AdventureTaco - turbodb's build and adventures

Wow, haven't done that in a minute.

 

Headed North | Unexpectedly Wet #1
Part of the Unexpectedly Wet in Canada (Aug 2024) trip.

One of the greatest things about the Pacific Northwest are the summers. While many months of the year are cool, wet, and gray, summers are defined by blue skies, pleasantly warm temperatures, and lush landscapes - the perfect combination for adventures into the unknown.

Looking for the perfect getaway, wildfires blazing from Oregon to Montana made our usual spots a little less appealing. Widening our search area, I wondered if Canada - which I've visited a few times, but @mrs.turbodb has never explored in the Tacoma - could be the perfect solution.

And so, we're headed into British Columbia, to enjoy the mountains and valleys that cover this beautiful swath of land to the north. To destinations where we'll find ourselves relaxing in hot springs one moment and gazing over grand glacial valleys the next. Where we'll ferry across lakes on our way to vast vistas over the Kootenay Mountains.

In the heart of summer, and after confirming that the weather guessers were predicting sunny skies and short-sleeve shirts, we headed north and crossed the border shortly before 8:00am to little fanfare. A couple hours later - at the south end of Harrison Lake and the little town of Harrison Hot Springs - we pulled over to air down and leave the pavement behind.

Almost before we started, the sunny sky forecast was looking questionable.​

In an unusual case of thinking-ahead, we'd realized the night before our departure that getting on the road by 6:30am would likely preclude any sort of breakfast and would mean that our usual lunch stops would still be closed as we pushed north into British Columbia. As such, I'd made a beeline to the nearest Jimmy John's, and we'd packed the tasty subs along with the rest of our sustenance in the Dometic fridge.

Our stomachs empty, we were both ready to eat as we wound our way along the edge of Harrison Lake. All we needed to do was find a spot with a view!

Despite the cloudy skies, temperatures were quite pleasant as we parked the Tacoma and set up our chairs on this old logging platform overlooking the lake.​

I do always love the teal blue waters of British Columbia.​

Our first real destination was an old fire lookout a few hours - by dirt - north. A spot that I'd marked a few years earlier, we'd be in for what shouldn't-have-been-a-surprise when we got there, but for now, we enjoyed a windy - but reasonably well graded - path along Shovel Creek towards Nahatlatch Provincial Park.

As we gained elevation, we admired the terrain whenever we popped out of the trees.​

Creek crossings were plentiful, and the brilliant water stopped us every time.​

Eventually, as we wound our way through tree tunnels that are so common here in the Pacific Northwest - or, perhaps, the Canadian Pacific Southwest? - we reached the Shovel Creek Falls. A dramatic narrowing of the riverbed through ancient layers of stone, we popped out of the truck for a closer look at the precipitous drop.

Spilling over the edge.​

Carving through a kaleidoscope of color and texture.​

Eventually, the trail from Harrison Lake climbs to - and through - Kookipi Pass on the way to Nahatlatch, and as we transitioned from one FSR (Forest Service Road) to the next, we adjusted the frequency of the radio to pick up traffic on the new designated channel.

A picturesque road up and over Kookipi Pass.​

As an aside: Resource Road Channels

One cool thing in British Columbia - and for all I know, the entirety of Canada - is that nearly every FSR has a specific radio channel associated with its use. These Resource Road (RR) channels allow loggers - and other FSR users - to communicate with each other as they barrel through the forest.

I've known of their existence ever since my first trip to Canada, but I've always assumed that they were some special set of frequencies that only Canadian users - with Canadian radios - could tune in to.

This time, however, I thought I'd see if I could find out a bit more about them. To my delight, I discovered that the frequency for each of the channels was well within the tunable range of my Ham radio, allowing us to listen in - and even participate - in the fun this time!

An easy way to communicate.​

It was as we began down Kookipi Creek FSR that radio traffic picked up dramatically. With fuel trucks, rock trucks, and excavators all calling out positions and plans to refuel, we assumed that a mining operation was taking place nearby. Soon though, as we passed a rock truck on the side of the road - its tank guzzling gas at a rate that would quickly empty an entire bank account - we realized that these guys weren't out in search of shiny metal, rather, they were fixing up the road for the likes of us!

Several washouts over the winter were the reason the heavy metal had been called in.​

As the excavator operator pulled off to the side to let us pass, he keyed up his mic to tell his coworkers that a pickup (that's us!) had come through. The look on his face as I replied with a heartfelt, "Thanks for all the hard work, guys," was priceless, as I'm sure these guys don't get a lot of praise for the critical work they perform, keeping these trails open for our enjoyment.

It was only when we got to the bottom of the road, as we sheepishly made our way through a gate - luckily unlocked due to the ongoing work - that we discovered that the road was technically closed due to blasting necessary to complete the repairs!

Technically closed, but not signed as such from the opposite direction!​

Working our way down Nahatlatch FSR toward the spur that would take us to the fire lookout - and as we turned up the trail toward the top of the mountain - we were surrounded by the aftermath of a forest fire that I'd completely forgotten. Raging through the area just a year earlier, the Kookipi Creek Fire.

Even as the hillsides changed from green to black, it was still a beautiful area.​

Caused by lightning and discovered on July 8, the fire exploded on Aug. 17, fanned by high winds through the Fraser Canyon area. The wooden tower was consumed within seconds, with the event caught on video by Lyttonet, the area’s internet service provider, which had a camera near the tower.

​

https://www.youtube.com/embed/ntMMV4nsnhg

The original Nahatlatch tower - constructed in 1957 by the BC Forest Service - played a significant role in fire lookout construction history for its pioneering use of helicopters to determine if it was economically feasible to transport pre-fabricated lookouts to remote locations. Flight log records indicate that 37 flights were needed to complete the delivery of materials to the high elevation site in late May 1957. The experiment was deemed a success, and helicopters went on to play a prominent role in fire lookout construction throughout B.C.

Over the years the lookout became a popular spot for hikers, ATV clubs, and geocaching enthusiasts for both day-use visits and overnight stays. However, the high elevation and exposure to the elements gradually took their toll, and in the winter of 2011 the 54-year-old structure collapsed under the weight of a heavy snowfall.

As part of a project to restore five retired fire lookouts for the BC Forest Service’s centennial in 2012, Recreation Sites and Trails BC (RSTBC) selected the Nahatlatch Lookout for a complete restoration. In a mammoth volunteer effort over two weekends, more than 25 people - including representatives from RSTBC, Fraser Wildfire Management, The Four Wheel Drive Association of BC, South Western All Terrain Trails, Nahatlatch Valley cabin owners, and the local geocaching community - rebuilt the tower.

Kookipi Creek Fire destroys Nahatlatch Fire Lookout tower​

After climbing a reasonably rough last couple miles of road, we reached the site of the lookout just after 3:00pm. Like all lookouts, this one sported a commanding view of the surrounding terrain. Charred remains covered the old site, little cleanup having taken place since the devastating flames raged across the ridge.

A once inaccessible parking spot.​

It was hot up here.​

Surely, a plaque that will be updated when the lookout is rebuilt for the second time.
Kudos to the 4WDABC.​

With not much to see - and quite a few miles before we'd reach camp for the night - we didn't spend long at the site of the old Nahatlatch Fire Lookout. Instead, we sped our way back down the mountain, warm rays of the sun trying dutifully to illuminate the green valleys as we worked our way north.

Shadows and light.​

It was dinner time when we arrived in Lillooet, where some tasty A&W chicken sandwiches and root beer really hit the spot.​

We weren't looking forward to A&W - both of us remembering it to be "not the best" when we first ventured into Canada with @mini.turbodb when she could still fit in the back of the Tacoma - but this time the burgers were great, the fries were salty and fresh, and of course, the root beer was frosty cold; it was a surprisingly delicious pit stop.

From Lillooet, our final destination - still 50 miles north - sat at the top of an ominously named Poison Mountain. It was a place we'd never visited, and where we hoped the bark was worse than the bite. Whatever the situation, we knew that we'd likely arrive shortly after sunset, any views from the summit, an experience we'd enjoy the next morning. For now, it was time to stop taking photos and put the skinny pedal to good use.

The light played across Bridge River and surrounding mountains as we rolled out of Lillooet.​

I couldn't pass up this view, even if we were in the rush.​

Eventually, it was time to play "turn on all the lights" like true overlanders. We couldn't stand it though, so we turned off all but the fogs as soon as the camera went back in the bag.​

Speeding along, I almost missed an interesting rock along the side of the road. Covered in "modern" red paint pictographs, it was a striking bit of art, and one I wanted to capture, even if it wasn't historical, and even if some of the figures were a little more cartoonish than we were used to seeing on some of our adventures south.

It was only the next day that we'd realize that these were not graffiti.​

After a steep climb straight up the side of Poison Mountain, we arrived in a purplish twilight. Clouds sped across the sky. Wind whipped by the Tacoma as we positioned the nose into the wind.

The beginning of an unexpectedly wet night.​

Update: 2024-09-18 | Poison Mountain may be closed

Upon posting this story, I was contacted as a heads up to let me know that there is some controversy about whether Poison Mountain is open or not. When we were there, we stopped and inspected the signage that was posted on the road (see image below) and verified that the roads we were travelling were not marked as closed. However, I'd recommend not travelling this route until more details are uncovered. For now, here's what the 4WDBC group has to say via a post on their facebook group.

You may have heard rumours recently regarding Poison Mountain being closed to motor vehicle access. After extensively browsing government data sources and talking to officials at multiple levels of government (including a now-retired CO from the area), we can confirm that yes, Poison is a no-go zone for 4x4s.

Probably.

What follows is a long read, so grab a bevvie and some popcorn and settle in.

Earlier this year, the government released new maps via the Motor Vehicle Prohibitions page outlining different areas closed to different types of access. On that page is a map of the Red Mountain/French Mountain area that encloses everything connected to those peaks above 1920m. That area encompasses Poison Mountain in its entirety, as well as about a 1km section of the road between Mud Lakes and China Head.

Prior to this year, the actual legislation had a convoluted description of the closure area rather than a map - if you weren't a GIS expert or didn't have access to detailed topo maps, it wouldn't make any sense. However, the previous wording did specifically mention 1920m as the cutoff, and looking at a topo map, that area does enclose Poison and the through road.

