Day 1 and done (for a week)

I fly into Edmonton, Alberta; then take a bus to Jasper, then take a train to McBride, BC. It takes 3 days.

On day one, I get up around 6 and Sean from Robson Backcountry Adventures picks me up at 7 at my little humble motel next to the highway in McBride.  Sean is local to McBride, living here with his wife and young daughter.  It takes about 2 hours to drive from McBride, up the highway to the turnoff for the Walker Forest Service road, and then farther and farther up and into the backcountry.  I enjoy listening to Sean tell me about living in McBride, the experience of his daughter’s birth in this very remote area, and just conversation about hiking, business, the wilderness, and life.

A few days ago, the Forest service had closed Walker Creek Road at kilometer 51, because several of the bridges over creeks on the road had been deemed to be unsafe.  The forest service had placed 3 massive cement blocks in the road to prevent any vehicles from continuing onwards. 

Sean drops me off at about 9 am and I start walking up Walker Creek road.  I have 31 miles now to Kakwa Lake.  8 years ago, when I hiked most of the Great Divide Trail, this road was in much better shape and was frequently being used by recreationalists; even so; I remember that my hiking partner on that trail, Adi, ran out of food and only was able to get a hitch about 20 miles from the highway.  That’s significantly more walking on this road than I will have to do.

I make good time in the sunshine along the well-graded part of the road, despite my backpack which is heavy with 8 days of food. 

I’ll have to average 20.5 miles per day to make it all the way to Mount Robson on this amount of food, so I’m trying to hustle as much as possible on this easy part.  I stop around noon on a little bridge over a creek and meet 3 German hikers who are exiting where I entered.  I ask them how the conditions on the trail have been.

“Cold, and wet.  We had snow even a few days ago.  But it’s been nice the past few days,” one of the women tells me.  Incredibly they have been navigating just with paper maps, no GPS.  I text Sean on my Inreach and let him know that they will be at the cement barricade this evening; they are coordinating with him to be picked up.

I continue hiking along the road into the afternoon and early evening.  The road degrades in quality; willows have grown in on both sides but it still isn’t too bad.  I reach the Bastille Creek bridge and the official end of the driveable road.  Immediately the road is a complete mess of mud, deep ruts filled with opaque puddles; and overgrown weeds.  I pass fresh bear scat and don’t pay it too much mind.

At about 19 miles, the road completely washes out into Magregor River, which is a large braided fast waterway, milky with glacial silt.  I slowly climb over a large tree jam and think “man, I’m out of practice with making these line-of-travel decisions; I should have veered into the forest here.”  At the next place the road disappears into the river, I bushwhack into the thick forest.  I don’t see any boot track, but slowly make my way around the washout through the thick underbrush.  I see a pile of three huge old trees on their sides, coated in thick moss; I clamber up onto them to climb over.  In the middle, the rotten log disintegrates under me and I fall hard into the tree.  I look down.

Oh, fuck.

A branch had been protruding out and had caught the side of my leg as I fell.  I stare with uncomprehending eyes at a large hole in my calf, filling with blood; there are bits of connective tissue on the branch that caught me.  It reminds me of watching a C section in the operating room and how it looks as the layers are being closed.

The blood is starting to drip down my leg into my sock, but it isn’t spurting or running fast.  “I must not have hit an artery,” I think.  I try a couple of practice steps; my leg muscles and use don’t seem to be affected.  But looking at the wound, I know there is no way I can safely continue farther into the backcountry.

I turn around and slow clamber back out the way I have come.  I text Sean on my Inreach, “can you come get me tomorrow?  I had an accident.”  He texts back, “can you get back to the trailhead?”  I consider this for a moment.  The sun is sinking low in the sky; I think about the messy, slippery, overgrown trail and my level of fatigue currently; I have walked about 20 miles today now.  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. But I can camp now and walk back tomorrow.”  A few minutes later he texts back, “ok. I made some calls. You are getting rescued tonight by the Kakwa Snowmobile Club.”

