This summer, more than one dual-sport motorcycle owner has looked at me and my bike with extreme pity and said, “Too bad you can’t ride that bike off the paved road . . . ” They then proceed to tell me about some beautiful alpine meadow or remote hot springs that can only be reached by traveling down a rough gravel road. I have to sigh and admit that there is no way I am going to muscle my huge, delicate road burner over that terrain. I have ridden in these areas and long to return to the scenes of my youth, down the abandoned logging roads that criss-cross the B.C. back-country. I miss my moto-cross bike, but I had to have a truck and crew of fellow off-road riders to achieve a successful trip, and to quote the Allman Brothers “There’s nobody left to run with anymore . . . ” So, I have turned to street bikes as being a more practical ride and I am looking forward to long distance riding as a new experience.
I have many stories to tell of those days of off-road adventures; discovering abandoned mines, riding to the snow in August and the breathtaking mountain vistas that inspire a connection with the spirit of beauty. This story is not one of mine, but a guest post by my friend and mechanic, Simon. This story is the tale of an actual ride that Simon and Mark experienced, told in Simon’s own words. Please be warned that he uses words as part of his regular vernacular that are not usually found on these pages, but that are familiar to most speakers of the English language. Due to the general nature of the internet audience, I have used some discretion, while still preserving the form.
I know it seems hard to believe, but this is what happened . . .
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Simon and his Yamaha FJ1200
Simon + Mark’s Enduro Experience
One summer’s long weekend, after my birthday in June \05, Mark and I rode out to visit my sister Jacky,who lives in the southern interior of “Beautiful BC” Where you should be!
We opted to do the first leg on the Fraser Canyon Hwy, also known as “old highway one”. We were both riding Yamaha FJ series bikes, and the prospect of a few hundred kilometers, in perfect riding weather, on the twisty turny of the canyon route, on bikes perfect for just such conditions — well, you can pretty much predict our collective mood. How do you say YEEEEHAAAAAAWW!!! . Well factor that by two, you’ll have an idea of just how much fun was had by the two of us that day. To only have gotten one ticket each, courtesy of the “Revenue Collectors Motor Patrol” is nothing short of miraculous.
Surely, at least, a testament to our maturity as riders, to have shown such discretion and restraint, in the face of such temptation . . . sheeeesh! The mind fairly boggles!
It took the better part of the day to get to Jacky’s country digs. Our arrival was not unexpected. We enjoyed a couple of drinks, sampled a plate or two of regional fare, mostly BBQ and some very palatable pot luck sort of stuff.
Seems we landed in the middle of a party amongst the locals. No mean portion of which was comprised of members of my Sisters’ extended family. The couple of hours we stayed were spent chatting with relatives, and in Mark’s case, any number of the fair sex, several of which appeared to have my associate squarely within their crosshairs.
All this, of course will tire a man out quickly, especially after a long day in the saddle. When we make inquiry into intended sleeping quarters we find, much to our surprise and chagrin that their intended solution to our dilemma is woefully
inadequate. Lastly used by, and now the final resting place for, the remains of several thousand STINK BUGS .
“Gee . . . we haven’t opened this trailer tent up since that real bad infestation. Don’t worry, it’ll air out in a bit.” Welllll . . . I don’t think so, thanks a lot just the same!
So with some hasty changes of plan, Mark and I are headed for town. Enderby . . . it’s only 30 or 40 klicks back completely unlit, mostly paved country road. The fog from the river we parallel is not altogether blinding. I did not loose count of the near misses of various hazards, live or not.
It approaches midnight as we check into the motel, waking the manager who had been sound asleep. The staff of all the local restaurants appear to be in a similar state. We are not too hungry to sleep. Good thing, ’cause f**k, was I tired!
We got up next morning, not really sure of the time.We showered and buggered off fairly quick like,thinking to be ahead of some of the already growing holiday traffic. We hit the road and don’t stop ’till Salmon Arm, where we decide to get breakfast.
