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From the mountains to the sea
Oct. 2nd, 2002 10:38 pmJasper to the Queen Charlotte Islands (Haida Gawaii)
19/9/02 – 27/9/02.
Hi there again, my faithful fans. All three of you. *grins* It’s time for another bulk update, typed on the fly, so apologies for the quality of typing. I couldn’t take the computer with me to the Islands, so this is being done on the day of posting, and beyond, if I don’t finish. We’re sitting in the hostel in Prince Rupert, waiting for the manager to get back so we can check in and have a shower and sort out the complete chaos tha t is the car – for people travelling light, we certainly added enough stuff to our packs whilst over there.
Jasper to Smithers: 19/09/2002.
With heavy hearts and lowering skies, we took our leave of Mt Edith Cavell and Kat, who had been so hospitable f or the four nights we’d been there. As usual, packing and all was a mammoth undertaking – the thing about car touring is that it’s all too easy to let things get out of hand, throwing stuff into the back seat willy-nilly, and every so often you have to re pack everything. Bike touring or bushwalking is a lot different – you have to carry everything every day, in the one pack, so you repack every time you start off again. Any way, we finally got on the road by mid-morning, and wove our way out of the Rockie s. It was odd, losing the comforting presence of the mountains on all sides, but it was only temporary – British Columbia’s north isn’t shy on mountains itself.
I have to say I don’t have a lot to say about this section. After a couple of weeks of gorgeo us weather, the rain finally arrived, in great big bucketfuls, and there’s something about a warm car, wipers swinging back and forth hypnotically, that puts me to sleep, especially after days and weeks of sleeping on couches and hostel beds and camp mats. So basically I slept, on and off, for about five hours. There was a lunch stop, in Prince George, and much debate about possible places to stop – the Guide wasn’t terribly helpful, practically saying this part of BC wasn’t worth stopping in. But then ag ain, they weren’t trying to drive almost one thousand kilometres in a day.
Eventually we decided to stop in Smithers, especially as it was getting dark and deer were starting to pop out unexpectedly. Deer (and elk and moose) aren’t particularly helpful w hen you’re tired. It took a bit of to-ing and fro-ing, but we eventually found a not-too-expensive motel (no hostels out here, and after the rain, the campsites were a mess) that even had a kitchenette. Which was great, since it meant we could make our ow n dinner and breakfast and save money that way. Things were getting tight, and are a whole lot tighter now, but more of that in its proper time. I also made Gerg watch Pretty In Pink, reliving my high school days. Man, I’d forgotten how bad that mo vie is.
Possibly the most memorable thing about Smithers was the view from the motel carpark – more of those mountains, huge, snow-capped monsters, holding up the sky. I think the sunset was worth the stop. That and the lovely comfy bed.
Smithers to Hyder (Alaska): 20/09/2002.
Having confirmed plans the night before – at one point the motel bed was lost under a sea of maps and pamphlets and guidebooks – we headed north, to Alaska. Mainly so that we could say, "Yes, we went to Alaska." It was a scenic drive – no falling asleep this time! – through the mountains and past yet another glacier: Bear Glacier, this time. Much more impressive and far less crowded with tourists than the Columbia Icefields. Stewart, the town at the end of the road on the Canadi an side, was where they filmed Insomnia, and there are traces round about; mostly autographed pictures in the windows of certain shops, and interesting signatures in the guest books. It’s a nice little town, and we had a wonderful lunch at this caf é/restaurant that made its own bread and had the best chai I’ve tasted in a long while. I bought a mug, mainly because I liked them so much, but also because my personal collection on coffee mugs numbers less than six. Bit of a pain for gatherings and Gre at Australian Slumber Parties.
Once fed, we headed over the border. After a slight misdirection, we found ourselves crossing into the United States, and in this era of ultra-paranoia and jumping through hoops, it was amusing to find that Hyder, Alaska, d oes not in fact have any border controls at all. No Customs, no declarations, no checking of hiking boots for explosives, zip. Guess there aren’t many terrorist targets that far north. Apart from being one of those amusing border towns – think Albury/Wodo nga, those who know it, except you’re changing countries instead of just states – Hyder’s claim to fame is Fish Creek and the salmon run. And the bear viewing platform.
