On Friday, September the 13th, I woke up at 5:45 a.m.
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| Daybreak in Lumby, where the highway leads to Cherryville. (Salmon Trail branches off to the right.) All rights reserved. |
We had plenty of time before breakfast: the brothers and I went walking along a new branch of the Salmon Trail: the Chinook Trail. (I had considered the hike on Sugar Mountain as a final exam on whether I was free of anemia during our Canadian tour, and it was wonderful to find out that I was.)
First we retraced the part of the trail we already knew, which took us along the industrial yard we'd seen the day before.
But this time a mist blanketed everything. The dawning sun glowed through the haze and the summer's desiccated weed flower heads and husks. White-tailed deer bounded away from us, behind chainlink fences, into blurry infinity.
The Chinook Trail itself turned off onto a broad gravel road, where a few hopeful pine saplings were planted.
Crossing an asphalted street, we passed along the bed of a defunct railroad. It may have been a railroad for freight trains instead of passenger trains.
There were traces (to the left) of an industrial wasteland. A building complex had been torn down: piles of rubble rose from the floor. It would have been more tidy than haunting, except that trees and bushes screening the terrain lent an air of mystery. I could picture train wagons waiting here, to bring or fetch away products – not so long ago, judging by the new-looking concrete that had been poured beneath the torn-down building. A pick-up truck rattled along the gravel past us.
A car renovation business advertised itself with a VW Beetle on a rooftop of a nearby edifice. The yard's driveway entrance itself was decorated with what looked like a vintage 1920s car, its roof down, skewered on a pole (my notes: "like a beetle with a pin"), beside a huge needle tree and a second VW Beetle. Given my months of obsession with early 20th-century history in Europe, I was aghast.
Behind it, many parked cars looked like post-2000 models. It was only when we walked around the very back of the lot that piles of disassembled car parts and pieces of old lumber were stacked near the fence, as far as I remember.
We walked until we came to an Andrew Wyeth field with an abandoned-looking barn of wooden planks that had been greyed to a fireplace colour, unused railway track still laid and disappearing into infinity. Dried burdock stalks, thistles, rosebushes with hips, and cattails lent autumn hues to the deep green grass, and I seem to remember that a few saskatoonberry bushes and hawthorns flourished near the barn.
Nature took the upper hand.
The marshy landscape felt like wilderness even if we knew that the houses and businesses of Lumby were not far off, and even if the trimming hand of humans had clearly arranged the paths, fences, and other elements. We spotted a reddish deer at the far end of a field. Then a bald eagle flew in. It was hounded at first by a retinue of other birds, but finally perched in a tall, dead tree. There it was soon proudly alone, presumably scanning the marsh beneath for prey. I wondered what it thought of our smartphones and our diligent photography.
Bald eagles have become so rare that I felt honoured to have seen one.
We had, speaking for myself at least, the pleasant sense of being monarchs of all we surveyed when we were alone except for the animal kingdom. – While at the next moment we equally enjoyed the company of locals who were out for a stroll themselves.
We emerged at a bicycle park where cyclists do stunts in better weather, then walked back through the town.
In the yard of a house right at the park, two or three layers of sandbags across the garden hinted that the creek overflowed, flooding the area, at other times of the year.
On a nearby street, a large and small deer that were dark brown, looking like a different species from the white-tailed deer earlier, were roaming the neighbourhood. Three logging trucks passed us before we reached the motel. But I also remember one or two quirky late Victorian or Edwardian buildings surviving into this modern era beside the busy road.
We were culpably late: Uncle Pu was waiting for us.
*
THEN we all set out together to a bakery. It was crammed with customers. It also had a heady selection: plain glazed doughnuts, Boston creme doughnuts, carrot cake, etc. inside the glass-paned counter, and I seem to remember Nanaimo bars and brownies that came in a vegan variant in a refrigerator, and a shelf full of breads in bags near the door. I asked for carrot cake.
Afterward we returned to the motel, eating the doughnuts and carrot cake in Gi.'s motel room. It was nostalgic of the 1970s: in its homelike kitchenette, the gas oven had analogue dials and the flooring was pressed vinyl or linoleum. Earth tones were everywhere.
THIRDLY, we went to a coffee house for breakfast. It was the most hipster establishment I'd seen since leaving Berlin! A sign even informed us that we could order oat milk. (Generally the only concession that British Columbian restaurant menus made was to gluten-free diets, which I wrongly thought had gone out of fashion in the early 2010s.)