“The Best Country Breakfast” or something of the sort, sez the sign. This looks good enough for our needs. We are shown to a table from which we can nearly reach the towering display case, fairly packed with desert options. The waitress asks how Mark wants his eggs. He sez “nogged” . . . I sez, “I want 3 eggs meuranged, just like on that big pie over there!” Chaos ensues.
Thinking it would be better to be home earlier, rather than later , [holiday traffic] we opt to return via the Coquihalla Hwy. We don’t mind the $5. toll at the top of the pass. The road is deceptively curvaceous. The cars do 130 to 140 most times. Things start to become stimulating when the bike gets over 200 kph. This is a freaking riot as these bikes will cruise effortlessly at 225 kph. Well we had us some fun for an hour or so. We took on fuel in Merritt and had a little rest as we planned our route home.
We decided to get off the Hwy at a Lake Resort outfit, where we had rented a cabin some years ago. We thought we would be ready for a stop by then. Hey — we’re in no big rush!
So it’s only 50 or 60 clicks to the toll booth, and before ya know it, the last exit is upon us. As we exit the highway, I realize . . . shit! we’ve taken the wrong f**king exit!
My suspicions are soon verified as we pass a sign pointing to the right for the “Played Out Pit Mine”. We go left. This route takes us under the highway and opens up where the pavement ends. We are greeted by a sign that bids us “Welcome to The Trans Canada Trail”. What f**kin trail?? We see a gravel [sort of] vehicle track going one way. The other way goes back to the highway OFF ramp. Hey, wait a freaking minute . . . just how the f**k do ya get back onto the freaking highway??? Well,we see that we can get back on if ya want to go to freaking Merritt. Now aint that just f**kin ducky! Backtrack all the way to Merritt??!! No thanks.
On the positive side, we have plenty of fuel and many hours of daylight remaining under a nearly cloudless sky. We are several thousand feet up in the mountains, so the temperature is perfect, even under the midday sun. This is all very fortuitous, we agree.
It seems our only practical choice is to see how this gravel track plays out. We believe
that there must be a loose network of these not-quite-roads. We saw some of these leading away from the Lake Resort ,where we had stayed, years ago. My best guess is that if we can go far enough to the east,via this path,we will probably hook up with a road that will take us to the Lake Resort, and so, to the highway. “The best laid plans” et al.
We take a little break while we ponder all this. I took a couple of pictures here. In retrospect, I should have taken fifty along the next few clicks. In self defence, I will say my hands were full at the time.
So, it’s “off we f**k!” We proceed down this track,which is strewn with fist sized blast rock. I’m concerned for the well being of about 400 bucks worth of rubber as we motor along, mostly in first and second gear. Our first obstacle appears in the form of a rather formidable gap in the track. It appears someone has been busy with a good sized back hoe here. They have managed to create what you could call a “yawning chasm’ for a couple of NOT trail bikes! The accompanying sign, which I confess not to have seen, allegedly said something, by way of admonition, about “No Motor Vehicles Beyond This Point”!
Well, the Grand f**king Canyon we were facing, one might think, would make such signage redundant. Not so, dear reader!! I looked down that big f**ker of a ditch and said to myself . . . self — you can do this!! Down I went, standing on the pegs with some rear brake to keep me together. WOW, the front end starts to come up, as I begin my ascent. I’m on the gas; and before ya know it. I’m back on flat ground! Unscathed, save for the belly of Mr FJ.
I turn around and beckon Mark to follow. He looks at me with a sort of deadpan expression at the same time, shaking his noggin. I’m seeing ,’ no fukkin’ way’. Mute, yet eloquent.
I shut off my bike, search for sidestand footing. Once I’m sure Mr FJ ain’t gonna go over, I scramble back, down, across and back up the other side. Having suffered an injury to his left ankle\foot this summer, this is not exactly what the Doctor ordered for my associate. I, of course volunteer to “have a go at it”. Being fresh with confidence, amassed during my recent experience, I say “piece of cake”. This trip went just about like the former. A bit more contact underneath methinks, but hell, we’re still in one piece each!
