Peter Freeman: Tandoming the Twin Tracks

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We had reset our watch alarms to go off an hour later, however our habits prevailed and we woke up at our usual five o'clock. As I dressed, I still felt sluggish from the lack of sleep but hoped I would catch up the next night and in spite of my stupor, we were ready to go at six o'clock with the bike packed and clean. We rode back to the main road, stopping at a Seven Eleven store to buy sticky buns and other treats for our day's journey where the youth serving us gave me a local tourist map to help us find the road to Faulder. We would have joined the rail bed there, but the cyclist we met the previous day advised us to get back on the track thirteen kilometres further because of a missing trestle. The road out of Summerland was bordered by vineyards and other fruit trees and across a shallow valley stood an abrupt projection called Giant's Head Mountain, the side facing us still in the morning shadow. We could see the Kettle Valley rail bed winding out from behind the mountain and heading in the same direction we were going. Mary tapped me on the shoulder.

We slowly gained elevation up the steep mountain road, sometimes so steep that we struggled in our lowest gear and I wished that we were back on the rail bed. The hill never seemed to end, twisting and turning as it climbed steeply up out of the cultivated slopes into the pines and our muscles hadn't properly warmed up as we were breathing heavily when we reached the top about an hour later. We were ravenous when we pulled off the road into a small clearing under the pines and because I was worried that bears might be around and smell the food, I blasted the horn a few times before Mary pulled out the buns and fruit we had just bought. An occasional car passed by as we consumed a good percentage of the food but we planned to lunch at Osprey Lake where we could buy something at the general store. Our breakfast finished, we got out on the road again and continued on until we descended a steep hill into Faulder at around sixty kilometres an hour. I noticed that the asphalt road crossed over a cattle grid about a hundred metres in front of us but as it was too late to stop the bike, I let it run and gripped the handlebars hard.

We were over in an instant with my hands tingling from the heavy vibration. Luckily, no spokes were broken and the tires were still hard, but I resolved to keep my eyes open for more grids on this road. We passed by the couple of farm houses that made up Faulder and began to climb steeply again around a bend where the asphalt gave way to dusty, corrugated gravel. Even though we were going very slowly uphill, the corrugations were severe enough to have me searching for smoother patches which unfortunately turned out to be a soft dust bowl causing us to skid from side to side. It was still cool but the hard pedaling had us sweating by the time we reached the top of the long hill where we stopped a while to drink.

A gopher popped out of his hole and scurried up a stump to check us out as we looked down the slope towards the spot where our road wound back down the mountain side to crossed Trout Creek. A pickup truck overtook us at high speed covering us in a cloud of fine dust which forced us to stop until it settled, desperately attempting to breath clean air and see again through the grit that settled on my eyes. I found a selection of phrases that best described the driver and sent them in his direction; I would be happy when we were back on the track again.

We descended to the creek, changing direction on two switch backs and crossed the wooden Trout Creek bridge under a canopy of large forest trees. There were people camping and fishing by the bridge as we climbed back up the other side where a a hundred metres from the creek, the Kettle Valley rail bed crossed the road. We tuned onto its more gentle grade and entered Kirton Canyon where we stopped at the entrance to an abandoned mine shaft.

"I thought you would be used to dark places after going through all of those tunnels."

"At least tunnels are huge inside. This is tiny. I wouldn't go in there if my life depended on it!"

I unsnapped the bike headlight and entered the slanting shaft. It was just big enough to stand upright and the entrance was shored up with a piece of timber so I went in until I was stopped by a solid rock wall ten metres in. Not much of a mine, I thought.

We pedaled out of the canyon, crossed Trout Creek and continued climbing slowly up the grade. The surface was loose and littered with rocks that I had to dodge if I wanted to avoid a puncture and it was getting hot now with no breeze to dry the sweat that clung to our bodies. There was little shade under the sparse small trees that grew close to the track and the sun reflected of the white dust with a glare that would be blinding if it weren't for our sunglasses. We had only been traveling for about eight kilometres since joining the rail bed when I felt the back tire go flat so I changed the tube and we headed off again. This was becoming a normal daily duty.

The grade varied, sometimes it was steep and we moved slowly, at other times it eased off and our speed increased. The surface was always difficult and rocky and I found I had little time for sight-seeing as I had to concentrate on where I was placing the front and back wheels to avoid punctures. We reached Thirsk Lake and stopped for a drink where we noticed that we were almost out of water and would need to refill it when we could. A little further on, the track cut through a rock outcrop and we were able to find some shade when we pressed close to one of the sides of the cutting. Here we stopped and finished off the buns we had bought that morning.

