Tim Wild heads north for an epic BC trip. Will the stress of the planning pay off?
Words Tim Wild Photography Casey Montandon
Oh, Canada…
I’ve been obsessing over the logistics of this British Columbia trip for weeks. It’s complicated. Ten riders need to converge in Squamish, BC, on the same day – one from Alaska, one from Quebec, three driving up from Moab, four flying into Vancouver from different USA cities and me from the UK. Flight times change at random. People cancel. The whole thing feels like a house of cards that could collapse at any moment.
First thing I do on departure day? Leave a £300 Berghaus waterproof jacket – my only jacket – in the luggage rack of the train to Gatwick.
But ten hours later, my sturdy RAM 1500 pickup truck contains four friends, five bikes, a ton of gear and a palpable sense of excitement as we roll into the drive of our Squamish house to a flurry of hugs, beers and bike building. We’re all here. We made it. It’s actually going to happen.
No Squirrels
The plan was to spend our first day riding Lord of the Squirrels in Whistler – a legendary monster of a loop with hours of climbing and multiple feature-packed descents. We don’t all know each other and we’re about to head off together into remote backcountry for the next three days, so we need a first ride to spot any problems with bikes, fitness, or general group cohesion that can be sorted in Squamish and not bite us in the ass halfway up a distant mountain. But Lord of the Squirrels is closed due to snow. In July. This is the kind of detail that would usually send me into a mild panic spiral, but organiser Dave is made of sterner stuff. Calls are made, plans rearranged and we’re soon in business.
“If you feel like riding tomorrow, I’ve not done my job.”
These encouraging words emanate from the mouth of one Nate Mckay, a Squamish local, friend of our leader Dave and minor MTB legend. Nate was one of the original builders of the Whole Enchilada in Moab – on every MTB trail bucket list – back in the days when it wasn’t even legal, and involved dodging park rangers and secretly burying tools. I will, however, mostly remember him for his cheerful attempt to kill us all with a combination of heat, climbing and trail speed.
So – the climbing. There is a lot… All in one go… About 5,000ft in total, mostly in one major hike. But the payoff on this trail is absolutely remarkable. For me, and a few others, Rupert is our first taste of genuine Squamish slab riding – and it’s a doozie. A cliché I know, but YouTube does not do this stuff justice. Tight rock-built turns, super-satisfying rock rolls, boulders to huck off, mad little wooden bridges and a roll down a slab so steep my back tyre threatens to pull my shorts down.
“We’re in Disneyland right now – we have to go further to reach Narnia.”
That classic trail fib ‘just one more hill’ leads to another nasty climb, one that sees us zigzagging left to right to catch the shady parts of the path and escape the blazing noon sun. It takes us to Ditch Pig, a steeper version of Rupert that ups the stoke and speed before we reach Pseudo-Tsuga, the trail cherry on the cake of a long and exciting day. I’ve never ridden a flow trail this long, this fast or this well-made. It just… keeps going. Berm after berm after berm. Whoops of excitement are peppered with incredulous laughter and ‘WTFs?’. We all keep expecting it to end, but somehow it doesn’t.
Our warm-up ride was just a 50km loop up a 5,000ft mountain. It only leaves enough time and energy to order up a curry, sink some beers and raise a toast to our guide before passing out.
I’ve had some interesting starts to rides. Clipless tumbles in the car park, discovering vital parts of bikes or kit are at home. A message from work wondering why I’m not in a meeting.
But handing five bike frames and ten wheels to a pilot, who puts them all into the tiny cabin of a float plane, before getting on said plane from a lakeside jetty, and taking off from that lake and flying into a scarily huge mountain range with no visible signs of human life? That’s top of the list.
It is giddily, impossibly, kids-adventure-book exciting. As the surface of the lake recedes into the distance and the Chilcotin mountains open up below, words mostly fail us. Snapper Casey – a man best described as unflappable – is grinning from ear to ear like a kid on Christmas morning as we brush impossibly close to the tips of spruce trees, crest mountain passes, and try in vain to catch sight of the trails, wildlife and endless grandeur of the mountains below.
Thirty overstimulated, slightly nauseous minutes later, we land deftly on the surface of Lorna Lake, disembark with the kit and stand sombrely on the jetty as the plane heads back for the other half of our group. No doubt about it – we’re a long way from home out here. The wind picks up, the plane passes out of earshot and we all think a little bit about what we’ve done.
We’re in it now
“The first three miles are basically hell”, according to Chilcotin regular Dave. It is cold. It is muddy. It is soft going. But whether it’s the sheer novelty of squelchy ground for the Moab veterans, or the excitement of knowing we basically have to finish today’s ride if we want to eat and sleep, spirits are high. Every bog and treacherous root is greeted with giggles, oaths and determination, even if we’re all rotor-deep in mud.
