The Good, the Bad, the Ugly, and the Beautiful A Week’s Ramble on Canada’s Great Divide Story and photos by Aaron Teasdale The path beneath our tires forked and, This trip would prove no exception. best!” I said to my father as we met by Finland together for fun. as always, I longed to take the path less It was our first day on the Canadian Great chance near the Goat Pond dam at the alter- It quickly became apparent the next traveled. The problem was we knew noth- Divide Route. Our group of four had pedaled nate route’s midpoint. “It’ll be great.” morning that Steve and I existed on oppo- ing about this overgrown trail that peeled out from the tourist-choked streets of Banff, But that’s the thing about rambles into site ends of the gear-packing spectrum. My off into the wilderness, except our Great Alberta that morning and I still clung to the unknown — they’re unknown. Like priority is ultralight; Steve’s is ultra-posh. Divide Mountain Bike Route map’s descrip- a goal of reaching an increasingly distant- a blind date, anything can happen. That’s I eschew panniers and trailers (too heavy), tion of it as an alternate route to Spray Lake seeming campsite that night. But, never part of the excitement. But blind dates can and consider a second pair of socks indul- Reservoir. Potentially very marshy. As some- being one to let the artifice of a schedule go horribly wrong (see: The Crying Game). gent. Steve stuffed his trailer with a camp one constitutionally incapable of sticking to interfere with a quality adventure, in the end With Dad at my side, the lovely grassy path chair, a full-sized pillow, several books, and, predetermined routes, I’m easily seduced by there was little suspense — I was powerless promptly turned into a much-less-lovely shockingly, four bags of wine. Fortunately, such things as “alternate routes,” especially to resist the alternate route. grassy bog. Pushing through marshes and he proved more than up to the task of car- when, like this one, they circumvent busy Bidding farewell to my father and our portaging our bikes across deep, fast-flowing rying the extra weight, and it didn’t take us and supernaturally dusty dirt roads. A pass- friends Ron and Steve, who didn’t share my brooks, the route had become a micro- long to see the beauty of having evening ing pair of mountain bikers — one with a enthusiasm for unknown and “potentially cosm of the potential and pitfalls of wilder- wine at camp. gashed shin, the other with what looked like very marshy” byways, I followed the over- ness detours. I’d gone from having sunny, Our second day’s ride was the finest of a freshly broken nose — knew nothing of grown trail down to Goat Creek, forded its Thoreau-like epiphanies to dragging my the trip and one of the best, most scenic rides the trail either, but enthusiastically offered, knee-high current, and was promptly alone father through a swamp in only a few short of my touring career. Here the Great Divide “What’s the worst that could happen?” in the wilderness. Pedaling a dry, rolling miles. That’s the thing with these explora- Route follows a deteriorating dirt road, now Wrong question (answer: broken things, doubletrack littered with wolf and moose tions — they’re never boring. gated and closed to cars, that wraps around grizzly bears). The right and tantalizing scat along the base of the Goat Range, the Our plan for the week ahead was to enjoy the west side of the mountain-ringed Spray question was, “What’s the best that could green forest corridor delivered on every a relaxed spin along the northern stretch of Tower of Power. There’s no missing the coal mines in British Columbia’s Elk Valley. Lake reservoir. Soon evolving into perfect happen?” How good and remote and inter- bit of its alternate-route promise. This is the world’s longest mountain-bike route, rid- ride farther in a week, but I’ve never been not only made us feel gratifyingly rugged, but touring singletrack, the route ducks into esting could it be? That’s the question that why I bike tour — gliding silently through ing 160-ish miles from Banff, Alberta south interested in simply riding a bike quickly helped put things in perspective. As we sat moist forest where wooden bridges delivered fuels my forays into the unknown. That’s wild country never fails as an invigorating to the coal-mining town of Sparwood, British through a place — I want to tromp up