It's mad fun.
It gets my heart racing and my blood flowing.
It reminds me that Hell Yes! I am alive!
And man does that feel good.
So this year I headed into BC's beautiful interior with a throng of wild and wooly and warm-hearted friends to mountain bike in the Chilcotin Mountain Range.
The adventure started early when, on an old logging road in pitch dark and no moonlight on an edgeless road that plummeted to a shallow lake far below, our truck got a flat.
"Are you sure it's flat?" I asked as we pulled over.
"I didn't hear a wha-chunk wha-chunk."
This was only the beginning of our naivete.
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| It all started with a flat... |
And the boys had driven up to the camp site ahead of us.
There was no cell service.
And although we told the guys to turn on their walkie talkie at the camp site, when we SOSed them, the other line was dead. They were busy setting up camp and drinking beers laughing at how slow we drive.
Lucky for us, the only car that came by about 15 minutes later when we had successfully unpacked the entire truck and reached the spare wheel well was driven by a friendly man with coveralls and a toolbox who instantly set on not only changing our tire but showing us how to do it so we wouldn't get stuck again.
We eventually made it to the site, scolded the boys, opened a few beers, and started to get excited about the day ahead. Giddy actually.
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| Good morning, Paradise! |
One zip of the tent door in the morning and I felt like I was in a new universe. We had driven up here in pitch dark, guided only by stars and a poor map. So when I gave my first stretch outside of the tent, rubbed my eyes, and opened wide – I saw it.
We were actually camping on the edge of a pristine green lake surrounded by rolling mountains of greenery – firs and birch and ferns and grassy knolls. I nearly fell over. I had no idea.
In the distance, snowcapped mountains rose tall and stood ground.
We were on the edge of a fantasy novel. It seemed nearly impossible for anything to be so beautiful.
A float plane picked us and our bikes up in the morning. The sky was blue. The sun was ripe and gold. It was a perfect day to be on a mountain.The ride in to Spruce Lake was spectacular.
Fresh green meadows rolled like the hills of Switzerland in storybooks.
Rows upon rows of pines looked perfectly farmed by nature.
The water glistened.
The sky was a gem.
The mountains shone.
Snow sparkled.
Our ride began on muddy, rocky trails at the mountain's top. A good spot to get a feel for our bikes and get used to the terrain. We quickly found a groove and the seven of us pedalled forth, sometimes walking our bikes up hill then zooming down.
About an hour and a half in, we came to a break in the trees and a rolling meadow of the greenest grass, purple flowers, lettuce-like ferns, and a view that made it clear that our home is heaven.We smiled.
We hugged.
We laughed.
We snapped pics.
A single track, no more than 8 inches wide wound through the grassy knoll.
We were effectively pedalling in a postcard.
I nearly cried it was so beautiful.
And then I bailed.
My bike went right. I went left.
I fell and rolled into long grass and ferns, so the fall was kind of comfortable actually.
My lungs were in my throat. (Not literally, of course.)
I sat for a second and tried to collect my thoughts – and my breath.
"You ok?" my friends asked.
One blew her whistle to make sure everyone knew to come back.
Wow, I thought. We've definitely got the safety thing down.
"I'm okay," I said with tears welling a little in my eyes.
My ankle throbbed. It stung a little.
I was wrestling inside, telling myself that I wasn't hurt, merely scared.
"Sit, Chica" said Chris. "Take your time."
He pulled out the duct tape and started taping my ankle.
I knew I was hurt, but it didn't feel impossible to carry on. I was shaken. I was in a bit of pain. But the duct tape made my ankle feel secure and we were two hours into a 10-hour ride in one of the most beautiful places in the world. So I carried on.
On foot, at first.
I waved the others on and limped forward out of the grassy knoll and back into the forest.The horse flies lavished in my slower pace and gladly nipped at every inch of showing skin.
I was insect fodder.
After another hour or so, I got back on the bike. I pedalled a little. I walked a little.
I cried a little. I laughed a little. I took time to pause and soak in the surroundings: thick trees, lush meadows, rushing waters, cool breezes, white paper-like birch trees, bear claws in tree trunks. It was a magical place – sore ankle or not.
The more I biked, the thicker my ankle became. The pain increased and so did the numbness in my toes. I felt like my shoe was 10 sizes too small.