Our first creek crossing is a lesson in simplicity. Like most of us, I’ve watched a few videos of people doing this ride, who all take off their shoes, and either tie them to their packs or hurl them across the river, but Dave has no truck with such delicacies. Straight in, both feet, freezing water up to thighs and waists, slippery rocks underneath. Soaked right through, but we’ve got five hours of riding left to dry out in.
Bear right
The landscape seems to change faster than we notice – we’ve only been going what feels like a couple of hours before the squelchy valley floor becomes dry Alpine scree, and then opens out into a sheer mountain ascent, filled with, well, snow. This arduous section of pushing and hiking is enough to focus the minds of all present, but that focus gets a significant adrenaline upgrade when someone spots a grizzly bear on the ridge above.
Whatever journalistic ambition I might have had to see a grizzly in the wild is rapidly replaced by a strong urge not to get my face clawed off.
After a few nervous minutes of shouting and hooting and clasping the release on our bear spray cans like novice gunfighters, the coast seems to clear, and we summit Elbow Pass with relief. Thanks for having us, bear.
Flowers for hours
The descent down towards our camp at Bear Paw – all 2,000ft of it – is a glorious, once-in-lifetime ride. It feels like we’re in the forests of Endor. The tight, twisty singletrack has stumps, rocks and roots to fly over, grippy loamy dirt underneath and enough babyhead rocks to keep things spicy. At the top of the valley, we emerge from the woods into an open meadow, and one by one everyone falls silent. The rainbow of alpine flowers that carpet the meadows are so vibrant they feel painted on. This alone is a reason to be here – just this moment of beauty and wonder would be enough.
The next hour is basically a sweet, flowy, action-packed natural descent, broken by the splash of creek crossings and grunts of punchy rock gardens, until we gleefully, scruffily, exhaustedly roll into Bear Paw camp after six hours of glorious, action-packed adventure – everyone caked in mud, dust and sweat, babbling like loons with the excitement of it all.
Pamper the campers
Lest I appear too rugged here, I should explain something. The camping on this trip is organised. We’ve paid Tyax Adventures not just for the float plane flight, but for spaces in their summer campgrounds, with tents, food and hosting all part of the deal. So our pre-ordered beers are cooling in the creek, there’s a hot shower available, and dinner includes a homemade cheesecake with chocolate sauce. We categorically do not mind this at all – particularly the part where we get to sleep in actual beds with pillows. You’re welcome to rough it if you want, but this’ll do me fine.
I see a little silhouetto of a… bear?
It’s 6am on day two, and our hosts are earning their money. Ten sore, mosquito-bitten riders are standing in the dark of the main cabin, ready to hurt someone for a cup of coffee. We drink about 20 litres between us over bacon, pancakes and cereal, before loading up on sandwiches and snacks for the day ahead.
It’s sort of like yesterday, but much bigger – we have a 4,000ft ascent, and we’re gambling on the snow not being too thick to make it. Reports from groups ahead and a crackly voice from base camp on the walkie-talkie reckon it’s possible, so we set off. Less than an hour in, and the general shouts of ‘hey bear’ that accompany every arrival in woodland turn suddenly to ‘real bear’ – Steve’s just come within 30ft of a grizzly in the clearing ahead. So we advance across it ten abreast, making as much noise as we can, spray at the ready. There’s no real going back – we just have to head into the next section of wooded trail as tightly bunched as possible and hope we seem like too much trouble to bother with. Somehow, our random bursts of noise and song slowly turn into a full rendition of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. As a morale booster and bear repellent, it’s surprisingly effective.
Today’s climb begins in earnest at Deer Pass. No riding here, just pushing on rocks, then hoisting our bikes onto our shoulders and hiking through the snowy traverses. Russ, our trusty mechanic, has had the foresight to bring ice spikes for his shoes, of all things, and does the decent thing by breaking the virgin snow first to provide footprints for us all to follow. But it’s not easy – there are slips, trips, and poor Paige manages to fall and pin her neck to the ground with her own bike.
But there’s nothing like a bit of hard graft to get everyone fired up – the feeling when we reach the summit is nothing short of epic. We’re on top of the world, with clouds and snowy peaks beneath us, a driving wind whipping our cries of triumph across the valley, and everyone has enough energy left for a celebratory dance. What is it about a tough time that feels so good when you manage to conquer it?
Lunchtime legends
It’s too cold to stop, so we start the descent towards Spruce Lake immediately – it’s pure rock at this height, loose scree and lumpy tech, with several off-trail improvisations to avoid ploughing into snow fields. After a quick stop to eat, thaw out snowy feet and check on everyone’s general level of enthusiasm (it’s high) the real point of today begins. Downhill.
Imagine doing Roots Manoeuvre at Bike Park Wales, except on steroids – bigger rocks, bigger roots, bigger drops, tighter turns. And it keeps going for what feels like hours. No need for bear-scare noises on this one – the screech of wet brakes, hollers of delight and the scrape of skidding tyres is enough to announce our presence to every living thing in the valley.
