I survived 'The Hill!' Henk is a horse. I'm in Dawson Creek, mile 0 of the Alaska Highway, all packed up and ready to head north.
The Hill, at least going up, was much tamer than I had made it out to be in my mind. It's hilarious how freaked out you can get listening to others' accounts of their experience. Even the night before leaving I talked to a couple guys on Harleys who had just come in and they said "Wouldn't want to do that again anytime soon." They told me to keep an eye on the weather and not to go if it was raining. As it turned out, that was good advice. It was sunny all day, magnificent, actually, and the plateau was slick and slippery with oil but otherwise, the road had been hard packed dirt with minimal rocks and stones off to the side. You had to be careful, but in second gear, first around the corners, I was able to humm along at an average of 30 km/h. The Hill itself is 65 kilometres. Henk looked as though he'd dived into a bowl of chocolate brownie mix when we reached Anahim Lake at the plateau.
It was there that I stopped to celebrate with a veggie sandwich thinking I'd conquered the beast and that I had all kinds of time to reach Tatla Lake where I was meeting Mark Gabelmann, the gentleman grape farmer from Osoyoos, who had kindly offered to carry my laptop in his van to avoid all the bumping and shaking up of electronic parts. Being the gentleman that he is, he stayed in Bella Coola for a couple hours after I left, thinking if I had any trouble on 'The Hill' he would have my back. I must admit, it was a great feeling knowing someone was concerned.
I stopped in on the boys from The Cruzeros at their lodge before heading out and they were fifteen minutes behind me. They passed me at the summit after stopping to check that everything had gone ok. They're sweet guys. They'd thrown an impromptu concert for their hosts at the campground the night before. Word got out quickly, though, and half the town showed up. But not before the band and Mark and I feasted on drummer, Jay's fresh-caught salmon. He'd marinated it in soy sauce, brown sugar, whiskey, and lots of garlic for twenty-four hours, then seared it on a hot barbecue until the skin was burned and stuck to the grill. It tasted like candied smoked salmon and we couldn't get enough. The concert was held in the gazebo of the campground and apparently the harmonies attracted a new fan in the form of a grizzly, although I didn't see him. They also have a new fan in me.
Everything had gone wonderfully on my big ride to Anahim Lake until I ran into a Harley rider going the opposite way who complained of "all that gravel and sealcoating." We discussed road conditions for a few minutes, him saying "You think you've seen gravel, well, honey, you ain't seen anything yet!" Just then, Mark passed by, slowing down to see if I was stopped at the roadside restaurant. I jumped up and down in the window trying to get his attention and he didn't stop. I looked out and saw my bike was hidden behind a big truck with a boat attached.
I finished my sandwich quickly and headed back out into the sunshine thinking that
Harley rider had been trying to scare me. Half an hour down the road, though, was a sign: "for the next 54 kilometres, gravel and sealcoating." It was like riding on marbles. I was lucky there wasn't much traffic and I kept Henk putting along in second gear without any complaints. Mark had reached Tatla Lake and decided to backtrack and ask the flag girl if she'd seen me. I met him on the road and once again, he followed behind me. Just when my odometer indicated that the 54 kilometres of gravel would be coming to an end, another sign on the road read: "for the next 51 kilometres, gravel and sealcoating." Ugh!
Mark bought some beer at Tatla Lake and I looked forward to a cold one an hour or two down the road. We camped together at Bull Creek, a lovely provincial campground beside the Chilcoltin River. A gentleman, indeed. He made me a gourmet vegetarian Indian dish (boiled the water) for dinner and lit a fire.
We met in Williams Lake for breakfast, then parted ways, he heading south toward home, me, once again, striking out alone to the north. The day started out beautiful and sunny, but about 50 kilometres south of Prince George, I was riding through scattered thunderstorms. I rode in the wet and the cold all the way to Dawson Creek, then got a cheap room to have a hot shower and warm up.
Today is cloudy and sunny and it looks like I could be in for more rain. My mom used to make us wear plastic bread bags on our feet when we'd go out in the wet snow. Of course it was the most embarassing thing when you'd go over to a friend's house and take off your boots. But here I am, today, with a plastic bag on my left foot. Moms always know best, don't they?