I've been able to find versions of the legislation as far back as 2008, and they all say the same thing: over 1920m is closed to motor vehicles, period.

Now for the "yabbuts"...

If you're navigating the area with Gaia, BRMB, or other similar apps, they show a closure around Red and French Mountains that DOES NOT encompass Poison Mountain AT ALL. In fact, they show the same thing as the government-erected sign at the southeast end of Yalakom FSR (see photo).

Signage posted on the road to Poison Mountain shows it as not closed.​

There is a specific exemption for the road through China Head (listed as "Big Bar/Yalakom Rd." on the MVPR map, "China Head FSR" on other maps), but without being able to pass through that one kilometer north of Poison, that road doesn't really go anywhere, so is this cutting off an access route? The argument might be made that this is a "highway," which would automatically exempt it from the restrictions... but if it's considered an FSR, that would exempt it from being a highway... probably (there's another section of the Motor Vehicle Act that might mean it's a highway anyway).

We're told that the route around the south of Poison is an allowable detour, but that's 17km of some very sketchy trails... and still cuts through the edge of the 1920m area. This leaves the argument that the direct route to the north of Poison is by far the more "tread lightly" of the two and should be preferred.

The sum of all this is: assume Poison Mountain itself and the route to the north of Poison connecting China Head and Mud Lakes are CLOSED TO MOTOR VEHICLES. This is the word we've been given by Conservation Officers and District Recreation Officers.

If you choose to go anyway, be aware that significant penalties can be involved if you're caught (I've heard one story of $2500 in fines and a vehicle seizure for one local who wilfully ignored a direct warning from a CO). You may not want to post any photos or tracks of that part of your adventure, either.

So, WHAT IS THE 4WDABC DOING TO REPRESENT MEMBERS IN THIS MATTER?

• We're continuing to talk with the various ministries involved; in particular, we're trying to open a dialog with the wildlife people to find out what their specific concerns are and if there's anything we can do to mitigate them.
• We're looking at different aspects of the legislation that apply here, with several different areas overlapping and some possibly conflicting.
• We're also investigating specific stewardship opportunities in the area that could be aided by wheelers having access, at least to the through route, and provide an incentive to keep the route open.
• And we've had at least one member state he's willing to get a ticket and take it to court to argue different angles for continued access (we commend his dedication but DO NOT recommend anyone do this).

We'll soon be updating the website with more details and links, but wanted to put the word out now as the subject is top of mind.

Four Wheel Drive Association of British Columbia​

The following morning...

It was a windy night, but with earplugs in, the tent doors closed tight, and a long day of driving behind us, we both slept soundly on the always-comfortable Exped mattress. Until, that is, my alarm went off at way-too-early-o'clock, and I struggled into my clothes to capture what I hoped would be an amazing view of the landscape around us.

The tent door was soaking as I unzipped it to exit our cocoon. It hadn't rained, but overnight we'd literally been in the clouds and a thick layer of dew covered every surface.

Perched at the top of the mountain, there wasn't much to see.​

Clouds nestled into the valleys below.​

We hadn't noticed the previous evening, but we'd been kept company by R2D2!​

After putzing around for a bit - hoping that the sun would burn off the clouds, but knowing it would not - we ate breakfast and dried off the tent as best we could with a beach towel. Then, with another long day of travel ahead of us, we pointed the truck downhill and crossed our fingers that the brakes would hold.

I assure you, it was steeper and looser than it looks.​

Our plan had been to descend the mountain and then head out the way we'd come, but after a quick look at the maps, we realized that the trail continued around the base of Poison Mountain, adding only a couple of miles to our long trek back to Lillooet. Initially, we decided against this reroute - given a marshy area shown along the way - but after a bit of hmming and hawing, we decided we could always turnaround, and that a change of scenery would be nice.

Around we go!​

We came on this little hunting cabin, or mining cabin, or... as we zipped around the mountain.​

Our decision was definitely #worthit!​

There was only one spot along the route back to town that had us on the edge of our seats. It was an off-camber squeeze over a landslide that I'd worried over a bit the previous evening as we approached it from the opposite direction. I'd been glad that @mrs.turbodb was ensconced in her after-dinner nap as I'd crept my way across. Even so, we were sideways enough at the top of slide that she'd woken up - muttering just a single word: "woah," - as we began our descent down the other side.

Narrow, loose, and tippy. My least favorite.​

Ultimately, we were once again spared a sideways rollover into the river below, and as we sped down the road, we found ourselves wondering if the clouds would clear and when the weather we'd been expecting would reveal itself.

As we did, a sign along the side of the road suggested we slow down - we were entering what seemed to be a remote homestead of a Canadian First Peoples family - and we happily reduced our speed to 10 km/h as we passed through the property and were greeted by the smiling faces of the residents and a neighbor who'd come for a morning chat.

Less than a mile down the road - now the opposite direction from the homestead than the specimen I'd noticed the previous evening - we spotted another rock adorned with red paint pictographs.

It was an interesting discovery, and one that prompted a bit of discussion and - at least on my part - rethinking/reevaluation of the situation. Generally, when @mrs.turbodb and I come upon ultra-modern "rock art" - or any "art" really - on our trips, we're not thrilled about it. However, in this case - and assuming that it was created as part of a cultural tradition - it seemed much more acceptable.

Bright figures.​

At first, I thought someone had shot at the animals, but it turned out that several of them had purposeful voids in their creation.

Howling at the moon.​

Wolf and deer.​

This reminded me of the Thunderbirds we saw in Death Valley.​

Soon, we were back on pavement and headed east. We had several hundred kilometers - nearly all on pavement - to cover before we'd reach our destination, but I knew it was one that would be appreciated by my copilot. We were headed to a hot springs!


.

 

Twenty-Eight Switchbacks | Unexpectedly Wet #2
Part of the Unexpectedly Wet in Canada (Aug 2024) trip.

I'm not a huge fan of airing up tires, so once we've aired down on a trip, I generally try to stay aired down until the trip is over and we're pounding pavement towards home. Today though, we had 350 miles of pavement - and a ferry to catch - between Lillooet and our next item on the agenda along Upper Arrow Lake, so we took the time to run the ARB compressor and get the new Kenda Klever RTs up to full pressure before speeding along at 100 mph. Err, km/h, which is basically the same, right?

Just outside of Lillooet, a beautiful view of the Frasier River was enough to stop us before we ever really got going.​

Everything considered, we - and by we, I mean I - were reasonably constrained as we traversed the province. With countless rivers and lakes, we could have stopped any number of times for breathtaking views, but we soldiered on with our destination in mind: Halfway River Hot Springs.

As we passed Crown Lake, the drama was just too much for me to resist.​

I forget what time it was exactly - it must have been sometime after lunch - but I realized that I'd forgotten to look up the hours of operation for the Upper Arrow Lake ferry. This shouldn't have been a problem - I'd ensured that my Verizon phone was setup for phone+text+data while we were in Canada - but for some reason, the data part of that equation was non-operational. So, as I navigated the disaster that is Verizon technical support, I pressed the skinny pedal a little further towards the floor hoping that we'd make it before 5:00pm, which we figured to be the most likely stoppage point for the day.

Pulling into the short ferry line at 4:45pm, we breathed a sigh of relief to be joining other vehicles headed in the same direction. And, a quick glance at the posted schedule made us chuckle - the ferry ran from 5:00am to midnight every day of the year, our rush had been unnecessary!

From Shelter Bay, we headed toward Galena, and more unexpectedly wet weather.​

There are 14 of these Inland Ferries, all operated under private contract with Canada's Ministry of Transportation and Infrastructure. All of them are free of charge to users, and every time I've ridden on them, they've been a blast!

After disembarking, it was a few dozen miles to a place that I suspected would be @mrs.turbodb's favorite of the trip. She's always on the lookout for warm pools of water to soak in, and the smile on her face when I'd mentioned that there was a hot spring on this trip was fantastic.

First, we had to descend a couple hundred steps towards the river.​

The river was significantly warmer than we expected - easily warm enough for a cool plunge between soaks.​

I'd heard about Halfway River Hot Springs from a fellow adventurer, and this place is clearly off the "secret spots" list these days. 12km up a Forest Service Road (FSR) of the same name, the perfect time of year to visit - we think - would likely be during the dead of winter, when snowshoes and a long hike would be required to reach the pools. There, then, a winter wonderland could be enjoyed in solitude and warmth - a perfect combination!

With three pools and a nice changing area, the springs are tastefully developed. A campground nearby means that - during the summer months - they are always busy.​

After a pleasant soak, we headed slowly back up the stairs. At the top, a fresh dinner of caprese salad, fresh cucumbers with salt and vinegar, and hummus-on-pita-chips urged us to pick up the pace, but we resisted, to keep from breaking a sweat only moments after rinsing off in the springs.

A pleasant evening fading to night, we wandered our way to a nearby dispersed camp site nestled into the trees. After a short stroll to gaze into the whitewater of the Halfway River, we set up the tent and were soon sound asleep.

The following morning...

When it comes to trip planning, my achillies heel is trying to squeeze as much as possible into however many daylight hours are available on a particular day. This seems to happen regardless of what time of year it is, meaning that the 16-hour days of summer are just as packed as an 8-hour day in the dead of winter.

And so, when my alarm sounded a few minutes before sunrise, it was with both surprise and relief that I hit the snooze button so we could get another 30 minutes of sleep before getting under way.

30 minutes, boy, what a respite!

After packing up the tent and working our way back out to the highway, we made a quick stop at Ione Falls to eat a breakfast of cereal and homegrown blueberries.​

Winding our way south along Slocan Lake.​

After a quick stop for 20L of fuel to top off the tank, we arrived at the trailhead of a trail that I'd gotten wind of from several Canadian adventurers. Two of these guys - Mike @POSTacoMike and Shaun (of The Story Till Now) - have an is-it-sketchy? bar that is significantly higher than mine, so I'd been sure to reach out to Mike to ensure that the switchbacks I'd mapped on the trail were actually doable for a single Tacoma on 33-inch tires.

Twenty-eight switchbacks.​

Mike assured me that they were. More importantly, he let me in on a little secret: the switchbacks that he and Shaun had called "unreal" were on a connected, but different, pass.

I wouldn’t send you there. There’s a bridge that’s nearly gone, and if it goes, it’s big tire country to get thru. And it’s going a little more each year!!

