Oldschool
Moderator
I learned long ago that everything is subject to change, especially weather, and this past weekend was no exception to that rule. I had carefully watched the weather forecast for weeks and true to form, as the weekend loomed the forecast tanked. I had planned a run into Montana to escape the zoo that typifies the May Long in these parts. Campgrounds are booked months in advance for what is invariably awful weather. With all the pent up cabin-fever that Canadians have from the long winter, the roads and campgrounds are wild to say the least. Traffic on the major highways are dangerous on both the Friday and the Monday as people with too much speed and too little sense rush to get to one end or the other of their journeys. I had planned to avoid that with a quick jaunt to the US, one weekend before the Memorial Day holiday where everything should be a little less hectic. Ah, but Mother Nature saw right through that plan and turned off the heat in north-west Montana at the same time she cranked on the shower up here.
Despite my friends giving me the cold shoulder this weekend (Bueller, Bueller…) and Nature having a snit, I decided screw it, I’m going, but on my terms. A quick call to the Chief Hippy at Toadrock (Mary is cool, or should I say Groovy) and “No problem we’ll find you a spot to set up your tent”. That sounds a little iffy considering the size of the place, but “what the hell!” I packed the warm sleeping bag (-12 C) and set out the rain gear. It took all of 20 minutes to pack the gear and bike since my camping stuff is always at the ready.
Saturday came to dark skies and the sound of rain (as expected) but “once more unto the breach” I donned my clown suit and set off into the deluge. It rained for the morning, through the first fuel up and on to Fernie BC. As I turned off onto the first gravel detour the gravel gods overruled the water-from-the sky-department and I enjoyed sliding around corners all the way to Morrisey, where I rejoined the pavement and the rain-crew.
Again as I jumped off onto gravel and Kikomun road the taps were shut off all the way to Moyie, and other than light sprinkles remained so up to Creston. It had allowed my clown suit (1 pce. red rain suit) to dry for the most part and with the warmth making an appearance I decided to take it off. My regular riding suit is waterproof enough that a few showers would be fine without the sauna of having the red-rubber-roaster on to. It started raining lightly as soon as I had it off, doh! I took what used to be an amazing twisty road up to Kootenay Bay (considered the best motorcycle road in the province) but with the ridiculously low speed limit now imposed on it (and the draconian speed laws; 40 over lose your machine & walk) it has become a nice monotonous relaxing “toodle” from Creston to the inland ferry. Back in the day my FZ600 and I used to get the heart rate up along there, but I digress.
Arriving at the Balfour side and at the head of the ferry line, priority boarding in practice if not policy (the sign said no) I enjoyed the run to the campground with only the threat of more rain. Mary was her usual cheery self and there were lots of treed sites to choose from, with improvement over my last stay, namely shelters. My site had a shelter, but with the rain scheduled to re-appear I though my neighbors might enjoy sitting under my central shelter to eat out of the rain. I had come prepared and set up my big tarp, last used in Colorado’s Monsoons. My tent stayed nice and dry under it while my chair did the same under the shelter.
If you come looking for peace and quiet at Toadrock, you will be sorely disappointed. Festivities at the (aged in name) Grey Snatch Ranch out-door pub wrapped up at about an hour before the sun reappeared. It was one of the staff ladies birthdays so it was a bit raunchier than is typical. I ran out of energy long before the leather clad guardians of V-Twin madness and mayhem did, but ear-plugs served me well.
I was the unruly one the next morning early when the twin hammers of the 990 shattered the still, to take me to my favorite local pavement up to New Denver, or at least as far as Sandon. Sandon is an old defunct silver mining boom-town of a day long-past, but still has an active mine. It is the remaining tid-bits of history that brought me there, and the potential photo-ops.
Running the same traffic free (that early anyway) highway twice was a bonus. When I returned I kicked back at the campground, hangin’ with the hippies and the dew-rag crew, but hey I was born in the sixties (had grey hair) and rode a V-twin so I was welcome. It was another long night with barley & bonfire.
Monday came and I was too slow getting to the ferry for the early departure. I consoled myself with a blueberry muffin the size of a side-plate still steaming from the oven, and a cup of darker-than my-mood-leaving-Calgary coffee with cloudless blue skies and green mountain sides as my view. I spent an hour and ten minutes of aroma-therapy sitting in front of a bakery in the morning. It was tough but someone had to do it.
This time I truly was first in line for the boat and had a fantastic, if somewhat windy view and was like riding my bike across the lake. Once over the lake to Kootenay Bay the race was on and some of my fellow boaties didn’t seem to care (or know) about the consequences of excess speeding in BC. I was happy to let them pass and have the radar-bait, allowing me to “enjoy” the road somewhat more than on the run up from Creston.
I retraced my route back and was rewarded with much better views from the forestry road south of Cranbrook. The sun remained the whole way back, after all Mother Nature always gives great weather on a Monday, but the wind picked up and temperature dropped as I arrived at Crows Nest Pass. The heated grips would have been nice on high, but with the howling cross-winds I had to hang on so tight that the high setting was burning my fingers. Traffic was, as expected, insane with people speeding recklessly. At least one was so fast that when a while later I saw him pulled over I was fairly sure that he would be seeing a judge. He was fortunate that we were in Alberta or he would have been hitch hiking home. As my grandfather was fond of saying; “more hurry, less speed”. I suspect I got home quicker and more economically than that poor-er fellow did. All in all, for a plan-B weekend, it was enjoyable.
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