#5

From Radium Hot Springs to Nakusp, B.C.

After a long soak in Radium Hot Springs we got a late start on the very steep pass into the Kootenay drainage. Our legs were noodled from the relaxing heat and the grind was slow, but as usual the descent was all the more sweet. At an overlook where we stopped for pictures, we spend a long time talking to motorists who questioned our travels. Most of them have trouble imagining the kilometers we amass (over 3,000 so far this summer) because they are tired from driving less distances. They don’t understand and we can’t explain the way slow travel unwarps time so that it (the travel) is no longer tedious.

Vermillion Creek runs chalk green through tilted layers of shale, under the road and behind the Kootenay Park Lodge, where it joins the Kootenay River and its wide braided meanders. The wide u-shaped glacial valley and moderate slope allows for soaking in the land and contemplation.         After a moderate crossing into the Vermilion River drainage, we began to notice a staining of the west bank of that river. Steve thought it might be hot springs, but we later discovered it was a from a mineral deposit upstream named the Paint Pots. On a short hike, we learned from interpretive signs that ochre pigments were gathered there by the Plains Indians for face paint and teepee decoration, later for paint by whites. Mineral laden water rises out of the ground in small spring ponds (pots) and forms a stream. The pots and the stream are red-ochre, and incongruous among the green meadows, spruce trees and the powder blue river. It was said the Natives sat for days listening for the voices of the gods that came to them from the earth. It does seem a special place and would lead to thoughts spiritual.

Later that day, approaching the Continental Divide, Vermillion River tumbled beside our struggles and diverted our attention from tired legs. A magenta and green haze of dwarf fireweed hugged the banks. The river rushed over vari-colored quartzite boulders the size of bowling balls, turning the water a translucent aquamarine, broken with soft white water; the color intensifies where the stream bed tumbles into a hole, swirls and then lightens as it slides over the shallow humps of boulders; just enough glacial flour to chalk-soften the color.

Rain patters on tent fly lulled me to nap early on a wet and chilly August 8 evening. We were back in Lake Louise, and the weather had turned on us. Two days before, it was 37C and we were all feeling the effects of the heat. We left Fernie on a hot one and the heat stayed with us for two days. Our second day out was 147 clicks (84 miles) in that heat. We drank copiously and were driven to the shade with signs of heat stress more than once. We had a tail-wind, something to love usually, but it took away our cooling-wind just when we needed it. We took care and made it okay, hoping for cooler weather the next day. We got it yesterday, a perfect day of 22C and mostly sunny. It rained during the night last night and wet us well this  afternoon. It is now cold, cold, cold. Two days and a nearly 60F difference in maximum temperature.

That night, the sky cleared, and the temperature plunged to -2C (about 28F) during the night and we awoke to bike shorts put out to dry that were frozen stiff. Summer?

Steve wanted to ride to Moraine Lake and to Lake Louise (we camped near the town site below), so we decided to take a day off and explore the area. Good move. When we were here two weeks or so ago, we were in the middle of the day and after riding the brutal hill up to Lake Louise, and facing another 50 clicks, we were in no mood to explore the grounds and hotel. Today the ride was easy, unloaded, and the sparkling day inviting, so we lingered among the gardens and Chateau Lake Louise.

The hotel is a cream color with a steel green roof and a multi colored well designed and groomed garden. The architecture and furniture is from the 30’s I’d guess. There seem to be many places to sit and not be bothered by the hordes of tourists who happily take pictures of the lake (we did too) and listen to the stout man in liederhosen blow his alpine horn and give infomercials about Canadian Pacific (owners) to anyone who pointed a camcorder at him. I took a picture of a young Japanese couple in large ladder-backed chairs talking quietly, silhouetted by the window view of gray mountain and white glacier.

We then rode to Moraine Lake, which is so beautiful, you’ll find on the Canadian $20 bill. The road was swamped with tour buses, RVs and cars, but the grade was reasonable and it was fun to fly up the 300 meter gain of the hill; riding unloaded after hauling around 70 some pounds, is a hoot.

The mirrored lake reflected the spires and glaciers of this Valley of Ten Peaks. The verticality is spectacular. The sun was intense but the air cold. Triangles and spires of rock are laid upon each other on the mountains’ faces in endless combinations, scree fans cascade to the lake, and glaciers hang precariously. In the turquoise lake, a white rock looked to me like a beluga whale just under the still waters. A stream sparkled in the sun, meandered between willows and spruce; a dipper dipped on a log beside the lake. High above us, a sifting of powdered-sugar-snow clung to the cliffs.

The next day we saw the spiral railroad tunnels of Kicking Horse Pass, but saw no trains corkscrewing through the mountain. We set up camp early and rode a steep road toward Takakkaw Falls. Along this road, the Yoho River and the Kicking Horse River come together. The Yoho is buttermilk white from glacier flour, and the Kicking Horse is turquoise, the mixture is sagebrush green.

