Kamloops: A City I Barely Saw

I arrived in Kamloops late at night after a long flight with delays at both Toronto and Calgary airports. I punched the hotel address into the GPS and pulled out onto the streets, as always excited by the first few minutes in a new city just waiting to be explored, but somewhat anxiously disoriented as I drove on unfamiliar streets in the dark. Not knowing the city at all I was relying on the GPS to guide me and at one point I realized that I had done a complete circle- twice- of an on ramp/off ramp circuit as I tried to follow the GPS directions. The electronic map didn't want to take into account that there was a mountain blocking me from turning left, as per her direction. (note to therapist: GPS becomes female when it pisses me off..)Tired and frustrated I found myself reasoning with the electronic voice, arguing and finally yelling at the damn thing. The problem when arguing with the GPS is that it doesn't respond in any way to my screams, swears and insults.. just repeats herself gently over and over. She has won her share of our battles this way over the last year even though she misleads then belittles me over and over again.

She knows I'll never throw her out the window.

I eventually found my hotel and settled in for the night, waking to a city nestled in a valley at the meeting of a lake and river surrounded by a circle of gently rising, soft brown mountains. I wanted to explore immediately but work kept me busy for the first couple of days and wind and rain kept me mostly inside during the evenings. I cruised around town a bit but for the first time in the last couples of months in BC I didn't see anything very interesting in town. With the exception of a pretty raucous night in the bar at Rik's Place with a group of bachelorette party-ers I spent my days at work and my evenings at the hotel. 

A break from work and the emergence of the sun coincided one afternoon and I headed for the hills. Kenna Cartwright Park is a municipal park containing 40kms of trail that lead right up into those hills, nothing too extreme but perfect for a day hike.With water, camera, map AND hiking shoes (oh, the pleasure of having the right shoes for once) I took off up the path, quickly shedding layers in the emerging sun. The  many trails in the park lead in every direction but I had previously decided to hike the 'Tower Trail' which would take me to the highest part of the park, and hopefully offer amazing views of the city and the surrounding area. I followed the dirt and gravel single lane service road as it climbed about 250 meters in elevation over the 2km path straight up to a radio tower on the top pf Mount Dufferin, the highest elevation in town. 

 I huffed my way up the climb checking out the glimpses of scenery through the trees and when I crested the hill I was rewarded with great views of the Thompson River, Lake Kamloops, part of the city itself and the surrounding hills of  Mara Mountain, and Mts. Peter and Paul.  I continued hiking, now following along the Ridge Trail for a couple of kilometers until I lost sight of the city, and enjoyed some good ups and downs up rocky inclines and back down into softer grasslands until I lost sight of the city and eventually found myself at the top of a high hill gazing out over a valley of soft  wheatgrass and scrub brush that sloped down to Kamloops Lake and the Thompson River valley

Wow.. what a spot.

I spent almost an hour in that amazing natural setting, looking at the rocks and trees, taking pictures and just enjoying the scenery before heading back on the other side of the ridge that had led me up to the radio tower. This side of Mount Dufferin was covered in sloping meadows of waist high straw-like wheatgrass and Upper Doug Daws Path led me through the meadows and into the forests that stand between the rocky hill and the lake below and back to the car. I rode back to the hotel with my stomach rumbling after about 10 kilometers of hiking already planning tomorrows hike.

I returned the next day in the late afternoon to explore another part of the park. I had seen hints of the areas in BC that are officially classified as semi-arid desert, the week I spent in the Princeton/Penticton area certainly was as dry as anywhere I've been and was hoping the 'Prickly Pear Cactus Trail' would give me more exposure to the desert scenery that I've been craving more of.

The first couple of kilometers of the trail starts by winding around steep rock outcroppings and tall Ponderosa pines until I come across a sharp turn at a barbed wire fence with a warning sign. This is the edge of the public park space and borders on a provincial penitentiary. 'Keep Out' signs are every 20 meters or so along one side of the path and for once I obey.

I followed the dirt path as it opened up into a dry valley of stunted pine, more sagebrush and yes, prickly pear cactus plants. It's been a dream of mine for some time to hike and camp in the deserts of Washington or Arizona, to set up a tent next to a big barrel cactus or rock hoodoo and I stopped and took in the surroundings thinking this must be close to what I might find on that imagined backpacking trip south. I hiked through the dry landscape along the Ponderosa Trail which leads almost 6 kilometers around the edge of the park and then back along Big Pine to complete the loop back to where I had parked, stopping often to take pictures and admire the strange and dramatic landscape of the park that had quickly become one of my favourite hiking spots across the country.

