Peter Freeman: Tandoming the Twin Tracks

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Our watch alarms woke us out of a deep sleep at five o'clock and an hour later we were outside the motel in the cool morning air, eager to get started. As we rode down the road to the restored Midway station house, Mary read the description from the pages of the guide book. Before we left for the trip, we had photocopied the pages of the book "Cycling the Kettle Valley Railway" and enlarged them by fifty percent so we could easily read them as we rode along. Mary's position on the back of the tandem was an excellent one for navigation, as she did not have to steer and could read the maps and notes with ease. I had mounted an extra odometer on her handle bars for her to read off the distance which was helpful as it alerted us to places where we had to leave the railway to avoid rock falls or missing trestles.

At Midway station, we zeroed in our trip meters and started along the weedy track. After one kilometer, we rejoined the highway and avoided going through the yard of a sawmill that had taken over the right of way and obscured it with logs and mounds of bark and sawdust. Five minutes later we found a track that allowed us to rejoin the rail bed beyond the sawmill. We felt a strong feeling of excitement at being on this piece of railway. The track had not been used for some thirty-four years, but hopefully there had been enough local use to keep down the weeds. On our left nestled a farm with a home made suspension foot bridge across Rock Creek.

In the cool of the early morning, our muscles slowly warmed up. We were now riding on a track that had not seen a train for thirty-four years and it was different than what we had experienced so far. The ballast was older and less rocky and there were more signs of years of neglect. In some places along the Kettle River, the right-of-way had been taken over by the local farmers, the rail bed bulldozed away and turned into pastures for their cows. In other places, the lack of motorized travel along the track had encouraged prolific growth of weeds, luckily they were not so thick as to impede our progress very much. We were in good spirits as we cruised the level grade watching deer bound away heading for cover. So long as we kept moving we were not annoyed by the many mosquitoes that swarmed this close to the river but occasionally we had to stop and open a gate, and in one case, we needed to take off the saddle bags to hoist the bike over a fence.

We crossed under the highway and followed our guidebook's recommendation to get off the track and onto a gravel road to avoid an impassable rock slide and crop land under cultivation. After finding a break in the barbed wire fence, we quietly pushed the tandem up through the long grass towards a house that rested on the slope above us. Trying not to awaken anyone, we went through the yard and pushed up the steep slippery grass to gain the high ground of the road. We crossed a couple of cattle grids, rounded a curve and noticed a man approaching us on a mountain bike. At first, we thought it was another cyclist traveling the Kettle Valley Railway in the opposite direction, but there was no sign of any gear and a dog trotted behind him.

"Hey, this is the first time I've seen one of them double bikes come through here."

I looked over his farm and noticed the rail bed had been removed and he had a crop under irrigation, pumped up from the river. He saw my gaze.

"The previous owner brought in a Cat, bulldozed the track away and planted crops, but that was before my time."

"Yeah." The corners of his mouth creased and his eyes glinted impishly. "I had some fellow last year that tried it. I had a crop in and I'd been watering it for some days. Saw him pushing his bike through and he had mud all over him."

Mary was eager to get moving again and wanted to reach the township of Rock Creek where we would breakfast. She was feeling hungry, but I was laid back and quite content to continue our conversation for some time. The farmer and I carried on talking wherever our words led us until I noticed Mary's stoic resignation. I picked up the cue.

We pushed down the pedals and started rolling, the farmer watching us for a while before riding off. The roadway soon became asphalt and led us along side the local fair grounds where we spent some time trying to regain the rail bed with no success. We noticed an older sealed road that ran parallel to the main road, but it passed close to a number of houses and looked like it was blocked off from time to time by fences. As we only had a couple of kilometres left to go before we reached Rock Creek, we chose to continue along the road. Through gaps in the trees, we spied the highway café, found the bridge across the Kettle River and headed over for breakfast. It was about eight-thirty and the café was half full of local workers drinking coffee or eating breakfast. Mary ordered the special of hot cakes, eggs and ham; I chose the plate of pancakes. What a filling meal! It was excellent bicycle fuel. Three quarters of an hour later, we eased out of the diner seats and headed outside into the cool air. Inside the diner, a number of weather beaten faces turned inquisitively towards the window to watch us mount up and swing the long tandem into a easy turn to reach the highway. Aware of their gaze, we accelerated hard, quickly reached a high speed and surged over a hill to disappear from their view.