The last section of the trail is a narrow, fast and puddle-strewn blast around the edge of Spruce Lake. I’m so tired my vision starts to blur and I’ve never been more grateful to coast into a campsite in my life. Our poor camp host can’t get the chilling beer out of the river fast enough.
Cry me a river
The last leg. Our original plans to summit yet another Chilcotin peak are put into jeopardy by the heavy snow. It’s ‘probably’ doable, but the second an alternative route with more riding and 2,000ft fewer to climb gets mentioned, we all know that it’s the only thing we’re going to do.
And if this trail is what the locals consider a compromise, I’d be happy to compromise every time. We’re on a swift and sinewy singletrack trail that runs high above the raging Gun Creek river, a boiling mass of white rapids. Falling into it would massively suck. This fast, flowy masterpiece of a trail is an uninterrupted descent that sees everyone out of the saddle, popping off rocks and roots, spraying mud from the corners and generally hooning it up for nearly 20km. Hours and hours of downhill singletrack, and just when you think you’re at the bottom, it throws you into granny gear, hoists you back up 100ft and starts descending all over again. By the time we crawl up the last fire road into Tyax HQ we’re toast – deliriously happy, filled with wonder and adrenaline, but toast. We pour cold beers into ourselves, eat about eight kilos of kettle chips and head back to the campsite, where I take everything I’ve worn down to the creek, dump it and myself into the freezing water and thank the gods I’m clean and alive.
Cream Puff is just enough
The drive back from the Chilcotins campsite takes us past Pemberton, which not only has a diner serving eggs benedict with fried chicken, but also happens to be home to some of the finest slab trails in BC. It feels rude to pass it up, and a spin up local favourite Cream Puff seems like a doddle compared to what we’ve just done.
I love a trail that starts with a jump – just sets the mood, doesn’t it? Black, but not, you know, scary black. One huge rock spine rolls into the next, just steep enough to make you feel your heart in your mouth, but without requiring the skills or bravery of Rémy Métailler, all against the snowy clouds and granite cliffs of Mount Currie. It’s often called the best trail on the Sea to Sky Highway and, as a quick stop on the way back to Vancouver, it’s hard to imagine anything better. Russ and I even have enough beans afterwards to session the local bike park, but soon get self-conscious about queuing up for the easy jump line with a bunch of shredding five-year-olds, and call it a day.
Fromme the sublime to the ridiculous
Thanks to the vagaries of international flight schedules, Casey, Steve and I have one more day left in Vancouver before we fly. But not for us the cheesy sightseeing tours – we want one last day of riding. It’s probably something the locals are tired of hearing from incredulous visitors, but it bears mentioning here – I’ve never been anywhere with so many trails and riding spots seemingly on the doorstep. So we drive to Mount Fromme, one of the three mountains that overlook the city of Vancouver, and within seconds we’re climbing away from neat suburban houses through a misty, enchanted forest. It’s otherworldly – a technical, steep, lung-straining climb in the fog, with mist dripping off our helmets and nothing but the sound of breathing and gears. It’s no joke either – it’s an hour to the top.
If this set of trails was on my doorstep, I might never leave town. We start with Seventh Secret, and it’s all my North Shore dreams come true. Slippery roots fat as pythons, tree trunks like Roman columns, and skinny wood planks and rock jumps at every turn. I absolutely love it, even if some of it is way above my pay grade. A narrow wooden ramp up to the lip of a 15ft-high boulder with a 45-degree descent on another ramp down the other side, with a 90-degree turn at the bottom of that? Probably looks fine on YouTube, but Steve – easily the best rider among us – takes a good ten minutes of humming and hawing before deciding against it. And if he’s not doing it, neither am I.
But other delights await. From Seventh Secret we traverse across to Crinkum Crankum, with a series of skinnies onto huge rock rolls, and we’re soon whooping and hollering like kids. This kind of trail building is just incredible. It looks and feels as if the features – planks, ramps, ladders, platforms – haven’t been placed there by human hands, but somehow bubbled out of the ground all by themselves. It’s all right on the edge of what I can do. My second attempt at a big rock roll sees me wobbling in a track stand with a 20ft drop either side and a narrow near-vertical ladder my only way down. I’m less than 50% sure I can do it, then suddenly I’m safely down the other side so happy and adrenalised I feel like I can fly. Isn’t mountain biking amazing?
And like that, it’s gone
Like all epic journeys, with their weeks of planning and anticipation, wobbles and hiccups along the way, and days packed with so much sensation, it’s hard to believe the end when it arrives. Just 24 hours after I was on top of the world, I’m bikeless, truckless and alone, queuing up at the airport like nothing happened.
But it did happen. Six days of riding in landscapes that took my breath away. Trails – both natural and man-made – that I’ll remember for the rest of my life. A bond with nine other people that we’ll share forever. And a couple of grizzly bear sightings I can keep exaggerating until I’m telling people I wrestled them to the ground with one hand.
If you’ve ever dreamed of heading to BC, it’s a dream that’s even better in reality. Start planning now.
