There’s a trucker in a tavern in Prince George tonight telling a good story over a couple of Molson Canadians. None of his buddies are going to believe him, though. I wouldn’t believe myself it if it hadn’t happened to me. Those Rockies sure are beautiful but they sure can heave some weather at you!
I got a lift yesterday (Monday) with Peter from BC Parks and his adorable golden retriever-husky, Kaya, from Liard Hotsprings to his hometown of Fort Nelson. The sun finally came out in the morning and started steaming off the cold wet highway, and finally, Henk and I could be on our way. Between the hotsprings and the litres of water I drank while soaking, and the rivers of rain that came down while there, I’d had my fill of water. I was contemplating riding when a camper arrived at the hotsprings around nine and told Moon Eyes he’d woken up to four inches of snow at Summit. Peter loaded up Henk along with two quads he was delivering back to the shop, and I had a wonderful sunny ride for four hours, happy and grateful to be dry and warm.
That stretch of the Alaska Highway, just coming into the Northern Rockies, is magnificent in the sunshine. The peaks were freshly snow-capped and the sky was clear blue, giving a beautiful contrast to the golden leaves shimmering in the sun. All the animals were happy the rain had stopped, too. Sheep, caribou, elk, wild bison, free-roaming horses, deer, and poodle-sized ravens were all out playing by the side of the road. We stopped at a roadkill that Peter’s colleagues had found the day before with a three-year-old grizzly attached. They were telling us they’d watched from inside their truck as the grizzly rolled the elk or caribou around with its snout like it was a playtoy, devouring the flesh, while keeping a close watch on the truck. It must have had its fill, because there wasn’t much left but furry bits when we pulled up, and the grizzly was nowhere to be found.
By the time we arrived at Fort Nelson, Henk and I were vibrating with anticipation. The sun was still out, Peter had gotten us over the snowy pass (of course the snow had melted by the time we passed), and most of the sharp, jagged, rubber-chewing chip seal was behind us.
We put in another four hours and got all the way to Taylor, just north of Dawson Creek, Mile 0, with only a few raindrops. I found myself at the end of the day wishing for more daylight so we could continue. The land of the midnight sun is far behind us now and sun sets around eight thirty.
I packed my tent and hit the road this morning around ten, stopping for a soy latte at Hug a Mug in Dawson Creek. The young redhead behind the counter said she wanted to go on an adventure too. “That’s so cool!” she said when she asked if I was alone and where I was coming from. She’s 17, born and raised in Dawson Creek, and still has a year of high school. I told her to go the minute she graduates.
The sun was out again today, but there was a strong wind that kept changing from a headwind to a crosswind as Henk and I wound our way west and south. I knew there was something brewing by the strength of the gusts, but I had no idea we were about to ride through the mother of all Rocky Mountain hailstorms. After coming across a curvy and picturesque valley southeast of Chetwynd, we rounded a long bend on an incline and got spat out onto a plateau with an ominous view of our near future. Henk and I both gulped. Miles ahead, the sky was a black wall.
For a few minutes, my first reaction was fear. Holy shit, I thought. Chetwynd is miles behind me and Prince George is at least an hour and a half ahead. There’s not much in between if I need to take shelter. (If?! Like some miracle would lift the whole wall out of my way?!) I kept riding because where Henk and I were, the sun was overhead, and for now, anyway, we were fine. It’s a strange feeling knowing this certain inevitability exists and there is not a damn thing you can do about it. My shoulders started tensing up the closer we got to the wall. I tried to calm myself down. My eyes caught a movement in a grassy hill to my left and for a brief moment, Henk, myself, and a beautiful full-grown black bear locked eyes. A strange calm descended. The calm before the storm.
I saw a flash of lightning and immediately thought of Lightning Bolt Pete. What are my chances of getting hit by lightning? I asked myself. Better than I ever would have thought, considering the fact that two of my new biker friends had. I didn’t like those odds. Well, I told myself, you’re either going to die, in which case there’s nothing to worry about, or you’re going to survive, in which case there’s nothing to worry about. There was nothing to do but ride on.
I hit the wall. Within a second or two I was drenched. The duct tape on my left boot couldn’t keep out this deluge. Neither could the two-dollar rain pants, four sizes too big that I picked up at the church thrift store in Dawson. I carried on in low gear with low visibility thinking I could just ride through. The next thing I knew, I was in the eye. Lightning flashed close by. It took all my willpower to continue riding but I rode, thinking of the bear and Lightning Bolt Pete and not wanting to die. That’s when the hail started. It took a few seconds for my brain to register what that sharp pelting was on my helmet and what that white stuff was accumulating on the highway. So now I was in the eye of the storm, miles from cover, with lightning all around and pea-sized hail striking me on all sides. I approached a rest area where two cars and a semi were parked. I pulled in and got off my bike, not knowing what else to do.
