On day 6 we started toward the trail that would take us over the Flathead Wigwam Route, which is 200 kilometers of remote and rugged terrain ending at the U.S. border. It goes through a region known as the “Grizzly Bear Highway”, or as National Geographic calls it, “the grizzliest place in North America.” Jinkies!
Shortly after leaving our campsite we spotted a young moose at the side of the road. It eyed us for a minute, then trotted off into the bush.
Before long we were off road again, and onto the trail. Trail riding is so relaxing compared to riding on pavement, especially with the type of views that we got on the Flathead Wigwam trail. With its fantastic scenery and forest and the many deer and rabbits along the way, this is one of my favourite sections of our Great Divide route.
Parts of the trail were completely washed out and for about 500 meters Bob and I were basically riding down a stream. I have always enjoyed trials riding, so trying to balance through these sections was a blast. The slack geometry of the Surly ECR make it easy to bomb through sections that might buck a rider off a different bike. The front wheel is so far forward that there is little risk of doing an endo and flipping over the handlebars.
On day six I learned that the way to negotiate riding down a rocky stream bed is to maintain a decent speed with your weight back over the back wheel. You grip the bars loosely and let the bike steer itself through these sections. Grip too tightly, and the wheel can jam. This is also a much less fatiguing way to ride, with your arms and shoulders relaxed so that you can focus more on propelling the bike.
The Guidebook suggested that we stop for the night at the Pollock Creek Recreational site. It is a beautiful user-maintained site at the side of a stream, complete with picnic tables and washrooms. It would have been a pleasure to stay here, but we reached it by noon, so we opted to stop for lunch.
Butterflies, I learned on this trip, are often attracted to dark patches on the trail. I’m not sure why.
After lunch we opted to press on toward “Butt’s Cabin”, a free cabin farther down the trail. After camping for five nights, the prospect of staying indoors and not having to pack everything into dry bags was attractive.
At Sasquatch Junction, we turned onto Corbin for a 22 dusty, hot, and scenic 22 km.
By the time we reached Butts Cabin, we were thirsty and out of water. Butts Cabin, it turns out, was aptly named: It was full of flies, graffiti, and good old-fashioned stank. This place was in need of a cross-breeze.
Much as I appreciate the generosity of the British Columbia Forest Service for providing this cabin, it was just too gross for us. Despiting having detoured to get to here, we decided to give the cabin a pass and find more pleasant surroundings for the night – preferably one with some fresh flowing water rather than the boggy stream near the cabin.
We backtracked back to the main road and followed it downhill to this bridge where we found a great spot to cool off in this mountain stream, eat a nice big spaghetti dinner and camp for night.
This night is now burned into my memory as one of my most terrifying experiences. In the middle of the night I was awoken to the clicking and clacking sound of large rocks being moved down by the stream. Bears.
Laying in a burrito shape, suspended at mouth-height for a bear, my mind started playing tricks on me, and my ears started seeking out into the dark. Again, I heard the rocks. Again I was frozen there, listening. Then I heard a big stick crack.
I was flooded with adrenaline, yet unable to move. This was not spooky paranoia, but the legitimate fear of a real-life monster. Grizzlies are dangerous. There is no two ways about that, and this section of the British Columbia is an where conservation staff chopper in pesky bears – the ones that have been found too close to humans. Butts Cabin was looking much better than it had earlier that day. What I would have given to be safe within the logs of that stinky place rather than dangling so deliciously.
All of this was going through my mind as I lay in wait, listening intently for more sounds and considering my options. But now only the sound of the stream could be heard. After 20 minutes – or was it 20 seconds? you just can’t judge the passage of time in these situations – I started to relax, and prepare to get back to sleep.
The silence was broken again – this time by an ungodly wheezing sound of an unmistakably large animal. “Wheeze, wheeze, wheeze”- it sounded territorial, and it was moving around me.
Spoiler alert: I did not get eaten that night, but I want to point out that Bob was also witness to this sound. Of course, I asked him about it the next day. He said that he had also heard it, but that he didn’t worry about it because he figured there was nothing he could do about it.
I did not know that was possible. Over the years, Bob has amazed me with his ability to relax in trying situations, with his physical strength and endurance, and his unflappably positive outlook. Now I have to assume that Bob suffers from (or is blessed with?) pronoia. Wikipedia defines pronia as a neologism that is defined as the opposite state of mind to paranoia: having the sense that there is a conspiracy that exists to help the person. It is also used to describe a philosophy that the world is set up to secretly benefit people.
I will never know what that wheezing sound was, but I did a little research, and I think it was a bear. I could find no references about elk or deer making this particular sound. Elk do make some weird trumpeting sounds, but that is not what I heard. What I heard sounded like the first five seconds of this clip, but louder, harder, and over and over again.
Wheeze, wheeze, wheeze. That is what Bob heard, then rolled over and went back to sleep.
Bob and Joe's Bike Advenutre: 30 Days Biking The Great DIvide 