Two middle-aged men sitting at the dark wooden tables in the back resembled college professors; one of them was mentioning that it was Friday the 13th. Two young women resembled urban creatives. They were absorbed in their conversations and we felt less like pleasing novelties than on other occasions. Later two paramedics (judging by their work uniforms) drifted in. The café had been recommended by the lady at the dollar store, a hint that it was a community favourite.
The dispenser of recycled paper napkins on our tabletop – not a single fast food restaurant in Canada has bleached white napkins any more – warned us to think of the environment before digging in.
Country music, despite the left-wing, urban vibe, was playing from the kitchen. I think it was modern country music and not Dolly Parton, Johnny Cash etc. classics.
I ordered a California BLT sandwich on multigrain bread. We were recovering from Bitter Mountain and weren't planning to hike again soon, so a lighter meal seemed enough. I was pleased to find that the sandwich's layer of mayonnaise was thin, and that mashed avocado had been layered on the bread too. To drink, I had a hot chocolate, which seemed to be based on chocolate syrup. The others had caffè latte, burgers, and a lumberjack breakfast of sausages with 2 eggs and hash browns and toast.
*
We filled up our gas tank before driving to New Denver; while near Cherryville regular gasoline cost 154.9 cents per litre, here it was 152.9. (I remember when the cost of gas per litre in British Columbia was under 1$...)
As the minivan was grimy after our mountaineering, we went to a car wash.
An automated car wash is to be built in Lumby, according to a sign opposite the supermarket: in the meantime we went to the manual car wash.
You drive your car underneath an open roof, and feed loonies or toonies into a coin drop. Then you wash the car with water spurting out of the long hoses, or soapy water spurting out of the squeegees. You top up the loonies and toonies as needed when the water or soap run out. Perhaps all very ordinary, but as I don't drive a car, it was engrossing.
SoapUncle Pu and Ge. took care of the rinsing, paying, soaping, paying, and rinsing. I sat inside and watched the deluge of water and bubbles, and read the 'menu' beside the coin drop.
Presoak
Tri-Foam Brush
Tire cleaner
Wax
Rain X clear coat
Rinse
Spot free rinse
Feeling more respectable, we drove out into the countryside.
The "thin, spire-like trees" were characteristic of the high altitude, as were my popping ears. Eventually we passed the Monashee Summit, elevation 1241 m, near Struttell Creek.
Another roadside cross paid tribute to someone who had died.
A new sign had something like this wording:
Hunters
To hunt please get permission from owner of property
Above the road, a "shuttered small building advertising ICE CREAM" appeared, I seem to remember. Then the next RUNAWAY LANE appeared.
*
Boater Advisory
Arrow Lakes is a
hydroelectric reservoir.
Be aware of:
* changing water levels
* submerged hazards
* floating debris
BC Hydro
To our delight, we took a half-hourly car ferry at the Needles Ferry Landing. (It is free of charge.) Uncle Pu brought us there just in time for the next sailing, and we rolled on board alongside 2 motorcycles, 1 compact car, 2 pick-ups, 3 RVs, etc. The ferry's journey was brief: in 5 minutes we had already landed on the other bank of the Arrow Lakes and saw a sign, "Welcome to Fauquier."
SET BRAKE, SHUTOFF ENGINE,
REMAIN IN VEHICLE UNTIL
VESSEL HAS DEPARTED
A dark green tugboat floated near logs in the water. Mountains that are still green enough to feel hilly embrace the Lakes, and the Lakes feed hydroelectric dams. The Lakes have such a long circumference that two ferry routes (that I know of) lead across it, to save driving time.
As we drove uphill and downhill through the terrain around Nakusp, the snug-looking houses, gardens with dahlias and other flowers, hedges, and general air of middle-class suburban bliss, resembled southern Vancouver Island.
On the road, at least eight motorcyclists passed us, profiting by the mild temperatures. The unincorporated community of Hills advertised a garlic festival. I tried to guess if the area's climate would be icy and inhospitable in wintertime, or temperate even then.
The road signs suggested the winters were harsh: WATCH FOR BLACK ICE, and SKI AND SNOWBOARD AREA, near an advertisement for the skier's destination Valhalla Hills.
But later we caught sight of another danger: wisps of smoke and steam rising from the uninhabited-looking, hazy blue mountain slopes on the opposite bank of Slocan Lake. When we reached the level of Rosebery, the scent of woodsmoke infiltrated the car. We were wondering if this was an undiscovered wildfire; many signs asked drivers to "Please be careful. Report wildfires," and one such sign was nearby.
Finally we reached New Denver.
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