I walked over to the semi and knocked on the door, feeling a little bit like a “lot lizard.” (My brother, Colin used to drive truck long distance and has some hilarious and disturbing stories of the women who service drivers at truck stops.) All I was thinking was I need to get out of this lightning. The door opened and I yelled up from inside my helmet, you got room for a wet traveler?
If I were writing a horror movie and this was the point at which things went from bad to worse, the two guys in this truck are exactly who I would cast.
I climbed up into the driver’s seat and handed one of them my helmet. The driver had been taking a nap in the bed behind the seats. His greasy brown hair was plastered to his forehead and he had about six days’ growth on his face. He was petting a hairy little lap dog, and looking at me through coke bottle glasses. His companion in the passenger seat was about four hundred pounds and had long curly blond hair. Although I didn’t get the creeps as in “this is dangerous,” it was definitely creepy.
“Pretty nasty out there,” said the passenger, after I’d settled in to the driver’s seat in a puddle. “You travelling alone?” Yeah. So are you guys heading north or south? “Prince George,” said the driver. “Just took a load up to Fort St. John last night.” Uh huh. Any idea how big this thing is? Any weather forecast on the trucker line or anything? Strangely, I wasn’t scared. Not until blondy turned on the radio and the very first item on the news was of a prisoner from Prince George who’d escaped and was probably heading to his home in Chetwynd. “Call 911 if you see him,” said the reporter. Shit. Cellphone’s back on Henk.
I didn’t stick around long enough to get their life stories. The eye moved north within five or ten minutes and the hail was replaced by a steady rain. That was good enough for me. I bolted and hopped back on Henk. They rode past and waved. I laughed because I was way beyond tears.
About twenty minutes down the road another gigantic thunderhead threatened to turn Henk and me into roadkill. I saw a gas station and pulled in, leaving poor Henk in the open. It poured. I hung my rain gear over a chair and bought a copy of yesterday’s Vancouver Sun. A guy on a cellphone near me was talking to his wife about the “golf ball sized hail he’d driven through.” If he’d come from where I had, he was grossly over-exaggerating. If he’d come from where I was going, I was in big trouble. I hung out and did the crossword puzzle waiting for a break in the storm. Finally, the sun came out and there looked to be a narrow alley between thunderclouds. I went for it and made it all the way to Quesnel where the sun was setting, wreaking havoc with the sky. Directly to the east, an enormous fuschia thunderhead was raining purple rain. I pulled into a campground/motel where the owner wouldn’t let me camp. He gave me a cheap room, saying I’d freeze in my tent tonight.
Now that I’m showered, and I’m safe, dry, and warm, I can laugh at the day’s roller coaster of emotion from elation to terror and back again, knowing that I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Nothing like a close encounter with death to make you feel very much alive.
I got a lift yesterday (Monday) with Peter from BC Parks and his adorable golden retriever-husky, Kaya, from Liard Hotsprings to his hometown of Fort Nelson. The sun finally came out in the morning and started steaming off the cold wet highway, and finally, Henk and I could be on our way. Between the hotsprings and the litres of water I drank while soaking, and the rivers of rain that came down while there, I’d had my fill of water. I was contemplating riding when a camper arrived at the hotsprings around nine and told Moon Eyes he’d woken up to four inches of snow at Summit. Peter loaded up Henk along with two quads he was delivering back to the shop, and I had a wonderful sunny ride for four hours, happy and grateful to be dry and warm.
That stretch of the Alaska Highway, just coming into the Northern Rockies, is magnificent in the sunshine. The peaks were freshly snow-capped and the sky was clear blue, giving a beautiful contrast to the golden leaves shimmering in the sun. All the animals were happy the rain had stopped, too. Sheep, caribou, elk, wild bison, free-roaming horses, deer, and poodle-sized ravens were all out playing by the side of the road. We stopped at a roadkill that Peter’s colleagues had found the day before with a three-year-old grizzly attached. They were telling us they’d watched from inside their truck as the grizzly rolled the elk or caribou around with its snout like it was a playtoy, devouring the flesh, while keeping a close watch on the truck. It must have had its fill, because there wasn’t much left but furry bits when we pulled up, and the grizzly was nowhere to be found.
By the time we arrived at Fort Nelson, Henk and I were vibrating with anticipation. The sun was still out, Peter had gotten us over the snowy pass (of course the snow had melted by the time we passed), and most of the sharp, jagged, rubber-chewing chip seal was behind us.
We put in another four hours and got all the way to Taylor, just north of Dawson Creek, Mile 0, with only a few raindrops. I found myself at the end of the day wishing for more daylight so we could continue. The land of the midnight sun is far behind us now and sun sets around eight thirty.
I packed my tent and hit the road this morning around ten, stopping for a soy latte at Hug a Mug in Dawson Creek. The young redhead behind the counter said she wanted to go on an adventure too. “That’s so cool!” she said when she asked if I was alone and where I was coming from. She’s 17, born and raised in Dawson Creek, and still has a year of high school. I told her to go the minute she graduates.