We crossed the river and continued down the roadway until we reached the spot our guidebook recommended we regain the rail bed. The track was sandy and difficult to ride. Mary looked behind and noticed our deep wheel tracks swinging drunkenly from side to side in the loose alluvial sand. Ahead I spotted a ten foot high fence blocking our way with what appeared to be a sign fixed to it.

The words were written with a rough dripping brush and there was a crude map and a rough compass rose to assist us. I attempted to align the compass rose and depictions on the map to actual directions only to discover it was out about one hundred and thirty-five degrees. I ignored the compass directions and mentally placed the map onto the terrain before me.

"This is the way to go!" I exclaimed, pointing my arm in the same direction Mary had pointed out five minutes before I began my process of logical deduction.

As headed down a side track, I could still hear the sound of mutterings behind me. I caught a few snatches of words before the wind whisked them away.

"...you never believe me...it was obvious...anyone could see...so frustrating..."

I pedaled harder, pointing out the lovely trees with their rich green leaves and how the river sparkled in the sunlight. I noticed that Mary had become quiet. The natural beauty surrounding us must have had her in awe.

The bypass route took us alongside the perimeter of the farm, heavily fenced with a continuous ten foot high mesh that was either keeping something big out or keeping something big in. If it was keeping something big in, I hoped it was effective, if it was keeping something big out. I stopped the bike and looked around nervously. Suddenly we heard barking and we spotted two large dogs that appeared to be Rotwiellers coming towards us from the other side of the fence. We watched them carefully as they raced up to the fence, their slobbering mouths shaking at us. I was beginning to feel smug when one of the dogs ran back along the fence a hundred metres, disappeared and then emerged on the other side. It stood on the rail bed behind us barking as the other dog followed suit and headed back to join its companion. We mounted up quickly and got going before the two could form a gang and catch up.

We rejoined the rail bed close to the Kettle River Provincial Park where the track crossed the Kettle River and ran along the west bank. This bridge was the first trestle on this railway and was comprised of a single steel truss. On the other side of the river we cycled past tents and children playing along the banks. Beyond a mound of dirt and rocks a fly fisherman tried his luck in the eddy pools near the edge of a rock cliff. While I was photographing, a couple on mountain bikes came up behind us. They were getting ready to cycle the railway the next day and were testing out a few sections near the start before the rest of their party arrived. We rode together for a while helping each other open the numerous and different style Texas Gates we came across. I had to keep a sharp lookout for the wire stretching across the track, as it was sometimes difficult to see until we were almost upon it. Here the track was easy to ride and free of rocks.

We traveled past cultivated fields gaining some distance on the other couple until we reached a creek that required fording. By the time we had found a spot to cross, the other couple reached us and crossed. Soon after, the trail became overgrown and we detoured off to the nearby road and cycled into the small town of Westbridge. It was here that the railway left the Kettle River and followed the West Kettle river to Beaverdell where we would stop for the evening.

The sun was getting higher in the sky and as it was a little after ten o'clock, we stopped by the road bridge over the West Kettle River and put sunscreen on our exposed skin. At this bridge, we rejoined the track and made fast progress as it was being used as a vehicular access and was free of obstructions and rocks. Five kilometres later, the rail bed crossed a sealed road and beyond the road, it became overgrown and indistinct. We turned off and traveled along the road, noticing traces of the old railway from time to time. Along the sides of the road grew vivid patches of Brown Eyed Susans, contrasting the lush green of pasture land. We passed what appeared to be a motel as we approached but looked like a row of joined machinery sheds as it receded behind us. It seemed that the builder had created small neat and tidy self contained units for the farm workers.

We were enjoying the day, making good time and breathing in the cool scented morning air. As we passed through an area called Rhone, we came across a meticulously cared for memorial to soldiers lost in the Second World War. It was off the road a hundred metres with a small foot trail leading to a large flat graveled area. It appeared that the land owner had erected it in memory of family members lost to the war. We stopped for a while to drink from our water bottles and then continued on.

Since leaving Westbridge, ten kilometers back, our route was sometimes on asphalt, sometimes on gravel. At times the road had been built atop the rail bed, at other times, we could see traces of it, heavily overgrown, to the east of us. The road crossed over the West Kettle using the original railway bridge but moved upstream. As we continued along the road, I looked for the rail bed hidden in the trees to the right of us. We had climbed up a bit from the river and the embankment to our left was getting steeper as we approached Bull Creek Canyon. The road rejoined the rail bed and we had to negotiate a rough area where bulldozers had made a path through a rock slide. Beyond the slide, the track twisted its way through cuttings and trees until we came out onto the edge of the river which had climbed up quickly to meet us. From my vantage point, I could see the river alter direction through two switchbacks carved into the hills before it ran down to saunter through the pastures of Rhone.