The track is looking more like a trail as we wind down towards flowing water, in the form of a creek, like salmon might spawn in. Our next obstacle comes in bovine form, a rather large brown & white sort. The critter had command of the trail, near as I could tell. Mark was on point at that time, so I bravely waited to see if our bovine interloper intended to stake any territorial claim here. Good fortune still with us, the great brown milker appeared to suddenly recall some unfinished bovine business elsewhere, in another locale, no doubt. In any case, we pressed on, no more was seen of the great brown milker.
I was not altogether pleased to see the”trail’ was moving further and further away from the highway, as it followed the natural meander of the creek . We did not need to confer vocally, the mutual pan and shrug is universal motorcyclist silent communication. Taken, in this case to mean, “What the f**k else we gonna do?” We kept going.
Truth be known, I’m not sure exactly how far we had gone here, had to be a few clicks. The trail had been taking us back in the right direction for a while. We were climbing up out of the little river valley. We found ourselves going up a fairly good rise, on what was clearly nothing more than a single track cattle path. We would not have been able to get past any of our erstwhile bovine friend’s friends. Fortunately, our outrageous good fortune was still with us, as no such encounter had befallen us, as yet anyway. As we arrived at the top of this rise, the trail emptied into a very tiny field and stopped altogether! What the f**k?? The field had an impassable fence at one end, deep bush on the right and an unpassable drop on the left! How the f**k do we get out of this mess?
A little way back down the rise, we had passed what turned out to be the only way out, so to speak. Another narrow little cow path. This f**ker goes straight down the side of this rise we’ve been climbing. At the top, we look down, Holy f**k!! That’s one long steep fukker of a drop. Pan and shrug . . . I go first — Holy f**kin Shit!! By the time I’ve said that a couple of times, I’m at the bottom and the trail is visible once more. I wonder how Mark’s gonna do this?? Man, there was rocks, roots, ruts, loose shit all the way down. I don’t know much rear brake I used to try to keep my speed down. Don’t forget, these motorcycles weigh in at close to 600 f**king pounds!!
I turn around to see Mark take the plunge! I’m cheering for him, under my helmet, as I watch him come down “clean” without so much as a single dab! Now, here’s where things get interesting.
After another distance on the path, which is just visible on the floor of what I would call a meadow, the highway is once more before us. We are looking at the side embankment of an overpass. We can see the underneath of the bridge. Now, imagine looking up the side of this embankment, to where it levels off, about 5 feet from the underside of the beginning of the bridge deck. If you’re standing at the top of the embankment, you may need to crouch a bit.
Looking ahead, there’s a flat area maybe 4 or 5 feet across. At it’s end, the embankment goes steeply down to the floor of the river valley. From where we are, the embankment looks like it’s made of some kind of stone; shale or something like that . . . Well guess what mutherf**ker ?? The f**kin trail goes straight up the side of that 100 foot embankment!! I’m thinkin, “f**k, I hope I can squeeze between the bottom of the bridge and the top of that embankment!!”
I look at Mark . . . pan and shrug. Once more “it’s off I f**k!” Well, this is the first time I’ve done a Hill Climb on an FJ . The back wheel spun all the way up, the arse end went east and west. No shortage of power, not a lot of leverage from the narrow grips though. When I got to the top, I just kept my head down. Ya can’t look straight up with a full coverage helmet it seems!
I traversed the width of six lanes of Coquihala Hwy under that overpass. I saw nothing to suggest that any other human had done so since the thing had been built. When I emerged from the relative darkness beneath the bridge, I practically cheered to discover I had come out onto a wooden deck, which led immediately to gravel then paved road . . . finally!
We had arrived at the road leading to the Lake Resort at last. We had both, it seemed lost the hankerin’ for that “outdoorsy” crap. We took a pass on stopping at the Lake Resort .
For sure, I’m gonna put a milder cam in this bike before I do any more of this off road stuff. Who knows, maybe next year.