The last afternoon in town in decided to get in the car and drive out of town on the highway to see if I could find a way further up into the mountains. Cruising the highways burning gas needlessly is not something I often do but I hadn't found much in town and with rain clouds threatening to burst I didn't want to get caught hiking in the mostly open ground of Kena Cartwright Park in a storm. I spent an hour or so on the roads looking for access to higher ground but everything was marked private or was designated as a service road only so when I saw a sign pointing off the Coquihalla Highway to Inks Lake I turned off the concrete onto a rough, pitted dirt and gravel road that led me deep into a jack pine forest. The road eventually ended at a large clearing where several pickups and random ATVs were scattered about. I pulled my Ford Focus 2 alongside a massive truck with tires that stood as tall  as my car, making it look more fit for clowns or Shriners and headed in the opposite direction of the revving engines I could hear in the bush, hoping to find quiet and maybe Inks Lake.

It was an a startling change of scenery from the trails I had walked in KC Park in Kamloops. The dense forest was scattered with a dozen different ATV trails, none of them marked so I followed the one that was headed downhill thinking that the lake might be that way but after 45 minutes of ups and down and intersecting trails there was no sign of water. With no map to guide me further and not wanting to get lost in the maze of trails I decided to cut through the brush along a what appeared to be a animal trail (hopefully not a bear path) and find a nice spot to sit and have a snack and generally enjoy some solitude in the forest. I followed the path through the trees to a clearing soft grass and trees rotting into the ground naturally where the fell, a perfectly quiet place to sit and rest.


Les Stroud camera shot

I was messing around with my cameras, looking for interesting shots in the quiet forest and was pretty focused on trying to balance the tripod mounted camera on a tree branch when I was surprised by the sound of animals in the trees behind me. I grabbed my stuff and moved away as quickly as I could into the brush at the side of the clearing, my heart beating loudly as I glanced over my shoulder. I kept moving until I was about 100 meters away and then crept back slowly when I realized I wasn't in any danger. Hoping to spot a deer, nervous about coming face to face with a moose I was surprised to see herd of cows was moving up the path I had just taken down from the ATV trails and into the clearing.  As I was noticed one of them let out a loud 'mooo'.  These were extremely big cows (at least to this city boy) but nothing to be scared of and I chuckled to myself sheepishly as I headed away up the path back to the car, thinking about some of my past close encounters in the 'wild' with other ferocious animals like the  invisible tigers and sinister beavers of Killarney Provincial Park.

On the way back to the highway I passed a large sign that I had somehow missed on the way in that explained the area was a mixed use area that contained traditional grazing grounds as well as trails for bikes and ATVs.  The sign also had a satellite image of the park  that showed the path I had taken to the clearing was the border of the grazing ground and that I had encroached on the cows turf, which may be why they were a bit standoffish, and I drove on thankful it wasn\t a bull's pen I had wandered into.

That pretty much wrapped up my trip to Kamloops. It was strange to leave the city without ever really seeing it but I was more than content with the time I had spent in Kenna Cartwright Park, exploring the trails, looking for cactus and running from the cows at Inks Lake.

I was up and out of the hotel before the sun rose and hit the airport button on my GPS as I pulled out of the hotel parking lot and it directed me to turn right when I was very sure I needed to go left. I paused for a moment and then pulled out.. and to the left. When I heard her voice tell me, condescendingly of course, to 'when possible, take a u-turn' I turned the unit off. A half kilometer down the road I see a sign directing me to the airport.

Everyone once in awhile I win.

Princeton and Beyond Part 3: Penticton and back again.

I woke up with the light of the sun rising over the hills and streaming through my hotel window. It was early but I almost jumped out of bed eager to start the day. The city of Penticton was out there waiting for me to explore and I wanted to make the most of the time I had left. I had approximately 10 hours before two colleagues would be landing in town, marking the end of my solo exploring time and forcing a return to Princeton, the old gold rush town where my adventure had started five days ago.

I had stopped in to see a friend who worked in town and had an open invitation to a backyard beer and barbecue day but with co-workers coming, I had to stick to their schedule and couldn't make it work so I was planning on staying on my own for the day. I sent a early morning message to him thanking him for the invite and then went down to the chain restaurant attached to the hotel and had a massive breakfast, took a few minutes to pack up and then checked out of the hotel.