A little further on, the track cut through some high rock cliffs and we could see the river snaking through a narrow gorge leaving behind a small beach in one of the bends. I climbed down a scree slope of large boulders and stepped onto the yellow sand where the water roared through the confining rocks and spilled out through a slot. I climbed back up the boulders, taking care not to slip as my biking shoes had a steel plate recessed in the middle of the sole and walking on rounded rocks the steel tang tended to skid. Because of this and perhaps for other reasons, Mary was reluctant to follow me down over the boulders into the gorge.

A little later, we crossed the West Kettle to the western bank on a rickety wooden bridge. Just beyond the bridge, the shrubs and trees on either side of the track for about ten feet were sheered off leaving smashed stumps and dislodged large boulders. It looked as though a large bulldozer had been through there but it was puzzling because the trees were gnawed off as if by a beaver with bad teeth, not pushed over by the blade of a bulldozer. I could not find any trace of the tracks and if any machinery came this way it must have been on rubber tires. Although it was obviously man made, we joked about the existence of Sasquatch or even King Kong in these parts. We traveled for some distance along the track past numerous fresh stumps until we came upon a pickup truck. The driver was up fixing a fence post when we hailed him.

"Oh...they're widening the track for logging trucks and they use a long arm with a saw on it to chop through them. It's kinda like a big weed eater."

"Well, you can do anything if you have enough horsepower! Where are you heading?"

"They're working on the trail up ahead a bit, you'll be able to get through okay, there's a Cat and a ditch digger working."

We waved as we pushed off and continued along the trail towards Taurus Station a few kilometres distant. On the way we encountered another pickup driving towards us on the narrow track. The old farmer driving the truck spoke to us.

"I wouldn't go through this way if I were you. They've dug it up for about seven kilometres and it is pretty rough. I tried to get through, but I had to turn back. I'd go back about five miles and get on the road."

He roared off leaving behind a slowly settling cloud of dust. We didn't want to turn back and after all we could get through, carrying our vehicle if we had to. We headed off again for Taurus Station and when we arrived, all that remained of the station was the water tower foundation and an old shed. After a bite to eat and a drink, we moved on again.

A little later we noticed a bulldozer facing us up ahead on the track. As we rode towards it we noticed it coming our way, pushing rocks and dirt up onto its large blade. As we got closer I could see it was quite large, probably a Cat D9. I wasn't sure if the driver had seen us and I was worried that he was so engrossed in his job that he might not notice two people and a bike and just scoop us up with the rocks. The track was now comprised of loose dusty soil that the bulldozer had churned up and the bike slewed from side to side as I tried to ride through it. I stopped the bike, got off and prepared to photograph the metal beast crawling towards us. Mary was getting edgy so she started pushing the bike off to the side of the track but there really was nowhere to go. The driver eventually stopped the bulldozer and climbed out of the cab.

"We're widening it for logging trucks. The government wants it to be properly drained so we gotta go through and drain it. Up a bit further there is a guy with a machine scooping out the ditches. He'll let you through, but be careful."

It was tough pushing the bike through the soft ground. We pushed for about five hundred metres and then rode for a hundred metres where the track was less disturbed. It continued this way for some time until we rounded a slow sweeping curve and saw the ditch digger working in a cutting. We stopped short and waited for him to notice us, moving on when he came out of the cab and waved to us. The large machine almost blocked the cutting forcing us to pass under the arm between the steel track and the bucket. The whining diesel screamed at us as we passed the engine and conversation was not possible so with a brief wave at his bemused grin, we continued pushing the bike.

For the next five or six kilometres, we pushed or rode depending on the surface, however as we drew further away from the machinery, the track became more pressed down from vehicles that had passed since it had been disturbed and we were able to ride more. Finally, the track turned into a well traveled road and we picked up our speed. We reached Tuzo Creek where we met a small rusty pickup with three young males squeezed in the cab. As the road moved off the rail bed, I wondered what sort of surface we would encounter.

All three of them were now grinning proudly. I figured we'd be okay so long as we didn't encounter any young men approaching us at a hundred and twenty kilometres an hour.

