Peter Freeman: Tandoming the Twin Tracks

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The tiny traveling alarm clock burst into my sleep. Four-thirty. I dozed until Mary peeled back the covers. It was Tuesday, the day after Canada Day. I stumbled out of bed and pulled on the clothes that I had laid out ready for a fast getaway. In the kitchen, mom put on coffee and fussed over us as I packed our gear for the car. A low fog was spilling over the blueberry fields, lit by golden clouds over the twin peaks of Golden Ears.

Maple Ridge slept as we slid along the Lougheed highway and towards Hope where we would finish our cycling trip. As the asphalt slipped under our car, I thought of the weeks of preparation that brought us to this point. We had bought long sleeve white cycling shirts to stay cool in the hot summer sun, an air horn to scare away dangerous animals and a little brass "bear bell" tied to the handlebars so bears would hear us coming and hopefully leave us alone. In our saddle bags we had fleece jackets and tiny space blankets in case we were benighted; tools; spare parts; power bars and very little else. We wanted to move fast, unencumbered by tent and sleeping bag, committed to arriving at pre-determined accommodation along the way.

A few days before we had packed our gear on our Cannondale tandem and tested its speeds on the Galloping Goose, an old railway bed running out of Victoria. My pursuit of accuracy had me measuring the grade with a spirit level and recording our speed on various sections of the "Goose". I had fed the figures into an Excel spreadsheet, worked out a formula for our average speed at different grades and built a timetable for the whole trip that I thought would work. I had printed off a plan for our car trip to Castlegar and it was working well. We were a little ahead of schedule as we turned off the Trans-Canada and onto the Crowsnest Highway.

The bright sun climbed higher and higher we passed through Princeton, Osoyoos and into Grand Forks. We were almost there and just a little ahead of schedule. I had allowed for stops along the way to stretch our legs and take photographs, but as the plan called for an eighty kilometre ride as soon as we reached Castlegar, every bit of time we made gave us more for the ride.

We reached Christina Lake and stopped at the Lake View Motel, where we had booked a room for the night. We had planned to leave our saddle bags in the motel room and drive on to Castlegar where we would ride unencumbered by the extra weight. Taking a hip sack full of tools and another filled with power bars we left the motel by one o'clock. We were now really committed. Beside my camera, the only other item we carried were the space blankets.

Halfway to Castlegar, road construction halted our speedy progress. I fretted as the traffic controller leaned on her stop sign. After fifteen minutes we were allowed to proceed, only to meet another crew laying hot steaming asphalt onto the road.. Another fifteen minutes were lost. The last hill hove into view and at the bottom of it lay Castlegar. We spent another fifteen minutes in this unfamiliar town looking for Laurie, who had offered to look after our car. She drove us to the start of the track , just past the Celgar pulp mill. A photograph later we watched our car drive off leaving us alone with our bike, six water bottles filled with Gatorade, and some power bars to get us through the next eighty kilometres of wilderness before nightfall. We had before us, a two percent climb of nearly eight hundred metres to the summit at a place called Farron, followed by a decent of identical proportions to Christina Lake. I looked ahead. The track which had carried its last train only four years before, looked nothing like the smooth rail bed of the Galloping Goose upon which we had tested our bike. This track still had its rails in place but was covered with large, loose rocks almost to the same level of the rails. All terrain vehicles had left two narrow tracks just inside the rails. I would have to steer very carefully to avoid running into the slippery steel just inches away. After looking at the sharp stones, I pulled off the air pump and pumped up the tires. Hard.

I heard the locking click as Mary clipped into the pedals. A strong thrust and our wheels spun the first of the 300,000 turns they would make before bringing us to Hope, six hundred and forty kilometres away. I was concerned that the rocky surface would continue for most of the way to Christina Lake. If it did, we might not make it by nightfall. After a few kilometres the steel rails ended but he rocks and stones did not. We traveled some twenty kilometres before the rail bed improved.

Soon we were rising above the long and narrow Lower Arrow Lake, sometimes on the edge of precipices formed of huge stone walls built in the last century. Within four kilometres from our starting point we encountered a washout. A rough trail led us up and around the jumble of fallen trees , rocks and strewn boulders. This was the first of many that we would encounter of the next seven days. A little further on we crossed over our first trestle. A wooden structure spanning a gap over a hundred metres long and sixty metres deep and providing a clear view of the lake below. Through the trees behind us stretched the blue lake, topped with clusters of logs that from our height appeared as match sticks. We could trace our progress by the even cut in the forest slowly climbing up from the pulp mill.