The sun was absolutely beaming down and even although it wasn't even 9am the temperature was already in the high 90's. Seeing that I was steps for one of the two beaches in town I decided to start the day there. I grabbed a coffee at the Starbucks and wandered down to the beach where I could still catch a Wi-Fi signal from the coffee shop and check out what there was to do in town.

My first stop after the beach was a driving tour of the city and especially the eastern edge of town that was home to dozens of vineyards and wineries. I had no interest in touring the famous Okanagan vineyards but wanted to get a sense of the country that they existed in. Winding roads into the hills that surround Penticton led me to an interesting mix of residential areas that were spattered with world class wine producing estates, the grape vines ran between, in front and behind the homes and signs along the streets invited passersby in for tasting and, of course, buying.

 The road eventually would lead me to Munson Mountain where there was a short hike to a lookout point that gave a great view of the two lakes that border the city as well as its downtown, vineyards, and surrounding mountains. Standing at the top of the ridges that surround the Okanagan I thought this must be what areas of California must be like as the Great Northern Basin Desert that runs through the northern USand into southern British Columbia brings the same dry, moderate temperatures to both wine producing areas. I spent some time taking in the scenery and snapping pictures before I headed back to the car and back into the city.

Penticton is a small but pretty cool city, with pubs and patios and shops and I had a blast wandering around exploring the streets. A constant hope as I explore strange cities is that I come across a local record store and I was lucky enough to find one in town. I had a great chat with the friendly and welcoming woman that owned the shop and as I browsed thorough the vinyl I shared some of the stories of places and things that I had seen over the last week in the area. With a few classic records under arm I was on my way out when she suggested a great local restaurant for lunch and, famished, I headed right over. The Walla Artisan Bakery and Cafe was a quaint little hole in the wall that was perfect. An amazingly good lentil soup and mushroom sandwich satisfied the vegetarian grumbling of my stomach and I ate contentedly as I watched and listened as regular locals came and went buying fresh baked artisan breads and chatted with the friendly staff.

My belly attended to, I wanted to relax for the last few hours before my co workers arrived and decided to check out the other, larger beach in town. I love beaches. Baking in the sun with a book and a couple of cold (hidden under knapsack) beers, feeling the hot sand between my toes as both sun and beer lubricate my head is a Top 10 moment for me and seemed like a perfect way to quietly spend my last couple of hours alone.

Except.. when I got to Skaha beach on the other side of town I found the parking lot and surrounding streets jammed with cars and after a half kilometer walk from where I had to park I found the beach area just as busy with people. Edging closer to the lake I dodged through a small city of tents and people I gradually became aware (the piles of paddles and assorted gear were solid clues) that I had stumbled into a national dragon boat racing event. Dozens of teams had gathered in Penticton and a large crowd of paddlers and their supporters were occupying the entire area. I found at spot in the sand not far from the water where I could watch the races and then generally soaked up the almost 40 degree sun for the rest of the afternoon.

My two co-workers were just touching down as I pulled into the small regional airport and I met them in shorts, flip-flops, shades and a half-unbuttoned shirt at the baggage claim (I wasn't on shift until 8am the next morning and was staying in beach bum mode as long as possible!)  I suggested dinner before we headed to Princeton, as the food options would be limited later and we headed to a local pub where the food was marginal, the service slow but the views were excellent from the second floor patio.

We sped around town picking up a few necessities for my  A. who's luggage would not arrive until the next evening and we headed out onto the mountain highway for the 90 minute drive to Princeton. My two passengers oohed and aahed as we plunged in and out of the valleys and up and around the steep mountainsides, snapping pictures of mountains and avalanche and mountain goat crossing warning signs. In between the oohs and aahs I related some of my adventures from over the last week and gave the rundown on the dodgy hotel and small western town I was taking them to for the next few days.

My old friend the desk clerk had dressed up (for my two female companions I presume) electing for a full T-shirt with his cutoff jean shorts instead of a tank top and proudly assigned us our rooms. A. was the lucky one that got 'the new bed' room while I had the same room I was in a few days ago. The clerk was interested to hear about where I had spent the last few days and I stayed downstairs and related a few stories about the strange town of Coalmont and Otter Lake and the dragon boats at Skaha Beach before heading up to my room.

 (The dead flies that I had waged war against 6 nights ago still lay in their final resting place on the washroom floor, a testament to the high cleaning standards at this old neglected hotel.. I continued to use my sleeping bag and pack pillow instead of the provided bed clothes for the rest of the week.)