The grade was leveling off and we were able to increase our speed. A cloud of dust and a roar of engines preceded three all terrain vehicles heading straight towards us at high speed, two of which ran together side by side and occupied the whole track. I slowed down and concerned that they had not seen us, gave them a blast on the air horn which got their attention. The one nearest us braked hard and swung in behind the other a few moments before we passed.

Five minutes later we came across a sign that some thoughtful person had erected to help us avoid the missing bridge at Kathleen Creek. We turned off the track to the left and followed a makeshift path through the trees to reach the road that parallel to the railway. We crossed the creek on the road bridge and a little way along the road we noticed red flagging tape directing us to another more used path heading back to the rail bed. Looking back towards the missing bridge we saw what appeared to be some cyclists at the creek, but we were disappointed when engine noise told us they were motorcyclists.

Two kilometres before Osprey Lake the track ran beside a farm and beside a small grass airstrip. In the distance we had our first glimpse of the lake and the one hundred and forty metre long pile trestle that crossed the eastern end of a lake fringed with water lily pads and summer cottages. We pushed the bike over the bridge and continued towards the western end where we passed some locals out walking along the rail bed. We could now see the general store across the highway, so we took an access road off the track, across the highway and into the store yard. A wide staircase led up to a shaded verandah where a biker in black leather chaps, denim jacket and a red bandanna around his long gray hair, leaned against the railing and gazed out into the distance. At a table behind him, sat a couple that looked up from their meal as we walked up the stairs carrying our helmets.

"It's not bad, we had to take the road from Summerland to avoid the missing trestle across Trout Creek and it was really steep."

"We came up from Penticton yesterday and were able to get across the creek. It wasn't that bad, it took us about forty minutes to get across."

"Really? We met a cyclist yesterday who told us that we wouldn't be able to get across. Now I wish we'd tried it."

"Here, we're a bit slow getting going this morning. We're going to Princeton where my parents are meeting us."

I looked at my watch. It was around eleven-thirty. Mary tugged at my shirt sleeve.

When our conversation shifted, the couple got up and went downstairs. I watched them wheel their bikes from around the side of the store and prepare to head off on mountain bikes that were heavily laden with tent and sleeping bags mounted atop large full saddlebags. I watched while they rode across the highway and regained the railway track wondering if we would catch up to them later. I turned and went inside the store where an old lady with silver hair was serving two small children. Mary walked over to me as soon as she saw me.

"She doesn't have any sandwiches left. She used up the last loaf of bread a few minutes ago. There are four hot dog buns left. Would you like a hot dog instead?"

Mary ordered two hot dogs and I selected a huge chocolate chip cookie from the bottom of a large glass jar. It was Sunday and she had been unprepared for the tourists that had made it all the way up to this sleepy part of British Columbia. I paid for the cookie, and outside I sat down at the table vacated by the other cyclists where I broke the cookie in half, leaned back and took a long slow bite. I looked over the railing where the denim clad biker still leaned and noticed the bright red, low slung Harley Davidson bike resting against its kick stand.

His voice came slowly and he turned with the same speed to face me. As if to explain his patient vigil, he continued.

"I've been waiting for a buddy of mine. I told him to meet me here, but he hasn't turned up yet."

He stared out over the verandah and along the highway that ran beside the lake. There was another long pause before he spoke again.

"I shoulda left, he's crazy on that bike of his, he could catch up to me easily."

I munched on my cookie in silence, thinking about what he had told me, when he started up again.

He pushed himself away from the railing and walking like an old cowboy, swaggered easily down the stairs in his heeled boots. He reached his bike, swung a leg over the low leather seat and settled down before riding up and swinging down on the kick starter to coax the heavy motor into life. A crackling roar trailed behind him as he swung easily onto the highway, steadily diminishing as he disappeared over a far rise. A hot dog appeared in front of me.

"Listen, I'm going to get another one for you, you need it and there is only one left. I better order it before someone else gets it. You can eat another one can't you."

The hot dog and its fluffy white bun disappeared quickly with little to show of its existence except for a stain of yellow mustard upon the paper plate. I would need that second hot dog. When we had eaten, I found a tap and filled up the empty water containers as we had almost finished all of our water and would probably drink a lot more before the day was done. I sprinkled the last of the Gatorade crystals into the bottles and shook them well. With our supply of power bars and a full supply of water, we would be okay for a while so we left the store and headed over to the track where we had left it. It would get easy now as it would be downhill all the way to Princeton.