Mike​

Full of overconfidence, we aired down and set off into the woods. I'd planned three hours to conquer 17 miles of steep terrain, and while our speeds initially suggested that I might have overestimated, we ended up using our full allotment by the time we were done.

Always nice when the CAUTION sign is the largest of the lot.​

The climb started almost immediately and would only get steeper as we drove further into the forest.​

Now and then we'd get a peek at where we were headed.​

Never forget to keep an eye on the mirrors!​

Climbing through tree tunnels and winding our way along old roads, we found ourselves wondering - as we often do - who created these paths through the trees. Were they after gold? Loggers, perhaps? The answer would become obvious once we reached the final push to the summit - this was mine country - but as we continued to gain elevation, there was little clue as to their origin.

Plenty of small creeks filtered down the valleys.​

Butterflies - a "blue" (left) and a Variable Checkerspot (right) warmed themselves in the late morning sun on some Pearly Everlasting (Anaphalis margaritaceae).​

I'd been hoping that this track would lead us above the tree line, but with a max elevation of 7,500 feet, avalanche chutes - and a few plots of logged land - were the places where panoramic views presented themselves. With blue skies, high clouds, and temperatures that couldn't have been more pleasant, it was spectacular up here.

Big, gentle switchbacks as we climbed toward the top were not the ones I'd been concerned with.​

Easy ascent.​

A quarter mile from the top, the easier-than-we'd-expected trail literally took a turn that led straight up the mountain. Here, spur trails fanned out across the hillside, some of them leading to old tailings piles, others to the decaying remnants of collapsed mining structures. Working up here had to be a pleasure, with million-dollar views likely the primary reward.

Pointing the Tacoma up, I was glad for the traction afforded by the 19/32-inch lugs on the brand-new Kenda Klever RTs. Surely my old S/T Maxx - a great tire that I'd run down to the wear bars - wouldn't have had the gumption to keep us moving upward in the soggy loose soil.

Made it.​

Gazing down from Reco Pass, glacier-carved valleys stretched out before us.​

Having reached the top, by 10:00am, it was way too early for lunch so after soaking in the views and poking around the pass a bit, we piled back into the Tacoma to tackle the descent. And the 28 switchbacks.

Ultimately, I much preferred the controlled descent offered by the switchbacks as compared to the white-knuckle-straight-up-the-mountain nature of the ascent. I did discover that the new wheel and tire combination sat a little further inboard - and had a tendency to rub on the shock reservoirs at full steering lock - but beside that, we easily made our way down the steepest part of the trail.

The switchbacks started right away,​

In fact, the worst part of the trail was much closer to the bottom. There, alders crowded the road, sometimes so narrow that even an ATV would catch branches as it passed through. This was no problem - the Tacoma has sported a pin-stripe paint job for years now - but the density of trees reminded us that we'd not brought along a chainsaw.

Because who would need a chainsaw this late in the summer?

Thank goodness this thing isn't bigger.​

Turns out there were four trees down over the road, but the pull saw made quick work of two of them, and we were able to squeeze under the other two, kissing the top of the roof-top-tent both times!

Closer to the bottom, evidence of an old aerial tramway dotted the hillside.​

It was just after noon - nearly three hours to the minute since we'd started - that we reached an old mining ghost town and the end of the trail. It was the perfect spot for lunch, and I poked around the ruins while @mrs.turbodb whipped up some tasty turkey sandwiches for us to enjoy in the shade.

The old Noble Five Mine concentration mill, slowly collapsing and being consumed by the trees.​

Trestle footings once carried ore from the upper workings to the lower levels.​

The Nobel Five was first mined in the early 1890s. Above the mill/power plant, on the flanks of Reco Mountain, there were eleven levels with the highest being three quarters of the way up. Some of the underground workings extended into Mount Payne the next peak over. From these diggings came tens of millions of dollars' worth (today’s value) of Silver, Lead, Zinc with a smattering of other metals.

The mine operation had several owners over the many decades and sometimes was worked by lessees. It was one of the better producers in the immediate Cody area with Galena (ore of Lead with Silver as a byproduct) and Sphalerite (ore of Zinc) transported to the mill via an aerial tramway, ultimately producing 15,488,641 grams of silver, 2,173,174 kilograms of lead, 1,588,288 kilograms of zinc, 1,961 kilograms of cadmium, and 279 grams of gold.

The busiest period for the Noble Five was 1929-1930 with occasional spurts of elevated activity earlier in the 1920s, again later in the 1930s, during World War II (when demand for metal was high) and lastly in the 1950s. Otherwise, the mine produced but a trickle, or for extended periods nothing at all. What we see here of the mill dates back to the late 1920s/mid-1940s period. There was no mill here before. A fire in the 1940s destroyed some of the structure, which was presumably rebuilt. The mine itself was last worked in the early 1980s.

Powering everything, and outside now, is a generator that supplied the needed electricity. Here it’s a four-cylinder Fairbanks Morse Model 32 diesel engine, which towers over an average-size person and weights perhaps thirty tons. This model was produced between the mid-1920s and early 1950s and could be expected to run nonstop for months or even years on end. The Model 32 was well regarded as being simple, rugged, and very reliable, producing around 250 horsepower. That doesn’t seem like much given its hulking size, but in this capacity, it was more about the torque which this one, no doubt, had in spades. Look at the size of that flywheel.

Cody & The Noble Five​

An old cabin in the ghost town of Cody (left). | Generator from the Noble Five Mine concentrator (top right). | A Gurney boiler, slowly fading into the surroundings (bottom right).​

There weren't many relics around, but someone had put three bottles - perhaps old or new - on a windowsill of one of the collapsing cabins.​

Lunch - as it was every day on this trip - was a splendid affair. In fact, more than one day we would pass through a town - with plenty of places to eat - but opt for sandwiches that we knew would hit the spot. Plus, we'd brought along a few nectarines, the perfect sweet-little-something to slice up before getting back on the road.

And so, an hour after we'd reached the bottom, we were wrapping up the last few miles of gravel road before getting back on the highway and on to our next destination. It was a spot I'd been wanting to show my companion since I'd first visited in 2021. A trail that I'd rushed to see after it was decommissioned and marked for closure by the BC Forest Service. A trail that offered some of the most stunning scenery of any I've ever run.

We were headed to Rady.

 

No Rush to Run Rady | Unexpectedly Wet #3
Part of the Unexpectedly Wet in Canada (Aug 2024) trip.

In all my exploring, there are few places that I've returned to for a third time. Off the top of my head, I can list only a few: a special little spot in the California Sierra where my Dad and I meet each year, the Alvord Playa in southeast Oregon, and Butte Valley in my favorite National Park.

I first visited Rady back in September of 2021 after hearing about it from Mike @POSTacoMike and watching a video that Shaun put together about the deactivation of the road that climbed high into the Kootenays of British Columbia. At the time, a petition (you can still sign) was put together to keep the road open, and while it never received the desired 10,000 votes, it got very close and the deactivation was postponed until 2022.

I visited again in 2022 when Mike @Digiratus and I Climbed into the Kootenays. Like me, Mike wanted to see the trail before it became inaccessible, and we were delighted to find that it was still runnable.

And so, now three years after my first visit, I was very much looking forward to showing this slice of paradise to @mrs.turbodb, and adding another spot to that short list of special places. But first of course, we had to get there.

We had 81 miles of road between us and the trailhead, a distance just short enough that we refrained from airing up as we departed Reco Pass.​

BC-31 - the highway that connects Galena Bay to Balfour - is one of the most beautiful I've driven, and even better, a big chunk of it is dirt!​

As we crossed the southern tip of ***** Lake, I could feel the anticipation building.​

Despite a bit of haze from nearby wildfires, the brilliant teal of the water as it wound its way up the valley was breathtaking.​

Made it!​

The road starts out like so many other British Columbia FSRs (Forest Service Roads). Headed up the hillside, evergreens and alders crowd the trail, allowing only those who prefer a pinstriped paint job to forge their way forward. Views - in this section of the trail - are non-existent, completely obscured by the dense vegetation. Where some trails have road-based obstacles that act as a gatekeeper, the complete lack of interest serves as the best misdirection at in a place like this.

On previous trips, I've never been able to see over the trees. Oh, what I've been missing!​

As we popped out of the thickest of the alder and begin to climb in earnest, the deactivation notice remains posted, but faded, above the trail.​

Now climbing through one of the steepest sections of trail, I pointed out several segments that'd worried me on my first visit. Then, not knowing how winter weather affected the hillside, I'd worried that several spots would collapse, and that others would succumb to rock or tree fall as time marched on. Three years later, those things no longer worry me. The trail - perhaps because of those who love it - has become rougher, but not dramatically. Trees have fallen, but were quickly cleared. Erosion has occurred, but the road has held up remarkably well. While this is no declaration that it will remain open indefinitely, it is reassuring to know that for now, the trail is remains runnable.

Still, while there's no rush to run Rady, it is still a place worth getting to sooner, if only to allow additional visits later. This was a point that @mrs.turbodb understood instantly as we ascended the final grade and broke through the tree line below Silvercup Ridge.

When you find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.​

Up here, it feels like you can touch the clouds.​

We were out of the Tacoma immediately to admire - and get just a little bit closer to - our surroundings. "This view is cool, ehh?" I suggested as I noticed a smile on my companion's face, "Just wait until we get to campsite amazing."

Unbeknownst to me, she'd already taken note of the "campsite amazing" waypoint, and knew that it was a designation I assign only rarely to very special places we discover in our adventures. Still, she humored me - even as I assured her that I'd refrain from stopping for photos - as I continued to position the truck along the trail for "one more shot."

I think I've taken this photo every time I've visited. No reason to stop now.​

Into the bowl.​

Usually, by the time I've visited a place twice, I've explored most of what it has to offer. Here, has been a different story. Naturally, I've driven all the (drivable) roads, but there are a few hiking trails that I've eyed on each of my previous visits but haven't ever had time to enjoy. So, with three hours until sunset, I suggested that we follow one - an old mining road - to its terminus, which appeared from below to be at a saddle along the ridge.

Cooped up in the Tacoma for the better part of two days, a little leg stretching was sweet relief to @mrs.turbodb, and soon we were on our way up. Campsite amazing would have to wait a few more minutes. Or an hour.