The sun was out again today, but there was a strong wind that kept changing from a headwind to a crosswind as Henk and I wound our way west and south. I knew there was something brewing by the strength of the gusts, but I had no idea we were about to ride through the mother of all Rocky Mountain hailstorms. After coming across a curvy and picturesque valley southeast of Chetwynd, we rounded a long bend on an incline and got spat out onto a plateau with an ominous view of our near future. Henk and I both gulped. Miles ahead, the sky was a black wall.
For a few minutes, my first reaction was fear. Holy shit, I thought. Chetwynd is miles behind me and Prince George is at least an hour and a half ahead. There’s not much in between if I need to take shelter. (If?! Like some miracle would lift the whole wall out of my way?!) I kept riding because where Henk and I were, the sun was overhead, and for now, anyway, we were fine. It’s a strange feeling knowing this certain inevitability exists and there is not a damn thing you can do about it. My shoulders started tensing up the closer we got to the wall. I tried to calm myself down. My eyes caught a movement in a grassy hill to my left and for a brief moment, Henk, myself, and a beautiful full-grown black bear locked eyes. A strange calm descended. The calm before the storm.
I saw a flash of lightning and immediately thought of Lightning Bolt Pete. What are my chances of getting hit by lightning? I asked myself. Better than I ever would have thought, considering the fact that two of my new biker friends had. I didn’t like those odds. Well, I told myself, you’re either going to die, in which case there’s nothing to worry about, or you’re going to survive, in which case there’s nothing to worry about. There was nothing to do but ride on.
I hit the wall. Within a second or two I was drenched. The duct tape on my left boot couldn’t keep out this deluge. Neither could the two-dollar rain pants, four sizes too big that I picked up at the church thrift store in Dawson. I carried on in low gear with low visibility thinking I could just ride through. The next thing I knew, I was in the eye. Lightning flashed close by. It took all my willpower to continue riding but I rode, thinking of the bear and Lightning Bolt Pete and not wanting to die. That’s when the hail started. It took a few seconds for my brain to register what that sharp pelting was on my helmet and what that white stuff was accumulating on the highway. So now I was in the eye of the storm, miles from cover, with lightning all around and pea-sized hail striking me on all sides. I approached a rest area where two cars and a semi were parked. I pulled in and got off my bike, not knowing what else to do.
I walked over to the semi and knocked on the door, feeling a little bit like a “lot lizard.” (My brother, Colin used to drive truck long distance and has some hilarious and disturbing stories of the women who service drivers at truck stops.) All I was thinking was I need to get out of this lightning. The door opened and I yelled up from inside my helmet, you got room for a wet traveler?
If I were writing a horror movie and this was the point at which things went from bad to worse, the two guys in this truck are exactly who I would cast.
I climbed up into the driver’s seat and handed one of them my helmet. The driver had been taking a nap in the bed behind the seats. His greasy brown hair was plastered to his forehead and he had about six days’ growth on his face. He was petting a hairy little lap dog, and looking at me through coke bottle glasses. His companion in the passenger seat was about four hundred pounds and had long curly blond hair. Although I didn’t get the creeps as in “this is dangerous,” it was definitely creepy.
“Pretty nasty out there,” said the passenger, after I’d settled in to the driver’s seat in a puddle. “You travelling alone?” Yeah. So are you guys heading north or south? “Prince George,” said the driver. “Just took a load up to Fort St. John last night.” Uh huh. Any idea how big this thing is? Any weather forecast on the trucker line or anything? Strangely, I wasn’t scared. Not until blondy turned on the radio and the very first item on the news was of a prisoner from Prince George who’d escaped and was probably heading to his home in Chetwynd. “Call 911 if you see him,” said the reporter. Shit. Cellphone’s back on Henk.
I didn’t stick around long enough to get their life stories. The eye moved north within five or ten minutes and the hail was replaced by a steady rain. That was good enough for me. I bolted and hopped back on Henk. They rode past and waved. I laughed because I was way beyond tears.
About twenty minutes down the road another gigantic thunderhead threatened to turn Henk and me into roadkill. I saw a gas station and pulled in, leaving poor Henk in the open. It poured. I hung my rain gear over a chair and bought a copy of yesterday’s Vancouver Sun. A guy on a cellphone near me was talking to his wife about the “golf ball sized hail he’d driven through.” If he’d come from where I had, he was grossly over-exaggerating. If he’d come from where I was going, I was in big trouble. I hung out and did the crossword puzzle waiting for a break in the storm. Finally, the sun came out and there looked to be a narrow alley between thunderclouds. I went for it and made it all the way to Quesnel where the sun was setting, wreaking havoc with the sky. Directly to the east, an enormous fuschia thunderhead was raining purple rain. I pulled into a campground/motel where the owner wouldn’t let me camp. He gave me a cheap room, saying I’d freeze in my tent tonight.
Now that I’m showered, and I’m safe, dry, and warm, I can laugh at the day’s roller coaster of emotion from elation to terror and back again, knowing that I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Nothing like a close encounter with death to make you feel very much alive.
posted by Moira Nordholt | 10:51 AM
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