Driving back from Alaska is hazardous to your rump. "For the love of God," my ass whimpered, "back away from the vehicle."
In the stretch of three days, I drove from Tok to Whitehorse and Whitehorse to Prince George. Never paying for camping, of course. Stealth master-A has his eye on the poach 24-7. To poach a campsite, you have to either stay in a fee-site without paying or scope a dirt road for the out-of-the-way forest spot, private land or not. I prefer the
latter poach as it creates a rawer sense of accomplishment than the juvenile Tent-n-Ditch maneuver.
At Dease Lake in northwestern British Columbia, I tried to work out the driving kinks in a serene Canadian setting (photo). Been at the wheel a few hours, eh? Northern British Columbia has an unending stream of luminescent lakes and natural distractions. What a country!
Combustication carried me through the miles of dust and gravel. Who's got the key? Gus. Gus Johnson got the key. Medeski can squeeze out a million different haunting arrays of sound, each more brilliant than the last.
I arrived in Prince George on a Thursday to slow the roll and splash some more pictures on these pages. I think that P.G. has more Necks than anywhere else in Canada. Welcome to the land where Camaros come to die. I holed up for a couple of nights at a hotel and cleaned off about three weeks of Alaska road scum from my unit. While in this friendly city, some Neck tried to jack my bike off the car rack but was unsuccessful. But, they were able to destroy the lock so that even I could not remove it. It took a hospitable station attendant in Lillooet to drill it out so that I could ride again. Except for in the wack town of P.G., every Canadian I've met has been extremely friendly and helpful. It is an attribute of their collective society that is not just a meaningless label or misapplied stereotype.
I left Prince George and meandered south. On a whim, I broke me off a little adventure and turned southwest into the dramatic range of the coastal Cadwellder Mountains. It's like the ocean has rammed the land and butted up the hills into impossibly steep spires. I've never seen a range of mountains that go vertical so quickly.
I stumbled into the fresh little town of Lillooet and had to make a break of it. I had so much fun there, I stayed an extra day. They have a German bakery in town and I stocked up on a delectable cache of pastries and bread at bargain prices. The town park was putting on some kind of a local talent show and I bumped over, cinnamon roll in hand & sugar glaze on my face, and sat down to enjoy a few off-key performances and amateur a cappella croonings.
While in the park, I was
fixing my bike's brakes (after having the bike hacked off my roof rack, as I mentioned) and I struck up a conversation with a Lillooet biker named Missagh who offered to give me a short tour of the rolling forest roads along the Fraser River. Thanks for the tour, buddy!
The Fraser is a violent, churning stretch of wild mountain water. Its massive eddys are so huge and deep in some places that fishermen sometimes pull out 400 pound sturgeon from the abyss. Unfortunately the salmon runs have been decimated from years of overfishing and poor river management and angling is severely restricted. The fishing industry is always complaining about government imposed restrictions and catch limits. But what are they fighting for? The day when there's not a fish left to bring into the boat, I guess.
Before leaving Lillooet, I partook in an activity which, for me, is completely uncharacteristic. When it comes to golf, I am the biggest hack on the freaking planet. I can whack
it into the bushes and water traps with precision and I can put a divot in the fairway more efficiently than most people could do with a shovel. I wanted to hit the pill around in Lillooet, though, because the course is so unique, the price is right ($10 US for a round with rental), and the scenery is like no other. The sheep pasture golf course is one of the few courses in North America where sheep graze on the fairways and "baaaaaahh" with laughter at the average hack's slices. I had to plunk a few to show them who's boss. Averaging triple bogeys, I was like Els with the stick. That's only if Ernie were blindfolded and shackled, of course.
To cap off an awesome stay in the mountains north of Vancouver, I left Lillooet and moved a few klicks down the road to Whistler, king of the mountain resorts. I poached a campsite on an obscure mountain road only five miles from town and spent two days riding the singletrack around the village. Cut Yer Bars is highly recommended.
At night, the life was pumpin' at a joynt called The Boot. The headline was a thick reggae sound out of Calgary called Struggulah. In a mad Indo haze I boogied down with some local revelers that I met and by 2 a.m., my eyes were swimming. In a power move, I had a cabbie drive me (don't drink and drive to keep The Rig from crashin') through the woods and some serious offroad shit to get me home. Only in Canada!