The track headed over towards the highway where a cracking rumble attracted my attention. Two bikers on Harleys were heading towards the now defunct railway crossing and I recognized one as the old man I had met at the store, the other must have been his crazy friend. They pulled up just before the crossing, twisting throttles to keep their engines from stalling. I gave them a cheery long blast on our air horn as we crossed the highway in front of them and while Mary waved, the "crazy" one leaped up out of the saddle and whooped back. As soon as we were across, he accelerated hard with his friend trailing calmly behind.

It was easier now that we were heading downhill, however the sand was thick enough and the slope too gentle for coasting. Hayes Creek Valley dropped quickly, leaving us high on a hillside getting occasional glimpses of Chain Lake through the trees and after we rounded an easy curve, we arrived at Jellicoe Station which still had a small red freight shed standing beside what used to be a siding. I noticed that the back tire was a bit soft and it looked as though we might have a slow leak but as I didn't feel like changing it, I pumped it up hard again. A little further on the rail bed rounded a long curve high up on a large fill that crossed Siwash Creek from which we could see a log house in the inside of the half moon shaped curve. Another few kilometres later we arrived at the large steel bridge spanning Spukunne Creek where we stopped and blasted the horn to scare off any bears that might be in the area. Mary pushed the bike onto the bridge where the gaps between the ties would provide safety from predators as I explored a small trail on foot that took me to a rocky knoll downstream of the bridge. From my vantage point I was able to easily photograph the bridge from the side.

We crossed the bridge and continued on, arriving at Erris tunnel. This ninety-one metre tunnel was lined with timber to prevent the loose rock it tunneled through from caving in and just as we passed through the tunnel, we heard voices and saw the bicycles from the couple we had met back at the store in Osprey Lake. They were filling their water bottles from a metal trough that re-directed running water away from the rail bed as this hot weather and having only a water bottle each, they had to fill them frequently from streams they passed. I wondered how safe the water was from parasites or bacteria as it would not be nice to get sick on a trip that required top physical condition. We stopped briefly to acknowledge their greeting and continued on leaving them with the hot sun beating down on their darkly suntanned backs.

The rail bed continued to drop gently until we emerged from the open forest into the grassland plains of Jura. From here the grade would grow much steeper to over two percent as it went through a series of four switch back loops on its way down to Princeton. We stopped to open a gate that let us pass through the Jura Ranch lands where people and machinery were baling freshly mowed hay for it was a time of year when wild flowers were either blooming and contrasting the green grass with their rich colours or spreading seeds along with the wind. We opened and closed two more gates to get across the highway at a level crossing where I took the opportunity to pump the back tire up again as it seemed that the slow leak was loosing air a bit faster. We continued riding through open fields past ponds and around the shore of a small lake to re-cross the highway and its attendant two gates where Mary was becoming quite skilled in working the different types of wire loops that secured these gates to a fence post.

Below us, we could see the rail bed over the edge of the hill, snaking back and forth as it descended the open grass plain where we picked up speed on the hard clay surface and I needed to use the brakes to stop the bike going too fast to easily dodge rocks. When I felt the back tire soften a bit, I stopped and put some air back in it, but I wasn't inspired to change it in the oppressive heat which grew hotter as we descended. About four kilometres from Princeton, we came across a one hundred metre long stretch of loose sharp stones that I didn't want to ride over. We dismounted and pushed the bike over them, noticing how quickly the back tire was losing air. As was almost five o'clock and I wanted to get into Princeton before the shops had closed to buy some more patches and other supplies, I didn't want to stop and fix the tire. We were now only riding for about five minutes before it became too soft to ride on, but it was still quicker to pump it up and continue, than to fix it.

A little further on, the track overlooked the Princeton Castle Recreational Vehicle Park. Cabins and houses fringed the shore of a small lake of clear blue water which we gazed at longingly as it would be so nice to go swimming and wash the sweat off our bodies. We could now see the township of Princeton and soon came into view of the sawmill where I gave the back tire another quick pumping before we joined the highway and crossed the Tulameen river to ride into Princeton. We saw some youths lounging around outside a cafe.

"It's down the end of the road beside the home brewery, but I think he's closed. My brother's got some if you need any."