Now, let me state now that despite my paranoia of the Rockies, born of one too many w arning posters, I am starting to believe bears are all a clever Canadian hoax. Like drop bears in Australia. Because, alas, we had arrived too late in the season for the be-furred tourist magnets, and saw instead a lot of dead/dying fish, and many seagull s having themselves a smorgasbord of salmon. Mind you, the fish were pretty cool – salmon runs aren’t usual in Australia, and I’d never seen such big freshwater fish before. Mind you, I don’t live in Queensland.
Having exhausted the possibilities of Fish Creek, and having gone rock and photo-collecting on the river further downstream, we wandered back to Hyder. Of course, I had to have a postcard from Alaska, so we stopped at the amusingly – and appropriately – named Border Bandit, where I secured a post card and experienced small-town rudeness at its finest. Having decided Hyder had offered us all it was going to, we began to head out of town, and then stopped to examine a nifty old building that had once served as a powder magazine. After doing the phot o thing, I found Gerg had wandered into a shop/gallery, and since there were shiny things in the window, I followed him in. I’m glad I did, because not only did I find a birthday prezzie for [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com] (which will be mailed eventually, mate, p robably when I reach Vancouver in a few days’ time), but the owner turned out to be quite chatty and rather interesting to talk to. And she showed me how glass beads were made, which could be something to learn for my retirement years (there is a plan. Mo re of this later).
Finally exhausting every Hyder possibility, we drove out of town, pausing at a small cemetery to change drivers. Seems Gerg wanted to photograph the scenery from the car, but found (from experience – thankfully I was asleep duri ng the experiment!) that driving and cameras don’t mix. So I drove, and I enjoyed it, since it was a bendy road and required me to use the clutch and gears a lot more and helped me dump some of my driving paranoia. And Gerg got some great photos, if the digital ones are anything to go by.
By nightfall we’d reached Terrace, and we ventured into a Denny’s for an experience in chain-store dining. The place was covered with Norman Rockefeller prints, which were more interesting than the food (yes, that blah) and then Gerg took over the driving for Prince Rupert. I fell asleep again (it was dark and I was full of food), and apparently there were deer. And then Prince Rupert, unfortunately too late to get into the hostel, so we roughed it in the next-c heapest motel, which wasn’t too bad.
Prince Rupert: 21/09/2002.
Rupert, as it’s known by the locals, is a quaint little coastal town, existing mainly as the ferry point for the Queen Charlotte Islands and parts south, but with enough quirks to make it i nteresting. It is also famous for it’s rain – the highest rainfall of any place in Canada, and I’d believe it. We had brunch at Cowpaccinos, a coffee shop on Cow Bay, which has a Fresian theme going on; even the fire hydrants have black and white splotche s. I managed to find an old cycling magazine to read over a bagel and the best coffee I’ve had in a while, and Gerg and I got into a lively discussion about cyclists and road rules, particularly the one about passing on the inside at stop lights. Apparent ly that drives Gerg nuts, since he has to keep passing the same cyclist, but I’ve been cut off at the intersection too often by people who don’t signal turns to not put myself out the front where I can get the jump on the traffic when the light cha nges. We didn’t manage to resolve that one.
Finances were examined and re-examined, and it was concluded that catching the Inside Passage ferry down to Vancouver Island from Rupert would be cheaper than the extremely long drive (we’d have to go back to P rince George, as there aren’t any roads for quite a distance from the coastline), and give us a break besides. And there are whales. So when we booked the Islands ferry, we also booked the Passage, and then found ourselves with a day in Rupert, as there w ere no places until the next night’s ferry. And no carspace. We spent the day doing small errands, and then went hiking in the rainforest, to a place called Grassy Bay. I’m hoping Gerg can get the pics up soon, since those describe the walk a lot better t han words. Let’s just say it was wet, muddy and extremely green, and a lot of fun. Except the bit where I slipped on the log. That wasn’t fun at all. Luckily the pain didn’t hit my back until we were almost done, but when it did… ouch. It was my introduction to the wonderful world of back spasms, and I’m hoping it was a one-way trip, since I’m not wanting to relive the experience. Especially the bit when my right arm and leg went pins-and-needles.
