a message and return to my tent hoping that he will be able to contact us tomorrow. I tell sleepy M.J. about the cyclists that just appeared at the office. Our conversation quickly dwindles; we are both exhausted from our day. The rain is still falling. In the distance I can hear noises from the highway. Grateful to be cozy in my sleeping bag, I think to myself, Well Super Gamma you've had quite the day—I wonder what another day on the Coquihalla will bring…

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