In the stretch of three days, I drove from Tok to Whitehorse and Whitehorse to Prince George. Never paying for camping, of course. Stealth master-A has his eye on the poach 24-7. To poach a campsite, you have to either stay in a fee-site without paying or scope a dirt road for the out-of-the-way forest spot, private land or not. I prefer the
latter poach as it creates a rawer sense of accomplishment than the juvenile Tent-n-Ditch maneuver.At Dease Lake in northwestern British Columbia, I tried to work out the driving kinks in a serene Canadian setting (photo). Been at the wheel a few hours, eh? Northern British Columbia has an unending stream of luminescent lakes and natural distractions. What a country!
Combustication carried me through the miles of dust and gravel. Who's got the key? Gus. Gus Johnson got the key. Medeski can squeeze out a million different haunting arrays of sound, each more brilliant than the last.
I arrived in Prince George on a Thursday to slow the roll and splash some more pictures on these pages. I think that P.G. has more Necks than anywhere else in Canada. Welcome to the land where Camaros come to die. I holed up for a couple of nights at a hotel and cleaned off about three weeks of Alaska road scum from my unit. While in this friendly city, some Neck tried to jack my bike off the car rack but was unsuccessful. But, they were able to destroy the lock so that even I could not remove it. It took a hospitable station attendant in Lillooet to drill it out so that I could ride again. Except for in the wack town of P.G., every Canadian I've met has been extremely friendly and helpful. It is an attribute of their collective society that is not just a meaningless label or misapplied stereotype.
I left Prince George and meandered south. On a whim, I broke me off a little adventure and turned southwest into the dramatic range of the coastal Cadwellder Mountains. It's like the ocean has rammed the land and butted up the hills into impossibly steep spires. I've never seen a range of mountains that go vertical so quickly.
I stumbled into the fresh little town of Lillooet and had to make a break of it. I had so much fun there, I stayed an extra day. They have a German bakery in town and I stocked up on a delectable cache of pastries and bread at bargain prices. The town park was putting on some kind of a local talent show and I bumped over, cinnamon roll in hand & sugar glaze on my face, and sat down to enjoy a few off-key performances and amateur a cappella croonings.
While in the park, I was
fixing my bike's brakes (after having the bike hacked off my roof rack, as I mentioned) and I struck up a conversation with a Lillooet biker named Missagh who offered to give me a short tour of the rolling forest roads along the Fraser River. Thanks for the tour, buddy!The Fraser is a violent, churning stretch of wild mountain water. Its massive eddys are so huge and deep in some places that fishermen sometimes pull out 400 pound sturgeon from the abyss. Unfortunately the salmon runs have been decimated from years of overfishing and poor river management and angling is severely restricted. The fishing industry is always complaining about government imposed restrictions and catch limits. But what are they fighting for? The day when there's not a fish left to bring into the boat, I guess.
Before leaving Lillooet, I partook in an activity which, for me, is completely uncharacteristic. When it comes to golf, I am the biggest hack on the freaking planet. I can whack
it into the bushes and water traps with precision and I can put a divot in the fairway more efficiently than most people could do with a shovel. I wanted to hit the pill around in Lillooet, though, because the course is so unique, the price is right ($10 US for a round with rental), and the scenery is like no other. The sheep pasture golf course is one of the few courses in North America where sheep graze on the fairways and "baaaaaahh" with laughter at the average hack's slices. I had to plunk a few to show them who's boss. Averaging triple bogeys, I was like Els with the stick. That's only if Ernie were blindfolded and shackled, of course.To cap off an awesome stay in the mountains north of Vancouver, I left Lillooet and moved a few klicks down the road to Whistler, king of the mountain resorts. I poached a campsite on an obscure mountain road only five miles from town and spent two days riding the singletrack around the village. Cut Yer Bars is highly recommended.
At night, the life was pumpin' at a joynt called The Boot. The headline was a thick reggae sound out of Calgary called Struggulah. In a mad Indo haze I boogied down with some local revelers that I met and by 2 a.m., my eyes were swimming. In a power move, I had a cabbie drive me (don't drink and drive to keep The Rig from crashin') through the woods and some serious offroad shit to get me home. Only in Canada!
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