Somewhere ahead the first tunnel lay, its dark maw open, ready to swallow us. Mary did not relish the thought of entering the earth and looking up at the tons of rock poised above. It was not the first tunnel that bothered her. It was only fifty metres long, nor was it the second or third we would ride through. These were around a hundred metres long. It was the Bulldog tunnel. At over nine hundred metres long and crooked, it was pitch black with soot from nearly a century of coal and diesel smoke. I had hoped that Mary would have the courage to go through the tunnel; she vowed she would walk over the top.

We reached the first tunnel and rode right on through. Although it was curved, light from both ends made it a simple task. The next tunnel, over a hundred metres long was dead straight. No problems there. We crossed two more creeks on long trestles, one constructed of steel, before entering the Coykendahl tunnel. This curved tunnel was a little dark inside, so I turned on our small headlight to help us through. Once out the other side, we could see the cut in the trees heading for a spot below a ridge ten kilometres away. There lay the long Bulldog tunnel.

As we wound our way up the grade, it was becoming obvious that we were not going to reach Christina lake by my estimated 8:40pm. The rough track slowed our speed and the time we took to walk the bike over the trestles added to the delay. At the site of the Coykendahl station, all that remained was a primitive shelter built into the hillside. It had been constructed using railway ties and allowed an adult to enter stooped, but it was long enough to sleep in.

The rail bed turned away from the lake and we headed into a rock slide of large boulders blocking our passage. I pushed the tandem up a narrow and twisting trail to a spot where we could mount up again. The surface of the rail bed had improved and there were very few rough stones. Four wheel drive vehicles had driven this part of the bed and the tires had swept the surface clean of rocks. From a corner we could see across the valley to the Bulldog tunnel. We put on a surge of power and managed eighteen kilometres an hour on a Power bar or two and our sports drink. Another washout slowed us, however we eventually reached the tunnel a bit before six o'clock.

I knew that if we had to walk through, Mary would not be happy but being behind me on the same bike made it easier. She could just close her eyes and imagine she was somewhere else. As we rode into the opening and into pools of water filled from water dripping off the roof, I lifted my sunglasses away from my eyes and felt the bridge piece fall away into one of the pools. I stopped to look for it, wondering as we looked how Mary was feeling, however she was holding up well considering. The search was fruitless. We mounted the bike and cautiously entered the underground world. Blackness swallowed the small beam of light as I concentrated on the surface ahead trying to pick out obstacles in front of the wheel. Occasionally we passed faint white objects that lay off to the side which Mary thought were the skeletons of cyclists that had failed to make it through the tunnel. It was fresh rock fall, free from the soot that had encased the tunnel surface. After what seemed an age in the darkness, I could see a hint of dim light ahead which grew into a brighter patch of light reflecting off the curved tunnel. As the surface became more obvious, I picked up speed and we speared into the sunlight. Mary was visibly shaken. Her voice quavered as she spoke of her relief at reaching the sunlight again and it would be a few hours before her nerves would settle down again.

We still had another fifteen kilometres to go before we reached the summit at Farron so we stopped by the concrete foundations of the Tunnel station for a Power bar and a drink. The rest helped and now we could push our legs with the knowledge of an easier ride down the other side of the mountain range. Our view had changed. We could now see the snow capped mountains of the Christina Range beckoning us on. Muscles ached as we pedaled up the grade, passing a massive fill across tiny Porcupine creek gurgling though pipes on its way to Lower Arrow Lake. Onward and upward we pedaled to reach the summit at Farron at seven o'clock. We had completed the first fifty kilometers of the Columbia and Western Railway in four hours and had only thirty-three downhill kilometers to go.

All that remained at the marshy site of Farron were the pipes and hoses used to fill steam locomotives, the concrete foundations of the station house and another simple shelter made of railway ties. Yellow, red and purple wildflowers covered traces of sidings and the wye used to turn helper engines that pushed heavy trains up the grade.

