We packed our bags,a lunch, and the camera, hopped in the Hyundai and headed Northeast. Destination: unknown. Though we knew our end goal was to inevitably stumble upon a great hike.
2 hours into our ride, we blinked our way along the Trans Canada through Hope with our eyes on the tiny little village of Boston Bar. Then, on the outskirts of Hope, we stumbled upon Mount Lincoln. It's a small (in mountain-standards) mountain with a great view of the fraser river, the Fraser Valley, and with (we assumed from the bottom of it) a not-too-shabby view of this Moutnain Range from the top.
We parked on the side of the road next to a vacant semi with running shoes in the window, hopped across the Trans Canada, found the trailhead, and began our ascent.
The bottom was fairly scree-heavy. Lots of loose rocks and green mossy. It was equal parts beautiful and dangerous. We eked our way along.
"I hear something" Paul said as we pressed forth.
"It's probably me. I'm breathing like I'm having a heart attack" I mused. The ascent was steep. And our breath was short.
Then I heard a pile of rocks fall. We feared the worst -- a bear! But were gladly mistaken. It was a zealous hiker on his way down, nearly running (and sliding) down the scree with two hiking poles, a t-shirt soaked through, and a grin wider than his cheeks.
He came to a halting stop, nearly losing his balance.
"This is a killer hike, dudes," he said in his laid-back, west-coast lingo. "Killer."
"cool!" we said. We were stunned by his enthusiasm and energy. It was like he had just downed three Red Bulls. He was ADD. He was shivering with hiking elation!
"Gotta get back on the road. Delivery to make," he said.
"Is that your truck?" we asked, alluding the to the big semi.
"Yep. Last thing the world needs is another fat and lazy trucker, right bro?" he said, slapping Paul on the side.
He was hysterical.
We wished him well and he slid down the rest of the mountain side so fast we weren't even sure if he was actually there or just a figment of our imaginations. Luckily, since we both saw him and recalled the encounter, we figured it was real. That, or we were both losing our marbles as the air thinned with elevation.
45 minutes of fairly strenuous hiking *and sliding) later, we came across our first rope. It was tied to a tree about 100 meters about us, and was very useful in helping us ascend over a very tricky, and steep, portion of the trail. Later, we would soon learn, that the value of this rope and four other that we came upon, would be in helping us get down this mountain with out falling off the edge!
The air was crisp.
The moss was electric green.
It felt like we had stumbled upon something so new and untouched.
Then again, we did see that crazy over-enthusiastic trucker-hiker. So this being "untouched" was obviously just perception.
The closer we got to the top, the more the trail essed up. It was steep. The trees opened up and we received temporary teasing views of the vista we would soon see in clarity.
The top of the mountain was just a mesh of bare trees and big rocks, but Mount Lynky did not disappoint, To the east was a hazy blue pattern of big boisterous mountains, cascading as far as we could see,
We parked ourselves on a rock jutting over the edge, ate turkey sandwiches, watched chipmunks dart beneath the rocks, listened to grasshoppers sing for their mates, followed hawks as they soared through the sky, and truly felt alive.
"If rainy season starts tomorrow," I said, "this would be a great way to end the summer."
"here here!" Paul seconded with a bite of turkey sandwich in his cheeks and a smile on his face.
We "cheersed" with our sandwiches, watched the mountains fade into nothingness, and half an hour later scooted down teh mountain, through the moss, around the trees, down the scree, and back to solid ground.
Hookey never felt so good.