This old mining road peters out as it crosses the scree field, so we left the Tacoma behind and set out on foot.​

Passing through a brilliant pink stand of fireweed, the view to the west grew in the distance.​

Up we go.​

It was less than a mile to the saddle. To our surprise, a couple hundred feet before reaching the saddle, the old mining road turned, the switchback so faint that it was impossible to see from below. Knowing now that we had two destinations to discover, we pushed on, curious to see what lay beyond the ridge.

Beyond the ridge.​

Up here, it was hard to find the best view, and we spent several minutes enjoying them all.​

After enjoying the saddle, we headed back to the road and climbed the single switchback as it cut its way across the scree field towards the top of the mountain. It carried on this way for another quarter mile, finally petering out at a series of shafts that were completely collapsed. We had no idea what they'd been mining - or at the very least searching - for up here in the crumbling stone, but whatever it was, the view was surely the most rewarding part of the job.

Quartet of lakes.​

Looking back down to the saddle, evening light playing across the orange rock.​

As we investigated the collapse at the head of a shaft, its caretaker popped out to say hello. (American pika)​

By now it was nearly 7:00pm. Having eaten lunch at noon, we were both ready for a repeat of the previous night's dinner - a smattering of fresh veggies, cheeses, fruits, and hummus. This meant - of course - that we'd need to achieve campsite amazing, and to do that, we need to get back down to the Tacoma.

Gasp, he is real!​

This unusually small, dual-flowered fireweed caught my eye.​

With only a few more turns and a bit of elevation, we came over a rise to our first view of the neighboring valley. To a chorus of oohhs and aahhs, I perched the truck on the edge of the road and popped out for my usual photo.

Oohh. Aahh.​

"This is pretty nice," @mrs.turbodb mentioned as I climbed back into the truck, expecting that we'd carry on to the small lake at the base of the mountain. I turned on the tablet. She glanced at our position. And then she saw it, "This is campsite amazing!" she exclaimed.

"It is."

After levelling the truck as best we could, I deployed the tent while dinner fixings were gathered up into a bag for transport into the tent. The mosquitoes weren't bad, but we'd somehow attracted a swarm of gnats and decided that it'd be much more pleasant to eat - albeit very carefully - a picnic-style dinner in the tent.

Delightful dinner.​

Dinner here was just as delicious - and sported a much nicer view - as it had been at Halfway River Hot Springs, and as @mrs.turbdob took care of the few dishes that needed rinsing, I set up the camera for what I hoped would be some jaw-dropping night shots of the Kootenays at night.

Knowing that the moon would be out, but not knowing what time it would rise over the horizon, I ended up setting my alarm for 9:30 and 10:44pm, and 12:30, 2:25, and 4:00am. My idea - to capture a photo or two that would combine an illuminated foreground with a stary sky - would preclude any sort of real sleep, but I hoped it'd be worth it in the end.

And in the end, it was. But mostly because I slept through my alarms at 9:30, 10:44,12:30, and 2:25, waking only when the final alarm of the night - or really, morning - roused me from my sleep.

Starry night.​

After taking the first shot and being reasonably satisfied with it - even if I could already see the sun on the horizon - I wondered if I could capture the ephemeral movement of the clouds and stars by trying out a feature of my camera I'd only used once before: the Bulb Timer.

With my Canon R6, it's easy to set up shots with exposures up to 30 seconds, and in most cases that is more than enough time to capture a scene. The bulb timer allows for much longer exposures - on the order of minutes or even hours. Of course, with longer exposure, I'd need to ensure that I had the correct aperture and ISO values to get a correctly exposed result, so I did what I think anyone in my position would do at 4:14am in the morning: attempted a bit of math based on the starry night photo I'd exposed for 30 seconds, and then spun some dials, pushed some buttons, and mostly just hoped for the best.

I'd only get one shot at my 22½ minute shot at f/16 and ISO 100. I wasn't sure if it'd be long enough, but with the sun already making itself known on the horizon - and a strong desire to go back to sleep - I figured that it would, at least, be a learning experience.

My longest exposure. Could have benefited from some more math and another 60 minutes, I think.​

I don't recall exactly whether I was able to fall back asleep, but before I knew it, the sun was up and I realized I'd forgotten to go to the bathroom when I'd been wandering around outside just a couple hours earlier. "Way to go me," I thought, as I pulled on my pants and worked my way down the ladder.

I do love the sun streaming through the valley and onto the opposing mountain.​

I wanted to let @mrs.turbodb sleep, but the beautiful light was more than I could take and within about seven minutes, I was whistling our family whistle to rouse her from the warm covers. From there, we set about our morning routine, breaking down camp, prepping breakfast, and getting ready for what looked to be another spectacular day in the Koots.

Out of camp at 7:00am sharp.​

Most folks who camp in this area - as far as I can tell - hang out at the trio of lakes that sit below what was once a glacier. They've always been a bit buggy for me, but before heading down the hill, we popped over for a quick look. As we did, I realized that this might be the perfect spot to get photo of the snowy peaks on the opposite shore of the larger lake below, so I popped out of the Tacoma to a knowing grin from my companion.

Turned out to be one of my favorite shots.​

And then, we were off. Sort of. I mean, I had to stop for a few more photos before we hit the tree line, but before long we were at the bottom of the trail and airing up for our roundabout route to another place I've been wanting to show @mrs.turbodb ever since I visited it for the first time, several years prior.

Through lush greens.​

Into the trees.​

It'd be a couple hours before we boarded an inland ferry and several more after that before we aired down again for the climb to a campsite even more dramatic than the one we'd just left behind. But the real excitement wouldn't begin until a few hours later, when everything was fine, until it wasn't.



.

 

Wow, what can you say. Epic!

 

Everything Was Fine Until It Wasn’t | Unexpectedly Wet #4
Part of the Unexpectedly Wet in Canada (Aug 2024) trip.

It was 8:40am when we finished airing up at the Rady Creek FSR (Forest Service Road) trailhead. Still reasonably early, we weren't in any rush as far as our daily itinerary was concerned, but I knew that it took about 45 minutes to reach the Galena Bay ferry - departing for Shelter Bay at 9:30am - from our current location, so we zipped along at a good pace on our way toward the terminal.

The N52010 Fire smoldered at the base of Mt. Murray in the Lardeau Range as we passed by.​

Terminal - in the case of Galena Bay - is a conceptual term. More appropriately, the loading area is a ferry-sized boat ramp, but whatever its designation, our timing was impeccable. I had only enough time to setup the drone on the shoreline - my plan, to fly across the lake for some unreal photos - before we were directed onto the ferry for our 4.5-kilometer (2.5-mile) ride to Shelter Bay.

And we're off!​

As we pulled away from shore, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a little nervous about the drone. I was pretty sure that everything would be OK - I've flown much further than 2.5 miles on a single battery charge - but the voices in the back of my mind (and in the passenger seat next to me) kept wondering what would happen if something "went wrong" and my proven-disastrous droning skills resulted in a water "landing," or if the drone lost contact with the controller and decided to return to its "home point" on the wrong side of the lake. And of course, we had no idea if capturing our crossing from the air was even allowed, though I assured @mrs.turbodb that no one was ever going to notice. (Note: I've since confirmed that my piloting was kosher, so long as I stayed more than 30 meters from the vessel, an envelope I was never in danger of entering.)

Why is Canadian water always so brilliantly beautiful?​

https://www.youtube.com/embed/I7_Qoy07iz4

This is a lot more enjoyable when you aren't nervous about your piloting skills for a flying camera hovering over certain, soggy death.​

Final approach.​

While our destination - outside of Radium Hot Springs - was a mere 30 miles from where we'd camped the previous evening, the most direct route via road meant that we had five hours of pavement before tackling the final 40 miles of dirt. #efficiency

Still, that route - through Revelstoke and Glacier National Park's Rogers Pass - was a beautiful one, and we thoroughly enjoyed the views along the way.

Rogers Pass panorama.​

After stopping for lunch in a strangely empty campground that was signed as "campground full" and that we thought might have been the same campground we stayed in on our first visit to Canada's National Parks in 2017, we pulled into Radium Hot Springs ready for a little splash of something sweet. In fact, one of us had been pining after a frosty cold cone for the last few days, so we made our way to a local joint and spent nearly every last Canadian cent we'd gathered up before leaving home.

I say nearly, because it turns out they don't use pennies in Canada anymore, so our ice creams were had for $17.20, rather than the actual price of $17.22!

A lot of places could take a lesson from Screamers, where this is a "double" scoop.
​

With that - and a full tank of some spendy fuel - we were off. It was 3:00pm.

A few names in this story have been redacted. While this is not a secret location, it is a special location that could easily be overrun by too much traffic. Additionally, there are two rather sketchy obstacles that make this place one that not everyone should visit. If you know where we are, please do your part to keep it under wraps.

Update 2024-10: This location has recently gotten a lot of visibility on Social Media, and as a result, there are some unfortunate changes afoot that will make access even more difficult than it has been in the past.

For details, see: Glacier Creek Bridge Incident of 2024​

I'd planned for three hours to cover the trip from Radium Hot Springs to The Glacier, mostly because I figured that we'd be stopping a lot to snap photos along the way. It was - if memory served me - a reasonably jaw-dropping route, and I wanted to be sure that @mrs.turbodb was able to soak in those moments of amazement just as I was when Mike @Digiratus first brought me here back in 2022.

Things start normally enough, which is to say, beautifully.​

Traversing valley our way through long valleys, we followed rushing creeks full of murky glacial runoff as we pushed our way deeper into the mountains. Soon, they towered all around us, their jagged peaks and U-shaped forms indicative of the ice that once carved these paths. For now though, we saw no ice.

Surrounded.​

And then, with little warning - or perhaps no warning at all - our route turned south and it became obvious that we were headed to a very special place. Directly in front of us, the headwaters of ******* Creek were visible high on the mountainsides. There, still frozen solid, they gleamed in the afternoon sun, beckoning us to come experience the expansive views they enjoyed every day.

This is where things start to get really interesting.​

As the miles ticked away, we got closer. Slowly.​

Scale becomes an interesting conundrum when one is thrown into a landscape such as this. Initially, it seemed that we weren't all that far from our destination. That we would be setting up camp in no time. But these places are deceivingly large, and nearly an hour passed before we found ourselves climbing out of the trees and towards the base of our glacier.