The rest of the week was mostly uneventful. The three of us worked during the day and ate at the Brown Bridge Pub each nigh and generally enjoyed the slow pace of live in small town BC. We marvelled at scenery and the deer as they wandered around town and watched the old prospectors, miners and cowboys wander with about the same urgency.

Arriving at the front desk of the 'hotel' early ready to check out on the last morning in town the three of us found ourselves staring across a dark unmanned counter. We rang the bell and called and waited impatiently Eventually a guy in a suit (the first tie I saw the entire week that wasn't cowboy-bolero style). It turned out the entire staff had  been relieved overnight. The woman who took three day to find me an ironing board gone, the tank top and jean short sporting desk clerk gone, even the cleaning ladies that had been congregating in the room next to mine for morning coffee and cigarettes each morning were gone.  And no-one at the hotel had any idea how to check the three of us out. We were late already and left our room keys and email addresses and credit card information and hit the Crowsnest Highway one last time.

Flying back across the country I thought about what a blast I had had touring around that slow dry western part of the country. I thought about passing through the old prospecting towns and exploring lakes and valleys and mountain passes and most of all the chance meetings with strangers and conversations with people who have nothing to do but talk. People like Marge Gunderson, the nutty provincial park officer, and attractive girls and their grandmothers that sell fruit at the side of the road in the Okanagan Valley, and especially Art (.. or Bart or Bert) who appeared out of nowhere on a cold morning and treated me to a lift and a story.

Princeton and Beyond Part 3: The Kettle Valley Trail

Sometimes I spend a week in a city and have virtually nothing to say about it when I return. (Notice there are no entries in this blog about Orangeville or Binbrock, Ontario and Timmins... well, I'm trying to stop slagging that place so much so I won't talk about how dull, dreary and depressing it was). This trip to Princeton, BC was so full of experiences though that I could write a dozen journals, this blog is about one of those experience that stands on it's own.

I previously glossed over the bunch of hours I spent looking for the KVR trail, talking about the KVR trail and eventually walking the KVR trail. Part of the reason I drove so far along the highway was because I knew (from my kitchen buddy at the Brown Bridge Pub in Princeton) that the trail followed the highway for the most part and I was looking for a good access point. Trail signs, or access to the trail signs, are not posted anywhere along the highway, or detailed on the all mighty Internet, so it was a matter of dodging on and off the highway, leaving the car on the side of the road and scouting for a spot to leave the rental and start hiking. I'd leave my own car anywhere, unlocked with the keys in the ignition. I'd even put up a welcome sign. This was a rental, even if it was a car more suited to clowns or Shriners, and the last thing I needed was too explain to the boss how my car got lost or stolen.

I knew the trail ran straight through the town of Coalmont so I was backtracking, driving back along the same mountain route I had passed through earlier in the day. The road snaked through the Similkameen Valley past lush green meadows and pastures and climbed into the hills at the edge of the Cascade Mountains and my only wish was to be walking the route instead of driving it.

Looking at scenery through a windshield limits the scope of the scene, like when you try to put a picture frame around it. You have to be in the scene, without borders, to really see the 'wow'.

I pulled into Coalmont and parked next to the sign indicating the Kettle Valley Trail. Stepping out into the dusty street I still wasn't sure about leaving the car and put off the decision for a few minutes by pulling out my camera for the obligatory snapshot to prove I was there. I was messing around, trying to attach the tripod to a tree with an old shoelace I found when an old pickup drove by very slowly, turned and pulled up next to me. I looked up, untied the tripod and said hello.

The driver was a local, and looked like he had been local for at least a couple of hundred years. Lines and creases crossed his face deeply and ended only when deeper lines and creases intersected their path across his skin. An amazingly huge set of ears and equally massive nose stuck out from the wrinkles- I mention this not to make fun but only to point out how old the guy must have been for the rest of his skull to shrink so much. He was very friendly and it wasn't long before he was talking about the town and the trail that ran through it. I told him where I was going and  he assured me it was ok to leave the car overnight and then we started chatting as he knew the KVR trail pretty well, remembering coal trains hauling full loads out of the mountains right up along the path I planned on walking. He introduced himself as Art.. or Arch. Bart.. Bert maybe. I'm not sure, names are like gibberish unless you wear a Hi my name is.. badge when I meet you. It didn't help that Art/Bart/Arch had long ago lost the ability or at least the desire to keep teeth in his mouth and had also, therefore lost the ability to pronounce many of the common sounds we call words.

-You gonna carry that thing all the way to Tulomen?