At the end of the street beside the mini-brewery we found the bike shop to be closed, in fact, being Sunday it had been closed all day. In the shade of the store front overhang, I took off the back tire and replaced the tube and then we rode back to the Overwaitea grocery store we had noticed on the way in. I parked the bike around the side of the store where there was some shade, but it was still hot from the adjoining sunlit black asphalt. Mary volunteered to stay with the bike while I went do get our supplies.

Inside the store, I was soothed and perked up by the cool conditioned air. I was lucky to find that they sold bicycle patches and a large tube rubber cement which I selected along with some bagels, Gatorade crystals, a tin of evaporated milk, museli and cookies. We would need a lot of food for the next day as we would not encounter any shops for the whole day until we reached Hope. After I had paid for my purchase, I went back outside to get the empty water bottles where Mary was suffering in the hot air. Luckily for me, I had an excuse to go back inside so I left her with the food and brought our water bottles with me to the service desk.

"Sure, go up the stairs there and you'll see the washroom at the end of the room."

As I walked up the stairs, I did a quick calculation. Ninety-six less thirty-two, that's sixty-four, now divide by nine, that's a bit over seven, multiply by five...thirty-six degrees Celsius. Hot! In the washroom, I rinsed the sweat out of my hair and off my face and then filled up the water bottles. I felt clean and fresh as I walked back through the store and to the outside where I poured the Gatorade crystals into the bottles and shook them vigourously. Mary took her turn to go inside and by the time I had everything packed away, she had returned and we were ready to set off for the last twenty kilometres along the Tulameen river.

At the end of the main street we crossed the highway at the lights and rode up a small embankment to the rail bed which had now become an access road. At the end of this road was a three hundred and twenty-four metre long straight concrete lined tunnel but because it was straight and the concrete smooth and light in colour, more light penetrated into the centre making it easier to see. The entrance was blocked by a low easily passed row of concrete blocks and the base was smooth and free of rocks and when we emerged at the other end of the tunnel, we immediately crossed the Tulameen river on a steel covered bridge. I looked back to notice that by going through the tunnel, we had also passed underneath the Crowsnest Highway.

As we crossed the bridge, a group of young teenagers were standing in a circle on the river gravel below drinking beer. I stopped pushing the bike in the centre of the bridge and went ahead to photograph it while Mary remained on the bridge looking down at the teens. Some of them began to feel disturbed at her staying there as they glowered and became restless. Mary was also beginning to feel uncomfortable and was relieved when I had finished and signaled her to continue on.

The track was now easy to ride on, as the close proximity to the river kept it from becoming dusty. In places we dodged puddles and rode through muddy pools but there was always rocks to avoid. When the track skirted around the base of a steep hill or cliff, we sometimes had to stop and walk the bike through a littering of rocks and at one spot, the river had eroded halfway into the rail bed, the water a few metres away. We passed a cliff banded with bright colours of red and ochre giving the river the name Tulameen which is a Salish Indian word meaning red earth, the red coming from mercuric sulphide. A little further, we noticed hoodoos carved by the rain high up on the top of a steep gravel slope.

The river valley opened up into a lush recently mowed grassland where we could see people working with animals in a corral. As we drew closer, a ram spotted us and came running over to greet us and in his excitement, he pushed through a feed trough to get closer, worrying us that he might escape. As the sun sank lower and the river narrowed, we rode into shade cooling us down. Across from some illuminated bluffs, the rail bed squeezed between the river and a cliff and entered another concrete lined curved tunnel called the Parr Tunnel where I noticed near the river, a structure that resembled a fish weir. We stopped inside the cool tunnel for a drink before heading out into the sun again.

The track continued along the right hand side of the river, always littered with various sizes of rocks until we were finally forced to stop. There was no more track as the river had gouged it away completely leaving a sheer cliff. While I figured out how to get around this obstacle, Mary went down to the river to ease the soreness from her ankle, still swollen after our fall four days before. I took off my shoes and socks and waded into the river, running slowly now at this time of year giving me plenty of boulders to step on and lots of shallow gravel banks. The cool water was refreshing as I carried the saddlebags across to a spot where I could climb up onto the intact rail bed. After going back for the bike, I found that it wasn't too difficult to push it along through the water, and with Mary's help, hauling it up the bank.