A hike to these falls would surely be an exhilarating experience.​

We would pass this glacier - on the northern flank of ************** - on our way to the next.​

Up there somewhere, we'd find delight, and then, disaster.​

To reach the glacier, there are two sketchy obstacles. The first of these - a bridge - comes just as the road turns to make a final, steep push to the base of the glacier. At one time, this bridge was just like all the other bridges in British Columbia. Built strong, large beams span the raging river below. On these, 12x12-inch joists support a wooden deck of 4x12-inch planks. These are bridges that loaded logging trucks cross countless times each day.

Until they rot.

I don't know when this bridge started rotting, or what caused it to fail in the way that it did, but approaching it now is an exercise in self-control, and crossing it, an indication of insanity.

Looks safe.​

No truly good story starts off with, "Hey, we drove over this really safe bridge."​

We spent several minutes - what seemed like hours - inspecting, and arranging the planks I planned to traverse as I drove our 5,500-pound ticket home in a direction that meant we'd have to do it again to actually go home. Gaps in the joists were covered or reinforced with a second board. My copilot - to her obvious dissatisfaction - was moved into a spotting position.

Ultimately, everything went smoothly. There was only one point at which @mrs.turbodb was visibly shaken - beckoning frantically for me to "keep moving" - as one less-than-solid section of bridge deck dropped several inches towards the ice-cold creek.

Sometimes, stupidity is rewarded. Temporarily, at least.​

The second obstacle is much closer to the base of the glacier. Here, the meltwater has converged into a rushing stream that can seem daunting. At certain times of year - and late in the afternoon on hot days - it may even be as impassable as it looks.

It was here that we ran into a group of hikers. Having seen their Jeep Compass on the didn't-want-to-cross-it side of the bridge, I rolled down my window to greet the group - a father and his two sons - and ask if they were on their way up or down.

"We're headed back down," the dad shared, asking if we were going all the way up. When I said we were, he mentioned that they'd left their Jeep at the bottom because they weren't sure if they could make the water crossing. Looking at the Tacoma, he thought that it would be doable for us, but that we should watch out for some big rocks in the middle of the creek that we could get caught up on.

Thanking them for the info, I was sure to roll up the windows before I joked with @mrs.turbodb that they hadn't hiked 1,500 feet of elevation in just over a mile because they were worried about the water crossing; they'd done it because they were smarter than we'd been at that rotten bridge!

With an audience of hikers, we made quick work of the crossing. If there were large rocks, we didn't see them.​

And with that, we entered the magical world of the glacier.

The last time I'd been here, I'd been surprised by a large cabin built at the bottom of the bowl below the icy flow. Built by the Canadian Olympic Development Agency - which also built the road - it was used as a summer training facility for the ski team. To this day, the cabin is tightly sealed and surprisingly clean. With a large table, propane stoves, bed frames, and a wood heat stove, it provides shelter to those who venture this way in the winter or get caught in a summer squall.

This is no longer the ski out location it used to be. The glacier has receded quite a bit since it was built.​

From the cabin, Mike and I had been able to continue only a few hundred feet up the road, snow blocking our path higher toward the centuries-old ice. But today, that snow was gone and with excitement in our eyes, we slowly crawled the Tacoma up a series of switchbacks and water crossings, to the very end of the road.

As far as we can go.​

Caught in the act.​

Quite a view from up here.​

No more road.​

I'd planned for us to relax once we'd arrived in camp, hiking to the glacier the following morning, but with the road climbing so much higher than it had the last time I'd visited, I chalked the whole situation up to good fortune and figured that we'd either visit a different arm of the glacier in the morning or get an earlier start on our long drive home. For now though, it was time to pick our way over the rubble and get us a taste of that bright blue ice!

As @mrs.turbodb climbed towards the closest ice cave at the lower left extent of the flow, I caught her in front of the torrent of water melting from the massive sheet of ice.​

Getting closer.​

As is generally the case when I get to locations like this, I immediately went into OMG pictures mode as we reached the ice. Actually, it was snow and ice, and the ice was calving off, so I was extra excited, messing around with settings, generally oblivious to everything around me.

Situation: normal.​

Then I remembered. In situations like this, it's important to stay hydrated.

Crunchy.​

After eating a bit of million-year-old water and whatever equally-old parasites it contained, I got my second "great" idea. By "great," of course, I mean one where @mrs.turbodb gave me that knowing, "of course you are," look we all know means, "you are crazy, and I'm not doing it."

Into the ice cave!​

It shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone not infected by million-year-old parasites, but the ice cave was cold, and not just in the "dang, this is super cool" kind of way. Not only that, but it was loud in there - I could hear the entire glacier creaking and groaning. I could hear water rushing through a bus-sized maze of tubes, crashing down from one level to the next. And it was windy. It was awesome.

Tunnels led deeper into the turquoise, but I'd left my Yaktrax at home.​

The have faces!​

It's hard to convey how much we enjoyed poking around at the bottom of the glacier. We've hiked near - beside, above, below - three or four glaciers in our time, and have seen many more than that from afar, but this is the first glacier we've touched and tasted.

For now though, it was time to head back to the Tacoma to enjoy the rest of the evening and get our grub on. Staying hydrated had made us hungry!

I discovered that, "Maybe we should just back down", was the wrong thing to say as we got back to the Tacoma.​

Camp on the edge.​

Where it was cold at the base of the glacier, it was an amazingly pleasant 72°F in camp. A gentle breeze cascaded down off the mountain and two plates of tacorittos with guac were quickly assembled for our enjoyment. Turning our chairs to face uphill, we soaked in the surroundings of one of the most unique places we've had the pleasure to call home.

It seems so big, and then...​

...it's even bigger.​

Dinner done, we got everything put away and went up to check out the cabin. With no log book, people have taken to writing their names on the walls, carving inappropriate phrases into the wooden table, and placing Insta-Tube like-follow-and-subscribe stickers on whatever flat surfaces they can find. Yuk. Unwilling to do any of those things, no one will ever know we were there, which is probably just as well.

It must have been amazing, because it's we have a lot of truck photos, but rarely taken by this one.​

And that's when everything started to go sideways.

After a long day of travel, we were getting ready to head into the tent as we noticed a flash of lightning behind the ridgeline to our east. Then one behind the glacier to the south. We didn't think much of it - just a lightning storm on the other side of the range - given how pleasant it was on our moraine overlooking the valley.

Hoping for some cool screen grabs, I setup the camera to record the dark clouds that were racing by in the distance, and - if I was lucky - to capture some bolts of electricity screaming through the sky. A few drops of rain plonked down on our camp.

https://www.youtube.com/embed/gWqKTxUYctE
15 minutes, sped up into 40 seconds.​

Looking at the video now, the change in wind direction - initially moving parallel to the ridge, then coming directly over it - is obvious. To us, at the time, it was not. In fact, so engrossed in our own personal little light show were we, that I even sent the flying camera 1,640 feet into the air see if we could get a better shot of the cloud-to-cloud lightning over the million-year-old ice.

A few exciting frames.​

At some point as I was pointing cameras in different directions and wondering if the flying variant would suddenly be struck by lightning, my companion - always slightly more aware of what's going on in these situations - looked over at me. "We've got about a minute," she said, pointing to a cloud that'd just crossed the ridge and was clearly dropping a lot more rain than anything we'd see so far.

A mad dash ensued. The drone was lowered and retrieved as quickly as possible. Rain started to fall in earnest as the camera was pulled from the tripod and stashed in the front seat, the tripod thrown - still fully extended into the back of the cab.

And that's when the wind hit. Luckily, I was already on the ladder of the tent when the first gust whipped through camp; if I hadn't been, even with a 50-pound jerry can of water tied to the ladder, the entire contraption would have folded up on itself. Though, in hindsight, a fold-up at this point might have been a blessing in disguise.

As it was, we both got into the tent and I got the door zipped up just as the 40mph gusts grew to 50-, 60-, and then 70 miles per hour. To keep the tent from folding up with us inside, I had to sit on the very edge of the cantilever, and even then, it was still lifting several inches into the air. Outside, raindrops the size of grapes were hammering away at the fabric. Lightning and thunder were erupting directly overhead.

It was by far the windiest conditions the CVT Mt. Shasta RTT has ever endured, and I was worried on two fronts. First, I was worried that the entire frame of the tent would be ripped from the hinges, the fabric ripped from the base. This, we attempted to solve by holding onto the poles, bracing them against the gusts with our body weight. Second - and more importantly, I was worried that the entire tent - essentially a sail mounted to the back of the Tacoma with four relatively small bolts - would rip off of the bed rack with us inside, carried straight over the edge of the moraine by the 70mph winds.

Battling the storm as best we could, I mentioned - or maybe I hoped - to @mrs.turbodb that the wind would probably die down once the initial front passed through. At that point the rain might continue, but rain on the tent - as long as it stops with enough time to dry by morning - is a soothing sound, and one we both enjoy immensely.

An hour later, the wind hadn't relented. By now, the constant battering of rain against the side of the tent was forcing water droplets through the fabric. We were still holding down the frame poles and concerned for our safety. We had to make a decision: try to ride it out (as we were currently) or brave the elements and try to fold up the tent and spend the rest of the night in the cab.

Ultimately, we decided that it was simply too risky - at least, given our current camp spot - for us to stay in the tent. While we'd survived so far, I wasn't sure how much longer the bolts would hold, or whether there were even stronger gusts in our future. We battened down the hatches as best we could and worked out our plan for as methodical-as-possible closure of the tent.

By the time we were done, we were both soaked to the bone. Climbing into the cab, we changed into dry clothes and fired up every heating and drying device at our disposal. And as water cascaded down the road and under the tires on its way into the valley below, we moved the truck away from the edge.

Everything had been fine until it wasn't. Hunkered down in our seats, the Tacoma now facing into the wind, we did our best to sleep. It didn't go well. Just as I was finally nodding off around midnight, I thought I heard a rustling in the back of the cab. And then, again. Convincing myself that it must be something in the bed, or perhaps a bit of ice sliding down the window, I closed my eyes again. And then I felt a mouse scurry across my feet!

How the hell a mouse got into the Tacoma, I have no idea, but even in our less-than-ideal situation, we needed to get that little shitter out of there. Waking @mrs.turbodb, I informed her of the situation, of which she was dubious. Because seriously, how could a mouse get into the Tacoma?

