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.