A little further on, the track crossed the Tulameen river at a steel covered bridge. I hoped that being on the other side of the river meant that we would not encounter any more washouts as we didn't want to get into Coalmont after dark. Even though we had only seven kilometres to go, it could sometimes take a half an hour to get around a washout and the sun, while it hadn't yet set was getting low. On the opposite side of the river, we noticed a bare hillside of beautiful dark yellow sand dotted with pines that were growing tenaciously out of it. It wasn't long before we came across another washout, but we were able to get around it easily by a trail that ran through the forest on the edge of the escarpment but further on, we were stopped by a much larger washout that required a bit more time and effort to get past.

We wheeled the bike back to where there were some trees between the track and the river that would make good handholds to descend to the river. I took off the saddle bags and carried them down to the river, then Mary helped me wheel the bike down the friable slope. We picked our way amongst the river stones, sometimes carrying the bike but mostly pushing it until we found a spot at the end of the washout to clamber back up the bank. We crossed the Tulameen river again on another bridge, this one having steel sides and found that the rail bed became a road used by locals to picnic and swim in the river. There were a few vehicles parked off to the side and the curl of smoke from a campfire which told me that we should have a trouble free ride for the last five kilometres into Coalmont.

The road was smooth enough with only a few patches of washboard so we traveled fast. A pickup truck slowly overtook us, leaving behind a haze of dust which made breathing difficult, but as we were traveling fast for a bicycle and the truck was traveling slow for a car, our speeds were the same. For the next five kilometres, the pickup stayed about two hundred metres ahead of us as we coughed and choked in its dust, hoping the driver would accelerate and move far ahead of us. We reached the township of Coalmont, passing the permanently closed general store and arrived at the Coalmont Hotel where we would spend the night. It was early enough and the sun had not yet set, but it had been a long hard day.

I waited outside with the bike while Mary went up the front stairs of the hotel to register. Through an open door on the right, I could hear the sound of laughter and muted conversation mixed with an occasional shout. Inside the hotel, Mary became a little bewildered when she tried to find her way around. She tried the main doors and found that she couldn't open them and was still attempting to discover the secret, when two men came out of the door to the bar.

She walked past them and entered the dark interior where the volume of sound rose appreciably. She followed a small corridor to the left and entered the foyer behind the locked main door. There was nobody around. She tried a door which swung open against a spring and discovered a deserted dining room but backed out and was pondering whether she should go up the flight of wide wooden stairs when someone spoke from behind her.

Mary re-entered the bar and made her way carefully among tables, chairs and people carrying glasses of beer.

She led Mary out of the bar and up the wide wooden stairs to the top floor. As they ascended, it became darker and in the gloom at the top of the stairs, she pushed open an old heavy door into a pitch black hallway. No light was working and it was only by the hint of daylight seeping under the doors of the rooms on either side of the hallway were they able to make their way to our room. She flicked a switch up and down in exasperation.

"There's something wrong with the lights. I'm sorry, when Peter, that's the owner, gets back I'll ask him to fix it. Anyway, here's your room."

She slid the key in the lock, pushed the large door open and placed a heavy weight behind it to prevent it from closing. An open window poured in strong light from the outside, illuminating an old fashioned but comfortable looking bed, two antique dressers in the corners and a varnished wooden chair. Lace covered the dressers and a selection of paperbacks of different genre were arranged neatly upon them. The ancient room had Mary feeling as though she had just stepped off the stage coach after a long, hot and dusty journey. In the ceiling, a modern smoke detector and alarm broke the spell.

"Actually, can we get something to eat? It doesn't have to be much, sandwiches would be fine."

"Hmmmm...well the kitchen is closed and Peter does the cooking. He's up in the hills someplace. I'll see."

"I have our room, wait until you see it, it's lovely. She is going to see if she can get us something to eat and we can put the bike around the back of the hotel where it will be safe."

I took off the saddle bags and while Mary carried them up to the room, I wheeled the bike around to the back of the hotel and rested it up against the wall, in a small alcove out of sight. I returned and we went upstairs to our room where we unpacked and walked down the hallway to the communal bathroom. In spite of the aging building, the bathroom was clean and tastefully decorated with a pitcher and basin and a potted plant on a shelf. In a corner was a small hand basin with ornate faucets and through an open window, we could see birds flying up to nests under the eaves.