Luckily for me - given that I'd woken her from hard-to-come-by sleep - a little work with the flashlight revealed two little mouse terds in her footwell. We searched the back of the truck. Under seats. I contorted myself into the strangest of positions to look up under the dash. That little poop-factory was nowhere to be found. There was nothing to do but share our space for the night, and pick up the search in the morning.

We stayed warm enough through the night - our feet toasty in the electric socks I'd picked up at Christmas - as the wind and rain continued to rock the truck on its suspension, but actual sleep could be counted in minutes rather than hours. And then, just as the sky began to brighten, the clouds began to clear. Whether or not it was a sign, there would be no hike to the glacier for us this morning, we were getting ourselves off the mountain.

Right after another search for our unwelcome companion. Who, again, remained elusive, probably camped out on some warm heating duct under the dash, nibbling on my wiring harness. Asshole.

We made it through the water crossing and over the rotten bridge - now a little icy - without incident.​

Out of the clouds.​

Blue skies on the horizon.​

Speeding down the mountain roads, we were making great time back to Radium Hot Springs, even with a few photo stops along the way. Careening past a campsite, I commented to my copilot that a group of guys with a Tacoma were camped there and wondered how their experience was the previous night. Not a quarter mile later, A 16-inch diameter birch tree lay across the road.

Time for the chainsaw! ​

Naturally, I hadn’t brought the chainsaw. It was late August, and I was convinced that any trees that had fallen throughout the winter would surely be cleared by now. Of course, they were, but hours of saturating rain - and the windstorm that had threatened to blow us off the mountain - weakened this tree's anchor, and down it came.

Hoping that the guys I'd just noticed were more prepared than I was, we turned around and rolled into their camp just as they were starting breakfast. “Any of you guys have a chainsaw?” I asked, glancing around to see that all of them were in their early 20s. “Nope, but we have an axe,” was the unanimous reply.

I explained the situation - apparently using miles rather than kilometers, @mrs.turbodb would later tell me, to describe the location of the blockage - and told the guys that we would appreciate any help they could muster. They seemed happy enough to lend a hand, but, "after breakfast."

With that, we headed back to start chopping and clearing.

Before I could Paul Bunyan this thing out of the way, I cleared a few branches to make the operation a little safer.​

Always nice to have help!​

By the time they boys showed up, we had removed - and cleared - all of the branches and I was already two-thirds of the way through the trunk with my wonderful axe. Hoping that these young guns could finish the job, I sunk the ax into the wet wood and stood back to watch them make a quick work of the rest.

It was slow going. With a dull and rusty axe, and a "chopping" action that might better be described as flailing, they made little progress over the next 10 minutes. Eventually, thankfully, it was my turn again and a few minutes later, I was 80% of the way through. Now, with only a few inches of material left, I hoped that the Japanese pull saw would be enough to separate the two segments of tree. It was, and the look of pure wonder on the boy's faces when the saw cut like butter through the wood was priceless.

Now, it was time to clear the lighter half of the tree from the road. Keen to use their brand new tow strap - not to mention the new-to-them 2010 Tacoma - there was a whirlwind of action as they positioned the truck for the pull. Luckily, I noticed that their plan - to pull using the safety chain loop on the bumper - was going to end in disaster. Jumping in, I offered my receiver pin as a more secure attachment point, and set them up for a successful pull.

Cameras blazing, and Instagram accounts at the ready, the clutch smoked, and the tree was out of the way.​

Thanking the boys for their “help,” and giving them a bit of advice on the trip to the glacier, we bid our farewell and headed into town. Along the way, four more trees had fallen across the road, but none of them completely blocked passage as we eased around.

Everything had been fine, until it wasn't, but that's what makes memories that last a lifetime!

Update 2024-10: There's an unfortunate update to the bridge featured in this story. The culmination of some poor decisions by generally responsible people, a grudge held for years, and the unfortunate involvement of the Canadian government, access to this location is likely going to be limited even more than it has been in the past. For details, see the Glacier Creek Bridge Incident of 2024.








.​

 

Wow………………!!!

 

Man, while I appreciate the improved availability of cool car camping equipment and truck mods, I really hate that "overlanding" has become a whole scene. It's gone beyond "community" and become part of the social media quagmire. There's a big annual event here this weekend that I have no interest in attending. Camping in a field with hundreds of other "overlanders"? YOU ARE DOING IT WRONG.

Anyway, sad story about the bridge. The whole Overland Alberta/Alberta Overland silliness reminds me of the PFJ and JFP in Life of Brian, lol.

I do appreciate your style of documenting your trips, though, so thank you.

 

Excellent drone work! Always nerve-wracking having it aloft when you're on the water... but my experience is that you tend to get a strong signal, plus there's fewer trees and mountains to crash into. My first drone vacation was a week on a sailboat. Made me wish my truck had an autopilot when I got back!

Driving over a huge bridge is a different story though, I always lose signal... then panic-drive from one side to the other hoping I can hear the thing before it crashes into the water.

Seriously awesome photos though. I've been getting out a lot this fall and I'm still envious of the scenery you are posting.

Great example of a community coming together to effect change, empowered by social media. Month's not even half over--what else can we fuck to death?

 

Reverting My SPC Upper Control Arms to Poly Bushings

I first installed SPC UCAs in 2018, 165,000 miles ago. Looking back, I'm not sure it was entirely necessary - I was able to get a perfectly good alignment with the stock UCAs - but it seemed like the right time, as I was significantly upgrading my front suspension after realizing how much I was actually using the Tacoma to explore the western United States.

Those SPC UCAs worked great until almost exactly two years ago. By then, 120,000 miles later, the SpecRide polyurethane bushings had worn out and were ready to be replaced. Since installing the first set, I'd gotten wind of a new joint - named X-Axis by SPC, but essentially spherical bearings - that replaced the SpecRide bushings on newer models of the UCAs. After a few conversations with SPC - where they informed me that the X-Axis joints were "lifetime joints" - I decided to take advantage of their upgrade program and traded out my original UCAs for a brand-new set that contained the new joints.

Unlike the first upgrade, the new SPC UCAs were anything but. Immediately, horror stories from other customers who'd installed the X-Axis based UCAs started rolling in. At first, I thought it was just a few outliers, but it soon became clear that the X-Axis joints were causing a lot more problems than the original SpecRide bushings. I was not happy with SPC. Still, they promised to stand behind the new joints, and I've been keeping an eye on them ever since.

It was about six months ago - at the end of February 2024, and 18 months after installing the new UCAs - when I started to notice a little bit of play in the X-Axis joints. I fired up my email and sent a message off to SPC:

Sent: Tuesday, February 27, 2024 7:06 PM
Subject: SPC UCAs with X-Axis showing some play

Hi *******,

Hope you’re doing well. We traded emails a couple of years ago regarding some SPC UCAs with X-Axis joints that you did a “trade-up” with me on, from my original SPC UCAs with bushings. I’m starting to see some play in the X-Axis joints (a small clunk when I tug on the installed UCAs) and so it seems to me like the X-Axis joints are wearing out.

I’d like to trade them in to you guys under warranty - can you let me know the process? Would you like me to send a video of the behavior I’m seeing?

Thanks,
Dan
​

I got a reply back within a few days, and SPC asked me to send a video of the clunking that I was seeing, so I fired up my phone and sent along a poorly-executed moving photo of the situation, and awaited their response.

Being the middle of winter in the Pacific Northwest, I had to wait a few days, but eventually managed to mangle a short clip. (click to play video on flickr)​

Sent: Wednesday, March 6, 2024 06:32

The bushing should not have any play at all. I could get them change with a core charge of $250.00. We are in a process of changing the bushing and ball joints in the next 4 months if you want to wait till then or we could do it now.

SPC Customer Service lead
Regional Sales Associate
​

After a few more back-and-forths to determine if I wanted to wait for the new bushings and ball joints, I decided that I would hold off on the replacement until I brought the Tacoma home from Las Vegas for the summer, and when summer finally did roll around, it was no problem getting a new set of arms from SPC, though the core charge had somehow ballooned from $250 to $525.


I'm Not Installing Those New SPC Upper Control Arms

I'd wanted to get the latest and greatest from SPC, because I had no plans to install them. Rather, I'd be selling them to someone else and wanted to ensure that they had something brand new and with better joints than I had.

My plan - after my dramatically different longevity experiences between the SpecRide-based and X-Axis-based UCAs - was to go back to SpecRide versions of the SPC product. As such, I'd picked up a used set from a fellow TacomaWorld member, along with five sets - enough to outlast the Tacoma - of SpecRide bushings.

And so, with three sets of SPC UCAs in hand, I set about replacement.

The first order of business - as always - was getting access to the front suspension.​

I won't bore you with all the details of the arm replacement - anyone interested in that can check out my first installation, replacement with X-Axis UCAs, or even a step-by-step guide. Instead, here are a comparison of three generations of SPC UCAs and upper ball joints (UBJs) for comparison.

From left to right: the original tubular arms with SpecRide bushings and greaseable UBJs; the first generation of (stronger) cast arms with X-Axis joints and greaseable UBJs; the current generation of cast arms with updated X-Axis joints and sealed UBJs.​

Comparison of the three ball joints, from oldest (left) to newest (right).


Comparison of the UCA bushings from oldest (left) to newest (right).​

Wondering about the difference between the original and newer X-Axis joints, I wasn't able to get much information from SPC. All I was told was, "We changed the size of the bushing to fit better around the moonball." While this isn't very detailed, to me it sounds similar to the tightness rating that bearing manufacturers like FKS use when assembling spherical bearings. There, FKS has developed an "F1" tightness rating that is significantly tighter than normal bearings and provides a much longer lifespan as it keeps dirt and debris out of the bearing.

A comparison of the original X-Axis joints (left) to the newer variant (right). Visually, they are identical.​

Replacing the SpecRide Bushings

With the comparison of the three UCA and UBJ variants complete, I set about prepping the oldest set - the tubular arms with polyurethane SpecRide bushings for use. This entailed removal of the old bushings and replacement with a set of brand-new SPC (25466) bushings.

Replacement bushing set.​

Only a shop press (sometimes Harbor Freight is cheaper) is necessary for this operation, and I found that the instructions provided by SPC were significantly more complicated than they needed to be. To replace the SpecRide bushings, simply follow these steps:


Press out the old bushings

The old bushings press out of the SPC arms from the inside toward the outside. This means that a long press fixture is required, but luckily the Toyota OEM UCA hardware can be utilized.