Gerg got me back to the hostel and I took some Advil and passed out for a while. He woke me at dinnertime, and things were much better, so we went to the fish and chippery round the corner for local halibut and chips. The place had been given a write-up in the Guide, and it was well deserved. Great stuff. The r est of the evening was spent organising packs for the Islands – no car, remember? – and watching the Magic Picture Box, also known as TV.
ÿr
19/9/02 – 27/9/02.
Hi there again, my faithful fans. All three of you. *grins* It’s time for another bulk update, typed on the fly, so apologies for the quality of typing. I couldn’t take the computer with me to the Islands, so this is being done on the day of posting, and beyond, if I don’t finish. We’re sitting in the hostel in Prince Rupert, waiting for the manager to get back so we can check in and have a shower and sort out the complete chaos tha t is the car – for people travelling light, we certainly added enough stuff to our packs whilst over there.
Jasper to Smithers: 19/09/2002.
With heavy hearts and lowering skies, we took our leave of Mt Edith Cavell and Kat, who had been so hospitable f or the four nights we’d been there. As usual, packing and all was a mammoth undertaking – the thing about car touring is that it’s all too easy to let things get out of hand, throwing stuff into the back seat willy-nilly, and every so often you have to re pack everything. Bike touring or bushwalking is a lot different – you have to carry everything every day, in the one pack, so you repack every time you start off again. Any way, we finally got on the road by mid-morning, and wove our way out of the Rockie s. It was odd, losing the comforting presence of the mountains on all sides, but it was only temporary – British Columbia’s north isn’t shy on mountains itself.
I have to say I don’t have a lot to say about this section. After a couple of weeks of gorgeo us weather, the rain finally arrived, in great big bucketfuls, and there’s something about a warm car, wipers swinging back and forth hypnotically, that puts me to sleep, especially after days and weeks of sleeping on couches and hostel beds and camp mats. So basically I slept, on and off, for about five hours. There was a lunch stop, in Prince George, and much debate about possible places to stop – the Guide wasn’t terribly helpful, practically saying this part of BC wasn’t worth stopping in. But then ag ain, they weren’t trying to drive almost one thousand kilometres in a day.
Eventually we decided to stop in Smithers, especially as it was getting dark and deer were starting to pop out unexpectedly. Deer (and elk and moose) aren’t particularly helpful w hen you’re tired. It took a bit of to-ing and fro-ing, but we eventually found a not-too-expensive motel (no hostels out here, and after the rain, the campsites were a mess) that even had a kitchenette. Which was great, since it meant we could make our ow n dinner and breakfast and save money that way. Things were getting tight, and are a whole lot tighter now, but more of that in its proper time. I also made Gerg watch Pretty In Pink, reliving my high school days. Man, I’d forgotten how bad that mo vie is.
Possibly the most memorable thing about Smithers was the view from the motel carpark – more of those mountains, huge, snow-capped monsters, holding up the sky. I think the sunset was worth the stop. That and the lovely comfy bed.
Smithers to Hyder (Alaska): 20/09/2002.
Having confirmed plans the night before – at one point the motel bed was lost under a sea of maps and pamphlets and guidebooks – we headed north, to Alaska. Mainly so that we could say, "Yes, we went to Alaska." It was a scenic drive – no falling asleep this time! – through the mountains and past yet another glacier: Bear Glacier, this time. Much more impressive and far less crowded with tourists than the Columbia Icefields. Stewart, the town at the end of the road on the Canadi an side, was where they filmed Insomnia, and there are traces round about; mostly autographed pictures in the windows of certain shops, and interesting signatures in the guest books. It’s a nice little town, and we had a wonderful lunch at this caf é/restaurant that made its own bread and had the best chai I’ve tasted in a long while. I bought a mug, mainly because I liked them so much, but also because my personal collection on coffee mugs numbers less than six. Bit of a pain for gatherings and Gre at Australian Slumber Parties.