I figure it will be awhile before anyone is able to get to me, and I’m honestly not even sure how that will work, considering the state of the “road” to this point.  I set up my tent and get in my sleeping bag.  In this moment I feel very alone.  The river running next to me sounds mournful; a lone beaver is swimming in circles a little ways away in the evening light; he hits the water with his tail a few times, indicating he’s aware of my presence.

Running water can play tricks on your mind.  It can sound like people talking, or laughing; your ears are straining for a familiar sound, but all that remains is the rush of water.  I eat some dinner and try to stop listening to the glacially fed river running beside me.

In the dark; around 10 pm, I think I hear a motor.  Once again I strain to listen; and sure enough, the engine gets louder and louder; then a light grows in the forest.  A few seconds later a side by side (large ATV) pops out in front of me, a horn beeps.  Out steps a gentleman in his 60s with a work shirt and a white handlebar moustache.

“Oh, you’re all set up to camp, hey?  Well let’s get your things in the buggy there.”

In kind of a daze, I clumsily bundle my tent and things into my black plastic trash bag and put it in the back of the side by side.  He starts the trek back out.  “You can hold onto that handle there, it’s going to be a little rough,” he tells me.  He plunges on fearlessly into the dark woods on the messy trail.  I cannot believe how well he is able to drive this vehicle on these conditions.  Up and down and side to side, we careen over impossibly deep ruts, into water-filled potholes, and back out again.  I mention this, he simply says “oh well, I know this road pretty good, I’ve been here for 35 years.”

We finally make it back to the dirt road and pick up the speed.  He’s making conversation, and in front of me in the headlights I see a pair of antlers.  Once again my brain is trying to catch up.  “Look, look”, I say, pointing.  A massive bull moose materializes in front of us, running on the road.  “Oh, you asshole, get out of the way,” my driver chides the moose; as if he’s talking about morning commute traffic on a Tuesday.  The moose continues to gallop in front of us for a few minutes before turning off into the woods.

We get back to Lee’s camp at 12:30am.  His grown son and his son’s wife are sitting under a gazebo around a campfire.  “What took you so long?” His son asks.  “Damn moose in the road,” Lee simply says.  I set my tent up for the second time this evening in between the two RVs and pass out, beyond exhausted.

Over the following days, Lee and his wife Rita help me access medical care in Prince George and check in on me several times.  Their kindness truly knows no bounds.  I finally come to terms with the fact that I won’t be doing the GDT section at Kakwa this year- there’s no way that I can be fording all of those big rivers with a hole in my leg.

I make the best of the situation, flying to Calgary and renting a car and then driving on a little road trip. Even though I was in this general area eight years ago, I didn’t actually explore very much beyond the trail and the most proximal towns to the trail.  It’s funny how you really don’t get a sense of an area if you just thru-hike through; hiking takes up all of your focus.

I spend a few days in Nelson, BC; a little hippie artistic town at the southern end of the province.  I meet a few local folks and have some fun conversations; I sleep a lot.  From there, I drive all the way to Golden, BC to stay at a “glamping” setup called Camp Moose Trail.

I’ve never “glamped” before but was utterly delighted by this particular camp.  Owner Mike has put a ton of effort into making a comfortable, fun, social camp.  I met some wonderful folks in my three days and had many connective conversations.  When you’re traveling, it’s interactions like these that you remember afterwards, and it keeps you warm inside for months.

From their website.

I also do a couple of day hikes in Yoho national park, including the world famous Iceline Trail.  Hilariously I didn’t see any of this when I thru hiked the GDT because it is next to “section D”, the notoriously worst part of the entire GDT.  It’s amusing to me that this beautiful hike is just on the other side of the ridge from section D, and I could have been hiking here instead of sweating and swearing in the overgrown “trail”.

Finally I return to Calgary, drop off the car, and take a bus all the way to Coleman, BC to hike the second part of the GDT that I missed in 2018 because of fire closures.