The Hill, at least going up, was much tamer than I had made it out to be in my mind. It's hilarious how freaked out you can get listening to others' accounts of their experience. Even the night before leaving I talked to a couple guys on Harleys who had just come in and they said "Wouldn't want to do that again anytime soon." They told me to keep an eye on the weather and not to go if it was raining. As it turned out, that was good advice. It was sunny all day, magnificent, actually, and the plateau was slick and slippery with oil but otherwise, the road had been hard packed dirt with minimal rocks and stones off to the side. You had to be careful, but in second gear, first around the corners, I was able to humm along at an average of 30 km/h. The Hill itself is 65 kilometres. Henk looked as though he'd dived into a bowl of chocolate brownie mix when we reached Anahim Lake at the plateau.
It was there that I stopped to celebrate with a veggie sandwich thinking I'd conquered the beast and that I had all kinds of time to reach Tatla Lake where I was meeting Mark Gabelmann, the gentleman grape farmer from Osoyoos, who had kindly offered to carry my laptop in his van to avoid all the bumping and shaking up of electronic parts. Being the gentleman that he is, he stayed in Bella Coola for a couple hours after I left, thinking if I had any trouble on 'The Hill' he would have my back. I must admit, it was a great feeling knowing someone was concerned.
I stopped in on the boys from The Cruzeros at their lodge before heading out and they were fifteen minutes behind me. They passed me at the summit after stopping to check that everything had gone ok. They're sweet guys. They'd thrown an impromptu concert for their hosts at the campground the night before. Word got out quickly, though, and half the town showed up. But not before the band and Mark and I feasted on drummer, Jay's fresh-caught salmon. He'd marinated it in soy sauce, brown sugar, whiskey, and lots of garlic for twenty-four hours, then seared it on a hot barbecue until the skin was burned and stuck to the grill. It tasted like candied smoked salmon and we couldn't get enough. The concert was held in the gazebo of the campground and apparently the harmonies attracted a new fan in the form of a grizzly, although I didn't see him. They also have a new fan in me.
Everything had gone wonderfully on my big ride to Anahim Lake until I ran into a Harley rider going the opposite way who complained of "all that gravel and sealcoating." We discussed road conditions for a few minutes, him saying "You think you've seen gravel, well, honey, you ain't seen anything yet!" Just then, Mark passed by, slowing down to see if I was stopped at the roadside restaurant. I jumped up and down in the window trying to get his attention and he didn't stop. I looked out and saw my bike was hidden behind a big truck with a boat attached.
I finished my sandwich quickly and headed back out into the sunshine thinking that
Harley rider had been trying to scare me. Half an hour down the road, though, was a sign: "for the next 54 kilometres, gravel and sealcoating." It was like riding on marbles. I was lucky there wasn't much traffic and I kept Henk putting along in second gear without any complaints. Mark had reached Tatla Lake and decided to backtrack and ask the flag girl if she'd seen me. I met him on the road and once again, he followed behind me. Just when my odometer indicated that the 54 kilometres of gravel would be coming to an end, another sign on the road read: "for the next 51 kilometres, gravel and sealcoating." Ugh!
Mark bought some beer at Tatla Lake and I looked forward to a cold one an hour or two down the road. We camped together at Bull Creek, a lovely provincial campground beside the Chilcoltin River. A gentleman, indeed. He made me a gourmet vegetarian Indian dish (boiled the water) for dinner and lit a fire.
We met in Williams Lake for breakfast, then parted ways, he heading south toward home, me, once again, striking out alone to the north. The day started out beautiful and sunny, but about 50 kilometres south of Prince George, I was riding through scattered thunderstorms. I rode in the wet and the cold all the way to Dawson Creek, then got a cheap room to have a hot shower and warm up.
Today is cloudy and sunny and it looks like I could be in for more rain. My mom used to make us wear plastic bread bags on our feet when we'd go out in the wet snow. Of course it was the most embarassing thing when you'd go over to a friend's house and take off your boots. But here I am, today, with a plastic bag on my left foot. Moms always know best, don't they?
posted by Moira Nordholt | 10:42 AM
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