|
Touring B.C.’s Gold Rush TrailsA Cariboo Cycling AdventureBy Rick MillikanEvery summer the Zen Cyclopaths set out for new bike adventures. This year’s quest involved retracing two 1858 gold rush trails into central British Columbia. We would traverse the miners’ most western route by rail to 100-Mile House. There, our bicycle tour would begin. The long pedal back followed the original Cariboo trail.
During the Cariboo Gold Rush Lillooet became the biggest city west of Chicago. Our stop there was just long enough to stretch our legs and hear the conductor shout “All aboard!” Then the Prospector chugged onward and upward crossing the mighty Fraser River.
After repacking our mountain bikes, we raced 21 km through pine forests, over rolling hills and into a Horse Lake campsite. Ducks quacked me up at the crack of dawn. Under an apricot sky those feathered critters continued grumbling as I prepared my hot oatmeal. Later they exhibited a fowl interest in my packing and racking. We renamed their colossal pond “Hoarse Duck Lake”. The quiet country roads passed through groves of evergreens, railed pastures and along cobalt blue lakes. Our path sometimes paralleled the familiar train track as we doubled back through Lone Butte, Green Lake, 70-Mile House to camp at Whispering Pines in Clinton.
Humming down the main highway the next day, we paused at the turn off at Hat Creek Ranch. This historic site seemed ideal for a break. Stagecoaches had long stopped at the main ranch house, which served as a roadhouse. Aromas of fresh baked goodies still wafted from the kitchen. Who could ever refuse such a mouth-watering invitation? We stoked up on blueberry pie and apple strudels for an afternoon of bicycle churning and calorie burning. After our mechanic guru Jorge tweaked my gears, we were off again. As the road climbed toward Marble Canyon, I sighted several tourists walking along the roadside, watching something rustling beside a creek below. Approaching, I shared their view of a black bear ambling slowly in our direction. Knowing bears can climb quickly, the tourists returned to their cars and I spun up the hill.
Under cloudy morning skies we rolled to the forested edge of the Cariboo Plateau, rocketing downward into sagebrush country. Crossing the Fraser River at Twenty-three Camels Bridge, we paused at a plaque honoring a herd of these unusual but useful Cariboo pack animals. Lillooet, built just above the river, retains a wild-west aura. The saloons are long gone, but many original buildings as well as Judge Begby’s hanging tree remain. Though typically sunny and dry there, thunderstorms discouraged further cycling. We found refuge at the “0” Mile Motel. Our next day’s challenge was a climb over a wall of mountains. After grinding up Duffy Lake Road’s continuous, steep 11km grade plus 41 km of moderate slope, we established an impromptu campsite along Cayoosh Creek. After enjoying a grilled Fraser River salmon dinner and planning the next day, we crawled into our tents. The burbling Cayoosh lulled us to sleep.
Our maneuvers around potholes, jagged rocks and loose gravel improved. Amazingly no one punctured a tire, though Tom’s son Michael dealt with a loose crank arm. With a big grin, Michael re-attached it and pedaled on. Turquoise Lillooet Lake surrounded by snow capped mountains perked up the rhythmic pedal. The sweet smelling pines shaded our endeavors.
In good spirits we arrived at St. Agnes Hot Springs camping above the roaring Lillooet River. Twice that evening we soaked in large open-air tubs. Half the group returned the next morning. We boiled our tough legs, then “noodled” along the rolling hills above the Lillooet River.
After sighting this huge cobalt blue lake, we passed its principal enterprise, a lakeside logging operation. Then we encountered the map’s “4x4s only” “bad road”. This extremely steep, rocky, and pot-holed road challenged any vehicle. Slowly hiking rather than biking these slopes brought no dishonor and provided safe and steady progress. While freewheeling down any mountain at “breakneck speed” is always inviting and exciting, here it seemed fool hardy. Even if the strewn rocks, boulders and craters could be evaded, the eroded ditches at the bottom of each descent were unavoidable. Once the bicycles were “ditched”, the bloody consequences seemed eminent. We all survived somehow. Only Eric sported a road rash. We pegged down our tents one last time in a forest meadow beside a rocky Harrison Lake beach. While trying to pump up my wheezing stove, a zany Zen rookie Don chanted a parable “Stoves squeaking for oil must be heard.” Though we’re not a band of bicycling Buddhists, Zen zingers and helpful mechanics are duly applauded. A dip in the lake washed away the crust of sweat and dust. Later we dined, discussed our day and hit the sack. Earlier Doug “the surveyor” sized up this campsite. Now Doug did his usual thorough morning camp clean up. Our well-coordinated team packed up for the last time. Then we began a roller coaster ride to 20-Mile Bay for lunch and a refreshing dip. Getting late a trucker gave our group a lift to a parking lot near the Harrison River fish hatchery. Tom met us with cold watermelon and icy bottled water. After the aqua-fest, we pedaled the few remaining miles down a paved road to the Sasquatch Inn. An epic journey had ended.