What a change now that we were heading downhill. It was exhilarating! At times we reached forty kilometres an hour on the hard packed earth, riding alongside an alpine meadow filled with swampy pools. Perfect moose country. The bleach white of fallen trees contrasted the lush green growth at the edge of the ponds and heavy clouds hung over our heads darkening the remaining light from the invisible sun. If the rest of the rail bed turned out to be as good as this we would get to Christina Lake before dark. Down we sped, past a monument erected to mark the spot where in 1924, a bomb planted on a passenger train exploded killing nine people including Peter Verigin, the leader of the Doukhobors.

Rounding a curve, we spotted the Crowsnest highway ahead crossing high overhead. Our first real sign of civilization since leaving Castlegar. Vehicles were crossing the wide and deep chasm on top of a huge blue painted steel arch hundreds of feet above us. Just beyond the bridge we entered the last tunnel of this section but after the Bulldog tunnel, the 111 metre long Paulson tunnel was no problem to Mary.

The rail bed was becoming rocky again but instead of slowing down, I concentrated on dodging the fallen rocks scattered across the track. This worked for a while until I felt a sharp jolt punch the front tire and then an ominous hiss. We had a flat! I opened the tool kit and discovered that I had left the tire levers behind. I spent a frustrating few minutes trying to get the tire off with the handles of a wrench and a pair of pliers but eventually the tire came away from the rim and I replaced the tube with one of the two spares we carried. I would fix the punctured tube after we arrived at the motel.

We started moving again, a little slower this time and encountered a delightful little stream I wanted to photograph. The light was getting dimmer and even though I was using four hundred ASA film, I had to brace the camera against a tree to shoot at an eighth of a second speed. Just as I was setting to press the shutter button, I heard Mary yell,

Mary's shrill cry spun me around. I broke into a run clasping my camera gear to my chest. Heavy crashing sounded in the forest below the lip of the railway bed.

Blasts echoed off the hill side mixed with the close crashing of branches. I reached the bike, fumbling the camera back into its pouch.

The clasp snapped shut. I wasn't prepared to lose my camera even though the bear sounded close. I threw my leg over the top tube, jammed my shoe into the pedal and pushed hard. In an instant the cool breeze of speed chilled hot oozing perspiration. When the odometer read thirty-five kilometres an hour I started to relax as the downhill burst of speed carried us safely away. Mary, sitting on the seat behind me, reported that there was no wild animal charging down the grade behind us. I breathed out and coasted into the coming twilight. That was close!

Now I looked everywhere for bears, in the dim light objects began to take on the ursine shapes. Stumps began to look like cubs. Most of what my fears saw I was able to dismiss when I recognized real details. This process of elimination worked until we rounded a sweeping bend and at the end of a long straight saw what looked like a large brown bear. I stopped the bike and blasted the horn. With a bear in front and one behind, I was not feeling very comfortable. I blasted it again. The bear did not move. I tentatively rode a little closer and blasted the horn once more. Still the bear did not move. As we rode closer, my bear turned into a large dark brown boulder.

A few kilometres further we crossed the Snowslide Bridge. The bridge was covered with a framework of steel presumably to prevent snow building up on the bridge. In the approaching darkness it was getting harder to see the rocks on the track and unfortunately I hit one. Another flat to fix. It was a relief to arrive at a spot high above Christina Lake where way below us we could see trucks and cars driving along the Crowsnest Highway like matchbox toys. Now all we had to do was to find the route off the rail bed to get to our motel. The decision was made for us. Beyond Fife road the rail bed looked overgrown with weeds and would be difficult to negotiate in the dark. With the headlight and taillight on, we plunged down Fife road to the highway and then to our motel room which we reached at nine forty-five. We had done it!

There still remained some things to do. First we had to eat! Except for a few Power bars and the cherries we had bought in Osoyoos, we hadn't eaten much since early in the morning. Now that we had stopped riding hard, I was beginning to recognize my hunger. In the tiny township of Christina Lake, the only place still open was an ice cream shop on the other side of the highway. We soon demolished two meat pies, a banana split, some cinnamon buns, all washed down with a milkshake and coffee. Next I had to repair the punctured tube and fix a slow leak in the back tire I had just discovered. It was midnight before we laid our tired heads on the fresh clean linen of our bed. Seconds later we were deeply asleep. It had been a long and exciting day.