Setup to press out a bushing.​

1. Thread the OEM UCA nut "backwards" onto the OEM UCA bolt as far as it will go.
2. Place a large fender washer - with a ~1.5" outer diameter, just small enough to fit in the bushing sleeve - onto the inner side of the supported arm.
3. Place the UCA on the press, supported by one of the tubular arms and so that the bushing can be pressed out of the joint.
4. Slowly press the bushing out of the sleeve, being careful to watch for any flex of the UCA bolt, or interference/rubbing of the washer on the sleeve.

Repeat steps 1-4 for the remainder of the bushings.


Press in the new bushings

The new SpecRide bushings are pressed into the sleeves from the outside surface of each sleeve. Pressing in the new bushings is also a straight-forward operation and can be done with the assistance of the large washers that are supplied in the new SpecRide bushing kit.

Setup to press in a bushing.​

1. Place the UCA on the press, supporting one of the sleeves so that the bushing can be pressed into the joint.
2. Place the bushing on top of the sleeve, with the small shoulder down toward the sleeve.
3. Place two of the large washers supplied with the bushing kit on top of the new bushing
4. Slowly press the bushing into the sleeve.
5. When the bushing bottoms out on the supporting surface, remove the UCA from the press and use a hammer or mallet to pound the bushing the final 3/16" into the sleeve.

Repeat steps 1-5 for the remainder of the bushings.


Putting Everything Back Together

With the new bushings installed, it was time to reinstall the tubular UCAs, adjust the alignment as best I could at home, and take the truck in for an alignment.

Reinstallation of the tubular SPC UCAs went smoothly, with lots of grease applied between the SpecRide bushings and inner metal sleeves.​

After getting the arms installed, the next order of business was getting the alignment close enough so that I wouldn't need to worry about tearing up the tires, or that the alignment shop - Firestone in my case, since I have a lifetime alignment agreement there - wouldn't be able to get the job finished efficiently.

For this, Brett @Squeaky Penguin recommended that I do the following:

1. Max out the alignment cams. This means moving the cams so that the bolt is as far inward as possible on the front cams, and as far outward as possible on the rear cams. This maxes the caster.
2. Adjust the positioning of the UBJ using the large nut on the top of the SPC control arms to get camber as close to 90° (vertical) as possible.
3. Measure the toe, and if necessary, use the Outer Tie Rods (OTREs) to adjust.

Maxing out the alignment cams was easy. A 19mm and 21mm wrench were all I needed for this step, which entailed first loosening the bolt, then rotating the cam - from the nut side of the cam - and then retightening the blot.

After getting an alignment that you're satisfied with, make sure to mark your alignment cams with a paint pen, that way you can quickly determine whether a rough road has knocked your alignment out of whack.
Top: front alignment cams set "in." Bottom left and right: rear alignment cams set "out."​

To adjust the position of the UBJ, I made a short piece of wood and attached my digital angle gauge. This allowed me to loosen - and then slowly move - the nut on the top of the UBJ until I got the angle of the wheel surface to a perfect 90°.

If you don't have a digital angle finder, get one. Or, you can use a short level, at the cost of accuracy.​

To measure the toe, you can purchase some toe alignment plates, or you can make your own with a couple straight (being perfectly straight is important here) pieces of plywood. Since I was in a rush, I cut a piece of 3/4" plywood to be 45" long and 2.5" wide. To these, I attached to a couple of 8" tall feet, placing one against the outside edge of each of the front tires. Then, with the steering wheel centered, simply measure the distance from the outside edge of each board to the outside edge of the other. Ideally, they will be identical, and if they are not, you can adjust toe by loosening the jam nuts and adjusting the OTREs.

My toe was not perfect - the measurement was 3/16" longer in the front than the back - but was close enough that I decided to let the alignment shop adjust the OTREs rather than trying to do it myself.​

And with that, I was off to Firestone for my final alignment.

That was a reasonable alignment at home, and the OTRE work was done quickly at Firestone for an overall nice alignment!






.​

 

Why'd you get like zero caster? You even crossed up your bushings (lol why you have adjustable uppers) and only managed less than the arms default of +2. I mean it won't wear your tires out but even for free that's not a very good alignment for tramlining and road crown behavior.

 

I’ve got the ball joint pushed as far forward as possible and the cams crossed up to pull the tire off the rear of the wheel well, so I lose 2° of caster that way.

I know you guys are always talking about having 3 to 4° of caster, but I’ve never had more than what you see here, and it hasn’t ever really bothered me.

 

Weird, I mean if you're cool with caster that low I wouldnt have even bothered chasing down SPCs, just get some readily available poly bushing uppers like JBA and cross up the lowers. You're running 33s so it's not like you lose that much cab clearance to have the caster you have now, shouldnt be in danger of rub really with those. The big advantage of the SPCs is the extra caster and camber correction, hell with 35s I left the lowers neutral and tilted the upper back toward the cab, now winds and crap roads don't push me around.

 

You wouldn't be able to get camber correct with the cams crossed like that without adjustable uppers.

He's probably got about the best alignment you can get for tire clearance at the firewall, but maybe not the best for drivability.

 

I just cut out the firewall. But even before I had the same alignment I have now with 33s and I didn't touch my firewall. Maybe it's a concern for some, think I'd rather just bust out the hammer especially with as much as he drives than put up with a borderline alignment.

 

The new flares look great! Nice job, and it’s awesome that you snagged them for such a steal.

It looks like they’re just black plastic, not painted. If that’s the case, I’ve got a product that could really spruce them up without breaking the bank. I’ve used

$17 CERAKOTE® Ceramic Trim Coat Kit - Quick Plastic Trim Restorer - Ceramic Coating Guaranteed Restoration to Last Over 200 Washes – A Ceramic Coating, Not a Dressing

CERAKOTE’s ceramic trim coat kit to restore the shine on a few black plastic trim pieces on my car, and it made a huge difference. Plus, it’s lasted nearly a year without needing a reapplication.

I’ve only used it on textured black plastic surfaces and it’s worked wonders on them. However, I’ve seen some mixed reviews about using it on smoother finishes. If you try it on the fenders, it’s probably worth a quick test on an inconspicuous area of the flare before doing the whole thing.

 

What if We Can't See Anything? | Sunshine Coast #1
Part of the Mushroom Mania on the Sunshine Coast (Sep 2024) trip.

A few minutes after setting off - just before 5:00am - I realized that we've been doing this whole exploration thing entirely wrong for the last eight years. That's because our first stop was only minutes from home, for half a dozen servings at our favorite healthy breakfast spot - Family Donut.

Daily calorie allocation exceeded before sunrise.​

With a schedule to keep - we had a ferry to catch - we managed to eat only one donut each before climbing back into the Tacoma. And, with a strict "no eating messy food in the truck" policy - of which donuts certainly qualify - I held off for at least 12 minutes before breaking down and asking @mrs.turbodb to pass me the box, so I could sample, in their entirety, two more of the magical morsels.

That left only one more donut each as we pulled into the Horseshoe Bay Ferry Terminal, an entire box mysteriously disappeared well before we're usually even out of bed. But hey, with all that sugar, I was ready for the first couple dozen feet of a marathon!

This guy was looking for breakfast too. We didn't have any to share. (Great Blue Heron)​

Our chariot, pulling in to pick us up.​

Our ride on the Queen of Surrey - the only way to get a vehicle onto the Sunshine Coast - would take 40 minutes, ushering us from the outskirts of Vancouver to the town of Langdale. Speeding along through calm waters, our eyes were glued to the sky as we scoped out the cloud situation. A good number of the puffy white "view inhibitors" spread out to the north and we hoped they'd make like our donuts so we could experience the expansive coastal views we were after.

Headed northwest, to Canada's Pacific Southwest.​

When you've got a lot of trees, you've got a lot of wood chips. These were on their way to a local paper mill.​

Road's end. Or, in our case, beginning.​

As seems common when looking for places to explore in Canada, finding anything on the internet seemed much more difficult than in the United States. Likely, this is due to Canadians being a bit more judicious about what they broadcast for the rest of the world to see, and while I didn't love it, I most definitely understood it. Ultimately, I'd reached out to Mike @POSTacoMike and he'd put me in touch with a buddy of his - Jason - who'd recommended a few places for us to check out while we were in his neck of the woods. Sprinkling in a few hikes and spots that even bozos like us could find, we had a full schedule, and planned to kick off our adventure with a visit to A&W. Because after four donuts, how can you pass up a burger, fries, and a litre of pop?

Luckily for our arteries, it wasn't yet 11:00am, so we decided to squeeze in a four mile - sorrey, 6.5 km - hike to Langdale Falls in order to mentally justify stuffing another mountain of calories down our throats.

Into the forest.​

Nature's stairway.​

Rusting away.​

Unsurprisingly, the hike to Langdale Falls felt a lot like the hikes we do in western Washington. Light filtered in through the tall trees. Soft green moss covered anything on the ground. It was damp. "This is my favorite type of forest," @mrs.turbodb reminded me as the sound of water crashing onto rocks grew in the distance.

Soft carpet.​

Gazing up at the cascading falls.​

Working our way back from the falls, we discussed our plan for the rest of the day. Our first priority, naturally, was to stop for A&W fried chicken sandwiches and fries; we were starving. After that, we had to decide whether to head straight to camp at a numbered lake, or to squeeze in a second hike to the summit of Mt. Elphinstone, where - if the clouds cooperated - 360° views of the sound awaited our arrival.

Left to my own devices, I'd have headed to camp. Of all the places we'd planned - and from the single photo I'd seen - this was the spot I was looking forward to the most. I worried that a five-mile hike with a bit more than 1,000 feet of elevation gain would put us there after dark.

Reason - in the form of my passenger - prevailed, and soon we were headed up an old forest service road (FSR) towards the trailhead.

Time to air down.​

This is not looking promising for 360° views.​

We reached the trailhead just before 2:00pm and in the first three-quarters of a mile, we dropped several hundred feet of elevation. That's always a welcome sign when you've got 1,000 feet to gain over the course of a hike, but we soldiered on, one of us admiring the temperate rainforest through which we traveled.

And, we saw our first mushroom. Well, not actually our first - we'd seen several before this - but this is where we first realized that we'd be seeing a lot of mushrooms.