We washed the day's grime off our bodies and used the bath water to scrub our clothes and socks as clean as we could, their final colour not the same white with which we started our trip. We hung them over the chair and bed frame in our room to dry and went downstairs for a meal. In the bar, we found an empty table in the corner near a long shuffleboard table and watched the game in progress. One of the players was a powerfully built woman in her thirties wearing snug fitting jeans and a tee shirt and when she leaned over to send the puck sliding down the sand covered surface, muscles in her darkly tanned arms bulged. She walked confidently around the table conversing with her friends in a comfortable and casual manner, occasionally smiling as she lightly chided them. Her partner was new at the game, a younger man in his late twenties or early thirties, he was around six feet tall, solidly muscled and dressed in jeans, a checked shirt and heeled boots. On his turn, he moved slowly and deliberately up to the table and, helped by her hand, shot the puck too hard into the gutter at the other end. A loud sigh rose up from the watchers. We were watching the game with easy fascination, when our reverie was interrupted.

"Listen, Peter still hasn't return and you must be getting hungry so I'll cook you up something. I can make you a burger."

"I dunno. He took off for a drive and went into the hills someplace, anyway, I'll get you your food. Can I get you something in the meantime?"

"Can you get us a jug of water and a couple of glasses, we're pretty thirsty after our ride."

We settled back in our chars as she sidestepped around the people and worked her way to the bar, picking up empty glasses and taking an occasional order. While we waited, I examined the ceiling which was covered with numerous two dollar bills, glued in place and adored with the donator's name written with a fat, black felt pen. A few ancient photographs of men with long thick mustaches or beards posing outside a younger hotel, were inside old frames and nailed to the wall. Colour snapshots of smiling people in more recent times were pinned to a cork board with their names and the occasion written on the bottom in a shaky hand. In a small alcove, a badly tuned piano was being hammered by a novice's drunken hands to the accompaniment of jeers from his companions and the sound of the piano barely rising above the background babble of strident conversation, cheers and laughter. A young woman with a broken leg in a huge plaster cast clomped back and forth between the tables, joshing people as she went. It was a comfortable atmosphere and while I didn't feel that I belonged here, I did feel that I had been invited. I stretched out easily and rested and my hunger receded a little, giving way to fatigue and the cool water I was sipping. Time slid by easily.

"Here's your food, sorry about the wait, that's all I can get you, I'm afraid. Can I get you a drink?"

I picked up the burger and as I ate, I could feel my appetite returning quickly. Mary and I finished off the meal quickly, wiping up the last traces of ketchup with the few remaining fries, just as an intense looking man pushed his way over to our table and thrust out his hand. Mary took it.

"I'm Peter, sorry I got back late, but I see you managed to get something to eat. How is it?"

"Very nice, thank you. This is an interesting place, how long have you owned the hotel?"

"Just a year, and when I took it over it was a mess. People were smoking grass out the front so I put a stop to that and lost most of my customers and it was dead for a while. Took a while for the people to come back, but they don't smoke dope around here any more, I'd lose my license if I allowed it to continue. How is your room?"

"It's lovely, I liked the little touches like the books on the dressers. It makes you feel at home."

"I want to start attracting people that come to this area for its uniqueness, but it's been tough so far, I'm just breaking even and last winter's floods almost bankrupted me."

"They must have been bad, we came up from Princeton on our bike and it took quite a while to get here, there were a number of washouts we had to get around, one of them we had to wade through the water to get past."

"I had just installed a bunch of equipment in the crawl space and I lost it all. The water was about three feet deep around here."

"Oh, it's good, I made sure of that, the Chamber of Commerce meets monthly at the hotel and we lobbied the government to build levy banks to protect the town. We won't get washed out again and you'll be fine and I've heard that it is good all the way up to the Coquihalla."

"By the way, we don't seem to have any lights working in our room and in the hallway. Perhaps a fuse has blown?"

"I've got a shed around in the back, we can put it there. Where is your bike now?"

We rose and followed his back through the crowd and out into the foyer where he led the way past the swing doors into the dining room and then he stopped.

"This is the dining room, I did it up in the old style. I don't use it very often, just for special occasions."

We followed him through the dining room into the clean and effective looking kitchen and out an open door to the back of the hotel. I wheeled the bike out of the alcove and over to the shed he had indicated. He opened the door, I put the bike up against some boxes and as the mosquitoes were out and attacking us, we moved back to the hotel, this time entering a door at the back of the bar where we paid for the room. It was getting dark after we climbed the stairs for the last time and Mary laid out our things for the morning while I repaired the day's punctures. With a light blanket over us, we turned off the light switch and settled in for the night before our last day. One hundred and thirty kilometres to go.

"Sure we can, once we get to the Coquihalla it will be all downhill. It should be easy."