We walked the bike over a cattle grid at the edge of the road and followed the track. Branches close to the rail bed gave it a look of a bright green tunnel and an occasional pothole increased my admiration for the skill with which they had driven such a narrow road at high speed. Through the trees we spied the West Kettle river before reaching the remnants of Dellwye Station where snowplows were turned by running them onto an adjacent track shaped like a Y. We stopped for a while to drink and enjoy the peace and quiet denied us by the incessant brass "bear bell" dangling from the handlebars. While Mary searched for wild strawberries, I spotted a patch of wildflowers and photographed the delicate red bell like blooms.

Just after we had started riding again, Mary burst into song. I couldn't catch the tune, but whatever song it was, she sang it lustily. It puzzled me for it was not her nature to sing in such a fashion.

I jabbed my thumb on the horn button and held it down hard. The forest reverberated with the strident blast of our air horn.

"A black bear and as soon as it heard us it took off running real fast. The next time you hear me sing, you'll know why!" she chided.

Only five kilometres remained before we would reach Beaverdell, so we pedaled hard. Overhead the patchy blue sky had become overcast and dark clouds foretold rain. The track was good and we moved quickly up the slight grade until we came out of the forest into an open area that was used as a sawmill. Further on, we spotted the remains of an abandoned mine with tailing ponds and mounds of gravel that blocked our way forcing us to turn onto Beaverdell Station Road. The road curved away to the east and after crossing the West Kettle river, entered the town of Beaverdell.

It wasn't difficult to find the hotel. Up the street to the left it stood, the oldest operating hotel in British Columbia and at only twenty-eight dollars a night for a room, probably the cheapest. We had taken seven and a half hours to get here as it was now one-thirty. Mary booked us in while I wandered around outside looking at the old tractor in front of the hotel. Every night so far we had taken the tandem into our room to prevent it being stolen, this time it was to be a challenge. Just inside the main door we turned sharp right and then left again before ascending a steep wooden staircase that creaked and groaned with every step. Half way up, the staircase reversed direction, so I had to stand the tandem up on its back wheel and work it around and once we had reached the first floor, we found we were able to just fit it into our tiny room. I washed up at the small sink and we went out a door at the end of the hallway. I climbed into a hammock, strung across the deck, to rest after our days ride.

The hotel had a coin operated washing machine and dryer,but as we had no laundry detergent, we needed to buy some from the local store. I grabbed my camera and we went downstairs to the bar where the hotel owner stood behind the chest high counter top, drying glasses.

I looked around at the numerous objects hanging from every available wall space.

"So long as there are no patrons in here. It's against government regulations to take pictures of drinkers in a bar."

"This part over here was added on after there was a fire and it burned out this side.

Behind the bar were a number of mounted heads of deer and some small birds, stuffed and mounted. CLICK! went my camera.

I slid around the corner where the large original fireplace had been modernized by putting in a small free standing stove. CLICK! and a whir as the film moved on.

"The piece railway track they rest their feet on came out of the mine near here and it was........"

CLICK! The modern coffee machine was in such contrast with the aging cash register.

"...and he was quite a character. His wife used to come and get him out of the bar because she had to........."

"Oh.....that's the hide of a horny black beaver" she chuckled. "A couple of jokers put that one up there."

I put away my camera as an old man with sun dried arms sauntered into the bar and took a seat upon the stool. I thanked the lady as she moved back behind the bar. Outside it was growing darker from the pendulous black clouds that were moving up from the south and a little bird flew onto a window ledge for shelter. Mary and I strolled along the road until we reached a newly built ice cream shop and just as we entered it, rail started pelting down, drowning out our conversation as it hammered on the tin roof. There was nothing else to do but wait for it to pass and an ice cream seemed to be just the thing to help while away the time.

It stopped almost as quickly as it had started. Outside, large pools of water spilled over and ran towards lower ground as we walked briskly in the remaining sprinkle towards the grocery store to purchase cereal and buns for the next day. Lazily strolling the unfamiliar aisles, we picked up some corn flakes and bananas, paid the woman behind the aging counter and headed out into the cooler air. Across the street, we found a gas station that doubled up as a bakery and delicatessen and came away from there with a selection of luncheon meats and some buns. The friendly owners also gave us a cup of liquid detergent to wash our clothes. Once our dirty clothes were put in the washing machine we headed over to the only restaurant and ordered a meal. It had been a relaxing day and we were going to get a good night's sleep.

Back at the hotel, Mary made notes on the next day's maps while I read some old magazines I had found. Although the air was still warm, sleep came easy to me in the old but very comfortable bed.