And then, another 4 hours later, pedalling slowly with my pal Chris who kindly stayed back to make sure that mountain lions and bears didn't recongize me as the Weakest Link and maul me outright, I reached my breaking point.
And I bawled.
Big thick tears.
My leg was stiff and sore.
It hurt to walk, stand, pedal, breathe.
My heart was beating inside of my foot.
So I hopped on Chris' back and he piggybacked me for the better part of an hour, going back periodically to get the bikes and walk them to us while I rested. The man is bionic.
He mustered brute strength.
I knew, however, that piggbacks weren't going to get us out of the forest before dark.
After 6 hours in the middle of nowhere with nothing but the sounds of the wind rustling through the trees above and mud splashing from tires below, we were met by two young girls on horseback. Chris said "You need to take my friend. She's hurt."
I refused.
He insisted.
I still refused.
He insisted more.
And I succumbed.
The girls were 16 and were on a trip with their aunts and grandmother, who were trailing about 25 minutes behind with their cousin – who had broken her ankle a few hours before falling off a horse.
The universe works in mysterious ways!
We trotted about an hour to where the horsetrailers were parked, and where coinicidentally, the rest of my friends had stopped to wait for Chris and I to show up.
When I saw them, I cried, raised my arms, and they cheered.
The women (so friendly) agreed to take me back to their cottage.
They drew a map for my friends, who still had another 3 hours of biking to go.
And we waived goodbye.
"You're sending me to the farm?" I said through tears and a half-cracked window – half-joking, half-serious.
We high-fived and my friends went left while we went right.
Lucky for me – Diane, Wendy, Darlene, Tenille, Rachel, and Kelly – were just about the most phenomenal people in the world. So kind and selfless.
They carried me into the cottage.
Put ice on my ankle.
Fed me well.
Laughed with me.
Hugged me when I cried.
They called the paramedics who checked out both Kelly and I and suggested we go to the hospital in Lillooet.
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| My gnarly ankle |
I had no ID.
No phone.
No access to my friends.
So I opted to stay and wait.
4 hours later, near midnight, Ryan and JC showed up with a bottle of vodka and smiles on their faces. They carried me to the truck, poured me a stiff drink, and headed back to the campsite.
Although he'd ridden 14 hours that day, Ryan pressed on.
"We're packing the truck and getting you to the hospital" he said.
Our tired team packed the truck feverishly and we left for the long 2.5 hour trek to Lillooet on old logging roads in the middle of the night.
We stopped 20 or 30 times for deer crossing the road.
We hallucinated too – out of sheer exhaustion or pain or both.
We laughed.
We blinked for w-a-y too long.
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| My chauffeur! |
At 2:30 we arrived at the Lillooet hospital, where a friendly nurse informed us that there was no doctor on staff and that we'd have to come back at 7 the next morning.
So she shot me in the butt with Demerol and we headed down the street to a seedy motel.
The owner had no sympathy for us, our tale, or the fact that we only needed a place to sleep for 4 hours.
"$100 or no room!!"
So we paid.
And I fell into a Demerol-induced coma it seemed. I don't really remember much after Ryan piggybacked me into the room.
The next morning on just 4 hours sleep, we woke up to a blazing alarm and embarked on what seemed like a comedy sketch. The alarm buzzed and Ryan jolted awake: "What?"
I woke up "What?"
He looked at me "What?"
I said "What?"
We had no idea where we were!
At the hospital, Ryan fell instantly asleep in an ER bed, I hung my head in a wheelchair, and an hour later I had the results:
Not broken. Severely sprained.
I cried.
8 hours later after another snooze in our gross motel room and a long drive back to Vancouver, the doc called again: The radiologist had reviewed the x-rays and noticed an avulsion fracture. I should probably reconsider my trip to Iceland, he said.
I cried more.
But an MRI and a second opinion last week have me hopeful that this ankle will heal just enough for an adventurous trek next week.
The chilcotin mountains were stunning, epically beautiful, impossibly perfect.
The adventure could not have been scripted.
It has the bones of a made-for-TV movie somewhere.
And the friendships could not have proven more solid and deep-rooted.
"You're our Yzerman", Ryan said comparing me to the NHL great who scored the Stanley Cup winner on a broken ankle.
"You make our story so much cooler, Kimmers" said Chris.
"Let's do it again next year!" said Amy.
"You're one tough MF" said JC.
It was the time of my life.
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| Entirely, utterly worth every dollop of pain. |