Photos by Bill McClellan, Tom Grady, Doug Roberts, and
Kathy Woodland |
|
TM
Our
passenger train pulled out of North Vancouver at 7 AM sharp. Aptly named,
the Prospector wound along the Howe Sound shore, up the Squamish River and
along the River of Golden Dreams to Whistler. Once, prospectors struggled
through the dense undergrowth of the coastal mountains to find, as we did, a
chain of long glacier fed lakes. Early steamboats carried them as passengers
from one lake to another. We soon descended into Lillooet, Mile 0 of the
1859 Cariboo Trail.
An
ongoing narration added to our enjoyment. Roy, our friendly conductor had
already pointed out famous movie sites, spectacular water falls, glaciated
valleys, and a grazing buffalo herd. He now indicated the native salmon
netting areas and drying racks along the Fraser River, the early wagon trail
with its log roadhouses, and basking marmots. It was an extraordinary
eight-hour journey to bustling 100-Mile House. There, once an important
stagecoach stop, was our tour’s first stage. 
Our
four teenage Cyclopaths joined in camp camaraderie and chores. Trevor and
Eric became chefs who re-hydrated our gourmet camp meals. Lucas and
Michael often undertook clean up. Being a natural cut up, I enlisted as
salad maker. Bill, a paramedic, safeguarded our travels, scouted out routes
and picked up home baked pies. We ate well!
The
quiet road through Marble Canyon was lined with fragrant pines, a series of
sapphire lakes, and towering pastel limestone cliffs. Plans to camp at the
local provincial park abruptly changed when hospitable friends invited us to
stay in their spacious lake cabin. While we splashed about their dock,
played bocce, wined, chatted and dined, Ted “the rabbit’ cycled onward to
our preset campsite. Doug, “the hound” could not find him there. Knowing
Ted would sprint out at daybreak, our hosts Mike and Kathy rose early, drove
to the highway and scooped up Ted. 
Following
a cheery breakfast routine, we briskly pedaled to Joffrey Lake and the
exhilaratingly long coast down the mountain. We sped on beyond our turnoff
into Mount Currie. There Tom said, “Good-bye bike buddies!” and continued on
by bus, bike and car to arrive at his brother’s wedding in Victoria.
Rest
breaks complied to three cycle-touring laws. Rest before you’re tired.
Drink before you’re thirsty. (In modern vernacular, “Hydrate or die!”) Eat
before you’re hungry. Interestingly, our “turkey” jerky and “energy bar”
pemmican differed little from the early miners’ snack pack. 
Success
is often circumstantial. Bridge repairs had blocked motorists, yet our
cycling group was given the go ahead to continue. Passing the turnoff to
Port Douglas, I remembered reading about this sleepy community once humming
with miners who debarked here to trek onward to the Cariboo gold fields. At
this time on the southern end of Harrison Lake, a small boat capsized,
dumping prospectors into the lake. To their delight, they were dunked in
warm water. St. Alice Hot Springs Hotel was soon built and immediately
prospered. Later this bustling spa was renamed Harrison Hot Springs. The
remote northern tip of Harrison Lake was not as fortunate. 
I imagine a
sourdough scratching his beard and muttering, “Our roads to riches were
Cariboo Trails, now they’re Zen Cycle Paths!” The gold rush trails treated
us to wild majestic beauty and rugged cycling challenges. There we found
rich camaraderie, a wealth of good health and 24 carat golden times. We had
struck the Mother Lode of adventure!