If you know the names (common and/or latin) for any of these fungi, please do share in the comments or by contacting me. I don't know what (m)any of them are, and am curious!
​

Want to play edible or deadible?​

A nearby neighbor.​

Well then, you're an interesting one! (Yellow Coral Mushroom)​

Not mushrooms. Also, unfortunately - and to our surprise - not tasty. (Blue huckleberry)​

We made good time through most of the hike, mostly because after losing a couple hundred feet of elevation, the trail was flat for the next mile. We did not make good time on the last mile, where the trail seemingly gained a foot of elevation for every foot of forward progress.

It was steep, but the rope was overkill.​

Made it!​

Happy for a break from the climb, we moseyed our way over to a radio tower and helipad that adorned the peak so we could soak in the views we'd labored so hard to enjoy.

Check out those "probably amazing" views!​

Looking out into the gray, we were only half-joking as we discussed the fact that rather than using the helipad for my miniature flying machine, that it would have been much more pleasurable - or at least we would be less sweaty - had we used it for its intended purpose.

As the flying camera broke above the clouds, we could see that there were actually views. Then, like magic, it began to clear up!​

https://www.youtube.com/embed/cXSCJqaH4q4?atp=1&playlist=cXSCJqaH4q4
Our view up Thornbrough Channel, past Woolridge Island.​

Turns out that we were at the top at the perfect time, the clouds parting just as the flying the camera captured our surroundings and we pointed out a mountain peak here, or an island there. Eventually though - and with a little prodding from me, still anxious to get to camp before dark - we packed up our electronics and headed back down the mountain.

Ooo, look, another interesting specimen. Step right up to play Tasty or Toxic?
​

Reaching the Tacoma just before 5:00pm, we had a little more than two hours before sunset, and a decision to make: retrace our original path back to civilization - and speedier pavement, or attempt a dirt track around Mt. Elphinstone that was significantly shorter, but that would entail much slower speeds.

Hoping that slower is faster would play out on the trail as it often does in life, we opted for the unknown adventure of the dirt route and set our sights on the Rainy River FSR.

Roadway or riverbed? Why not both?​

This waterfall was pretty, but we weren't sure if the bubble stripes in the lower pool were cool or a little creepy.​

An hour later - it turns out, exactly the same amount of time it would have taken us to take the longer, higher speed, paved way around - we slowed to a stop, our path blocked by a guard shack stationed along the road.

Completely unexpected - and without any sort of card to raise the gate - we pulled up to the deeply tinted window hoping there was someone inside who we could talk to in order to figure out our next steps.

The window didn't budge.

Unsure what to do, I maneuvered to the side of the road - allowing people with the correct credentials to continue through the gate - and approached the shack on foot, hoping to find a phone number or other means of gaining access. As I did, the window slid open and a guard warily greeted me.

"Evening, we're hoping to get up to Lake 7," I told him, "Is that OK and can you open the gate for us?"

"Have you been here before?" he asked, before telling me that it'd be better if we pulled the Tacoma up to the window to receive instructions and register to pass through private land belonging to the Howe Sound Pulp and Paper Mill.

Despite our initial worry and a bit of a bumpy start, the guard was super friendly and had just been preoccupied when we'd originally pulled up to the window. Since nearly everyone has a pass, a quick honk would have been more than enough to get his attention, had we known he was inside. And, after a quick briefing about where to go and how to be a good human on the private land, we were once again racing the sun towards our destination.

Note: The Howe Sound Pulp and Paper company only allows public through traffic between sunrise and sunset, so if you're headed this way, be sure to show up during the day!​

Looking north up Howe Sound past the mill.​

The first half of the 10-mile long Rainy River FSR was decently graded, having been used extensively for logging - perhaps by the pulp and paper mill - over the years, and as we climbed through the valley, a mixture of emotions battled in my mind. We were probably - if I could refrain from stopping too many times to take photos along the way - going to make it before the sun technically set, but a thick cloud cover meant that it wasn't really going to matter. And pretty soon we were going to have to decide whether to camp up high - possibly in the clouds - where we'd likely wake to a very wet tent, or hunker down at a lower elevation, hoping to stay a little drier through the night.

That's a lot of paper.​

Those had to be amazing views.​

Ultimately, we decided that we'd at least drive up to the lake before making the decision about where to camp. As the road got rougher and I was contemplating the mountain faces hidden high to our south, @mrs.turbodb noticed a huge waterfall further up the canyon.

What the heck?​

That waterfall - sourced by the spillway of Lake 7 - was a sight to see, but given the time, we opted to carry on with our climb, hoping to spend a little more time in the morning admiring this strange sight.

And then - with the tires straining for traction on a loose, wet, steep final ascent - we arrived!

"Wow?"​

I was bummed.

Up here just a few feet under the clouds, and knowing how much of a pain it is when the tent is wet in the morning, @mrs.turbodb asked me what I wanted to do. After thinking about it for a bit, I decided that by morning, the fog would probably fill the valley, so there wasn't much reason to move from our spot up here next to the lake. We'd just have to accept that we weren't going to experience the killer views we knew existed.

With light fading, I deployed the tent while @mrs.turbodb extracted the kitchen and pulled out ingredients for dinner.

And then, as we ate, something magical happened - the clouds began to lift! They didn't disappear entirely - not by a longshot - but there was hope; we might actually see something in the morning!

Nature teasing.​

Tired from a long day of travel and two hikes, we cleaned up camp and got ourselves ready for bed as night enveloped camp. It was a bit before 8:00pm when we climbed up the ladder, our view down the valley dark but clearer than it'd been all day. Trying to read a bit of the Bourne series, I didn't last long before I was fast asleep.

That Night...

I hadn't set my alarm, but aware that a full moon would rise while we slept, I lifted my head from the pillow when I happened to wake up around 3:45am.

A stary night.​

The Next Morning...

I'd set my alarm for a few minutes before sunrise. Not because I'd thought that we'd be able to witness the flaming ball rising above the horizon - it was much too cloudy for that when we'd gone to bed - but because I knew we had another full day, and we'd need to get an early start. If it hadn't been for my earlier experience with the stary night, I would have been caught completely off guard by the beauty of the morning.

Sunrise over Polytope Peak.​

A glassy double sunrise.​

Glorious Lake 7.​

In the distance, Mt. Donaldson rose high above the clouds.​

Eager to share the spectacularity with my still-cozy companion, I was surprised to hear her return whistle come not from the tent, but from the passenger seat of the Tacoma. Already up, she too was admiring the colorful sky, and the complete contrast to the previous evening.

We'd lucked out!

Our spirits high, it was time to check out the spillway we'd noticed on our way up. Unlike any we'd seen previously, I theorized that it was spraying an enormous mist - rather than exhausting a steady stream - to lessen the impact of the water on the hillside, reducing the amount of erosion over time.

Spillway spray.​

Valley view.​

By now - 15 minutes into the day - the sun was well above the horizon and playfully illuminating the ridges above the lake. It was time to pack up camp and get underway.

Dam camp.​

As we pulled out of camp, one thing still bugged me. The photo I'd seen of this place - that Jason had shared and that piqued my interest to begin with - was unlike any view we'd seen so far. Earlier in our visit, I'd chalked this up to the clouds, but with that excuse no longer viable, I wondered if we'd even found the right place, or if we were still missing the best bits.

That's right, it was Nature FOMO.

Our elevation dropped quickly as the Tacoma ate up the steep, rocky trail. Working our way around a switchback, there happened to be a break in the trees and there, before us, was a strikingly similar view to the one we'd been after. It wasn't the view - yet - but it was most definitely a view to write home about.

Towering cliffs.​

And then, a few twists and turns later, we found our reward.

The place.​

From there, it was all smiles as we continued our descent. The last 15 hours had been a weather-induced rollercoaster, and our - or at least my - emotions had been along for the ride. Thankfully it'd gone the way that it did, everything only seeming to get better as we made one choice after the next, our hand consistently coming up aces.

Really though, the house always wins, and today was no different.

Turns out today, it was "down into the clouds."​

Though we'd have preferred clear skies, it was hard to object too much to the softening of the rocky cliffs around us by the low-lying gray.​

Needless to say, our first day on the Coast had been a smashing success. Perhaps not quite as clear as it might have been a few weeks earlier, but beautiful nonetheless. A trend that we hoped would continue, the clouds lifting as we headed towards our next destination.




.

 

I went back to read the Farnham thing. Unlikely the Crown would head up that way for much of anything and maybe some Alaska Chainsaw Mills could have mitigated the bridge deterioration. Here, we see collaboration between the FS and local 4x4 clubs that work. Like some of the porta potty maintenance along the Rubicon was done by RTF members using a hand built vehicle--that's since been taken over by the county. Our local trail stewardship has rebuilt a couple of bridges over the years and they provide trail building & maintenance training--these are mostly mountain bike/hiking/horse trails tho. Collaboration works pretty well and not just trail cleanups. Volunteers might have to attend training, like working with chainsaws. Just kinda bummed to see Parks Canada or Canadian Forest Service adopt more of a close it alternative when folks ask for something.

edit: I should add that getting to the place clubs can work with forest service folks does not happen overnight. Takes a lot of work.

 

I think 4WDABC has a reasonably close relationship with Canadian Forest Service (or Ministry of Forest, or however it's called up there), and they certainly help to do a lot of trail maintenance, bridge work, etc. Farnham was a bit of a special case in that it's been in rough shape for a long time and semi-ignored due to lots of reasons (some of which were that 4x4 clubs wanted it ignored, because it was a fun "obstacle." Further, there were folks on various sides, with competing desires of what should happen, some wanting access to the area limited, possibly so they could run paid, guided tours and keep others out. Then, when it blew up and was getting a ton of press, the easiest thing to do was to get rid of it.

In fact, you can see from the "after" video, that getting rid of it was probably the right thing to do from an accessibility perspective - easier and cheaper than rebuilding and maintaining the bridge, surely - since now it's a non-issue getting across the creek.

It was all just a bummer because part of the character of that trail was working your way across the bridge. A bridge that was not really as sketch as it looked, but sure got your blood pumping as you rolled across.

 

The pissing contest between parties does not help. As far as the bridge goes, a simple crossing works but it puts a lot of debris in the river--it will be interesting to see what it looks like next year.