its on the lakeshore watching the last sunlight us across crystal-clear creeks, side explora- the eternal question that lures me into the reminder of the raw beauty of life and our Columbia, primarily through mountain val- mountainsides, loll on its riverbanks, and kiss the eastern summits, Dad said, “It’s a tions led to hidden waterfalls, and one off- hinterlands, to glory and disaster, to a trip’s insignificance in its vast, timeless theater. leys, with one crossing of the Continental explore its hidden folds and creases. pretty good day when the worst thing that route ramble (like I said: constitutionally best and worst moments, again and again. “C’mon, Dad, the alternate route is the Divide at the trip’s midpoint. Sure, we could We made a fire with driftwood that eve- happens is the stove not working.” We all incapable) brought me a glimpse of a moun- ning near our campsite on the pebbly shore agreed that this was true. I decided not to tain lion disappearing into the woods. of Banff National Park’s Spray Lake, short of mention our battle with the marsh, which As we climbed up and away from the my goal, but — with a sprawling cerulean was already feeling less disastrous and more reservoir on a wildflower-lined doubletrack pool in front of us, peaks on all sides, and heroic with each passing hour. in the evening’s golden light, we discussed the lakeshore to ourselves — it was so over- Dad and I have been taking backcountry where to camp. “We camp where we camp,” whelmingly beautiful that I couldn’t have trips every summer since I was 10 years old. Dad said. “We’ve got no agenda — we’re on cared less. The fire was not only lovely and a For many of those years, Ron, my father’s best vacation.” The downside of this otherwise great place to dry my and Dad’s soggy shoes, friend and a died-in-the-wool New Yorker, has appealingly carefree philosophy was revealed but necessary for dinner — we’d discovered joined us and provided both intentional and when we overshot the reservoir’s campsites, shortly after arriving that our camp stove unintentional comic relief. Steve was a newer savagely bonked in search of a decent place was completely nonfunctional. (Note to self: friend of my father’s. A 65-year-old cycling to pitch our tents, and finally gave up, sleep- check campstoves before weeklong trips.) maniac, he and my father were geezer-athlete ing ingloriously off the side of a dirt road. Cooking Boy Scout–style over an open flame kindred spirits who did things like ski across Unfortunately there are no alternate Waterside cruising. It doesn’t get any better than the riding along Alberta’s Spray Lake Reservoir. 12 a d v e n t u r e c y c l i s t j u l y / a u g u s t 2008 adventurecycling . o r g a d v e n t u r e c y c l i s t j u l y / a u g u s t 2008 adventurecycling . o r g 13 whipped up a gourmet (by our remarkably low standards) freeze-dried dinner in no time, savored our cup of wine, jumped naked into the lake to rinse off the day’s copious dust, and watched the sunset paint the cir- rus-streaked sky blazing rose before tucking into our down cocoons and nylon shelters for the night. I was hopeful for the next day, as the route promised to deliver us from the tourist’s wilderness of Alberta national parks to what I hoped would be the more remote wilderness of British Columbia’s Elk Valley. The next day, the fourth of the trip, delivered a climb up what our map all- too-accurately described as “a virtual wall” over the 6,443-foot Elk Pass and across the Continental Divide. (“What’s this?” Ron said. “No one said anything about a virtual wall.”) The route here follows a powerline corridor which had been recently buzzed of all trees — as a certified nature geek who relishes escaping the hum of modern soci- ety, I did not celebrate this. But powerlines or no, by coming over Elk Pass we’d left the RVs behind and now stood on the brink of another world. The head of Elk Valley is over 40 miles of dirt road from the nearest town, and for the first time since the little-traveled shores of Spray Lake, it felt as if we were someplace remote and out of easy reach. This was good. Even better was that the head of the valley harbors Elk Lakes Provincial Park, a hidden gem of the Canadian park system. Camping there, on the shores of Elk Lake, proved the finest single decision of our trip. A magnificent sprawl of high mountains Above the spray.