Takakkaw Falls,  254 meters, comes off a hidden glacier. It falls 30 meters to a ledge from which it explodes into space mixing with the air and falling in satiny waftings of spray. Rivulets run down the walls beside it and the mist billows back up in the wind created by the power of the falling water.

Plumes of hanging curtains of falling dissolving mist and water catch the wind and chill us. The sounds of pounding mixed with a soft undertone; sometimes it rumbled thunder; sometimes it sounded like a freight train, an old local clanking and thumping along ancient track, stopping to switch cars, taking up slack…

Tiny droplets of mist dance before us in the sunshine, against a dark spruce mountain. Magic place.

Back at camp that night, Steve and I watched a train go through the spiral tunnel. It was a long time climbing to upper spiral tunnel and we heard it coming back in the near darkness. We couldn’t see the light, but heard the diesel engines suddenly get very quiet, and then all we could hear was the clack of the cars on the rails; we knew it had gone underground. A couple of minutes later, we could see light in the trees outside the upper entrance, going the opposite direction, and the diesel emerged loudly. We could see the cars in the secondary alpenglow, high on the dark hillside. The higher mountain (10,000 ft) was in golden alpenglow against a still pale blue sky.

August 11, we camped within feet of Waitabit Creek, another of our BC Forest, free camps. In the late evening sun, Steve learned the joys of sitting your butt in a glacial stream, (40 degrees F) after he photographed Claire and I taking our usual bath; you do get accustomed to the frigid water, it’s just a matter of perception—and a few guttural screams.

During the night I awoke to a damp tent (we hadn’t put on the fly) and sleeping bag. I thought we had slept through a small shower (we sleep hard sometimes) and so decided I would leave the fly off the tent so there could be some drying if a breeze came up. But, alas, it hadn’t been a rain shower at all but the heaviest dew I can remember, and we were really wet by morning. Morning also brought black skies and soon rain, a hard rain as we climbed the mountainside. By 26 clicks, we were soaked and Rogers Pass looked very bad, so we went down the four click mud hill to the Kinbasket Resort on Kinbasket Lake Reservoir. Behind Mica Dam, it is the first of many impoundments of the Columbia River.

We got a small cabin, spread out our wet clothes and tents to dry and napped away the afternoon. When we awoke the sun was out and we strung bear-string between trees to complete drying process.

Dinner in the lodge, warm apple pie and a view: a slow rain; the green lake quicksilvered, docks and kicker boats levitated, rain bright stripes curtained white aspen on the near bank, wisps of sodden cloud climbed a dark far ridge. A Canadian Pacific freight whistled the crossing above us; its echo sang from the aspen shore.

A man wanders in the open door of the lodge with a damp breeze. He came into our cabin this afternoon, and then a neighbor’s, looking for something, looking for something.

The waitress greets him. He doesn’t respond, but stands looking around the room out of the tops of his eyes, neck crooked. Green sweats and tennis shoes, mid-twenties, one leg dragging, chicken-wing arm wavering, looking for something, looking for someone.

A older man comes in, sees him, guides him to the door gently, firm palm between his shoulder blades, “Lets go see Mommy,” he says. “Lets go see Mommy.” They move slowly across the wet deck into the rain, looking for Mommy, the one he seeks every moment of every day.

A stereo plays softly in the corner; Paul Simon remembers an old familiar rain, still crazy after all these years; a rainy-day-mellow sax, riffs and fades with the rain. A small robin-egg blue hole appears in the ragged clouds, softens the silver with promise.

We were offered a ride up the muddy road from the resort by one of the owners. He was busy and sent his wife/partner. When she deposited us at the top, inexplicably and suddenly, she said, “My staff will remember you as not the best guests of the summer.” Then she drove off leaving us with our mouths hanging open, and a mystery. What cultural faux pas did we commit? Maybe we didn’t tip enough? We’ll never know.

We have been following the Columbia River since Canal Flats, still a wild river, untamed by dams and the electrical desires of us. After Rogers Pass we will rejoin it as it turns south for the first time. Rogers Pass, named after a Major Rogers of the something or other, wasn’t very difficult, except for the snow-sheds (like a tunnel) with the trucks way too close in the dark) The glimpses of the glaciers were impressive and beg to be seen more closely.

After the pass we camped at Tangier Creek free camp on BC Forest lands, high above the creek; our bath this time was not in glacial cold water, but at Canyon Hot Springs; 105F. An intelligent Stellar’s jay at our camp managed to open the zipper on Claire’s rear pannier to get at some oats. We just sat and watched, unbelieving; never seen such a smart bird.

Steve put his watch away, and has been suggesting side trips. We soak in hot springs. Our average days are not long, just right and we seem to be adjusting our paces to each other. Steve really likes the soaking. He’s going to look like a bearded prune any day now.