 It was my backpack he was looking at.

-Yes sir, it's got my tent and my food.

-You wanna ride to Tulomen?

I explained that I was in the mood to hike a bit, to see the country by foot and arrive at camp under my own steam. He looked at me for a minute or two without saying anything and I shifted a little uncomfortably, not sure how to break off the conversation but antsy to take my picture and get moving.

-I could take it for you?

He explained he was on the way to Tulomen and could drop of my pack right at the corner where the trail rejoins the road right next to the provincial park I was headed to for the night. I like hiking- a lot, but I would always rather do it without 30 pounds on my back. The guy seemed completely honest and helpful and kind and I decided to trust in that small town vibe and maybe a bit of  karma and assume the pack would be waiting for me 6.5km down the road.

The wide trail follows the path of the old Kettle Valley Railway and runs pretty much straight and flat through the meadows of the valley between Coalmont and Tulomen and then another 80 kms north and south from there. It wasn't the most interesting trail, often just a dirt path lined by tall pines that blocked any view except for the path ahead but as I trekked along the edge of farms and ranches I came through an amazingly beautiful meadow and a great exposed cliff of red ochre before the trail climbs up slightly out of the trees and ran to the side of the highway at the edge of the small cottage town of Tulomen.

I could see my pack resting on a post ahead of me as I turned into Otter Lake  (I knew I could trust Art!) and I smiled knowing that that was probably the easiest hike into a Provincial Park that I'd ever have. As I swung my pack onto my back, the park attendant pulled up in a pickup, shouted greetings and instruction to find any available spot and left me in a dusty cloud as she pulled away.

The provincial park was almost full, busier than I would have expected for this late in the fall and all the prime spots by the lacke were reserved so I dropped my pack on an interior side within a short walk of the waters edge and started setting up my tent. Car spots suck for tents, with gravelly hard packed ground that bent my tent pegs as I tried to drive them in. Making use of rocks and dead branches to support the lines I set up my tent and was just making a quick lunch when Marge returned in her pickup to register my spot for the night. She asked a 100 probing questions as she filled in the paperwork about who I was and why I was camping and did it all in a voice eerily reminiscent of Marge Gunderson, the quirky cop from the movie Fargo. I was tempted to introduce myself as Jerry and ask if she had a wood chipper available for the night but decided to answer the questions politely and get onto the business of relaxing. Marge took off shortly after and I finished my lunch and headed to down to the lake for an afternoon of reading and writing (and drinking beer)on the beach.

With darkness coming on early as the sun set behind the mountains surrounding the lake and a campfire ban in effect I retired to my tent and lay down, trying to avoid the sharp rocks digging into my back and listened to the sounds of the park around me.

Usually when camping I fall asleep to the sounds of loons and frogs at the lake and animals moving in the forest but this night I drifted off to the sounds of parents yelling at excited children, RV's backing up in the dark and Marge Gunderson circling around the campsites calling goodnight, friendly but loudly, to campers in the night.

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The cold morning had me up early the next day and I packed up and hit the road. There was a fire ban across most of the BC interior and without being able to light a campfire I needed to move to warm up. The road back to the trail leads through the sleepy town of Tulemen and I had stopped at a park by the lake in town to dig my hat and gloves out of the pack when a pickup pulled up right in front of me.

It was Bert!

 He called out a good morning and we chatted for a minute about how chilly it was and then he asked if I wanted a ride back into town. It sure seemed like he had been expecting me to be there at that park by the lake early in the morning and it felt wrong to say no to the ride.  I had seen enough of the KVR trail and jumped at the chance for a lift so threw my pack into the back of the truck and climbed into the cab. It was only a fifteen minute drive back to Coalmont but it seemed much longer as my ancient friend talked about his life as a miner, first gold and then coal. I got out a short time later at the rental car and thanked Art for the lift and the stories. I didn't tell him so but the ride back from Otter Lake was the best part of the trip.

I finished getting the pictures that I had wanted to snap the day before and then changed out of my long johns and drove slowly down the street of Coalmont before pulling back onto the Crowsnest Highway, happy just to follow the road and watch the scenery and think. I found myself thinking a lot about how great it was to randomly met a guy like Art, what an amazing mood our meeting had put me in and about how weird it was to meet him again in the early morning again in a way that  seemed so random. It's those kind of meetings that feel like there is something to learned from the experience, some knowledge or insight to be gained and I drove thinking about what it might be.

 Mostly though I just thought about Art, and wondered if that was indeed his name.