Once fed, we headed over the border. After a slight misdirection, we found ourselves crossing into the United States, and in this era of ultra-paranoia and jumping through hoops, it was amusing to find that Hyder, Alaska, d oes not in fact have any border controls at all. No Customs, no declarations, no checking of hiking boots for explosives, zip. Guess there aren’t many terrorist targets that far north. Apart from being one of those amusing border towns – think Albury/Wodo nga, those who know it, except you’re changing countries instead of just states – Hyder’s claim to fame is Fish Creek and the salmon run. And the bear viewing platform.
Now, let me state now that despite my paranoia of the Rockies, born of one too many w arning posters, I am starting to believe bears are all a clever Canadian hoax. Like drop bears in Australia. Because, alas, we had arrived too late in the season for the be-furred tourist magnets, and saw instead a lot of dead/dying fish, and many seagull s having themselves a smorgasbord of salmon. Mind you, the fish were pretty cool – salmon runs aren’t usual in Australia, and I’d never seen such big freshwater fish before. Mind you, I don’t live in Queensland.
Having exhausted the possibilities of Fish Creek, and having gone rock and photo-collecting on the river further downstream, we wandered back to Hyder. Of course, I had to have a postcard from Alaska, so we stopped at the amusingly – and appropriately – named Border Bandit, where I secured a post card and experienced small-town rudeness at its finest. Having decided Hyder had offered us all it was going to, we began to head out of town, and then stopped to examine a nifty old building that had once served as a powder magazine. After doing the phot o thing, I found Gerg had wandered into a shop/gallery, and since there were shiny things in the window, I followed him in. I’m glad I did, because not only did I find a birthday prezzie for [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com] (which will be mailed eventually, mate, p robably when I reach Vancouver in a few days’ time), but the owner turned out to be quite chatty and rather interesting to talk to. And she showed me how glass beads were made, which could be something to learn for my retirement years (there is a plan. Mo re of this later).
Finally exhausting every Hyder possibility, we drove out of town, pausing at a small cemetery to change drivers. Seems Gerg wanted to photograph the scenery from the car, but found (from experience – thankfully I was asleep duri ng the experiment!) that driving and cameras don’t mix. So I drove, and I enjoyed it, since it was a bendy road and required me to use the clutch and gears a lot more and helped me dump some of my driving paranoia. And Gerg got some great photos, if the digital ones are anything to go by.
By nightfall we’d reached Terrace, and we ventured into a Denny’s for an experience in chain-store dining. The place was covered with Norman Rockefeller prints, which were more interesting than the food (yes, that blah) and then Gerg took over the driving for Prince Rupert. I fell asleep again (it was dark and I was full of food), and apparently there were deer. And then Prince Rupert, unfortunately too late to get into the hostel, so we roughed it in the next-c heapest motel, which wasn’t too bad.
Prince Rupert: 21/09/2002.
Rupert, as it’s known by the locals, is a quaint little coastal town, existing mainly as the ferry point for the Queen Charlotte Islands and parts south, but with enough quirks to make it i nteresting. It is also famous for it’s rain – the highest rainfall of any place in Canada, and I’d believe it. We had brunch at Cowpaccinos, a coffee shop on Cow Bay, which has a Fresian theme going on; even the fire hydrants have black and white splotche s. I managed to find an old cycling magazine to read over a bagel and the best coffee I’ve had in a while, and Gerg and I got into a lively discussion about cyclists and road rules, particularly the one about passing on the inside at stop lights. Apparent ly that drives Gerg nuts, since he has to keep passing the same cyclist, but I’ve been cut off at the intersection too often by people who don’t signal turns to not put myself out the front where I can get the jump on the traffic when the light cha nges. We didn’t manage to resolve that one.
Finances were examined and re-examined, and it was concluded that catching the Inside Passage ferry down to Vancouver Island from Rupert would be cheaper than the extremely long drive (we’d have to go back to P rince George, as there aren’t any roads for quite a distance from the coastline), and give us a break besides. And there are whales. So when we booked the Islands ferry, we also booked the Passage, and then found ourselves with a day in Rupert, as there w ere no places until the next night’s ferry. And no carspace. We spent the day doing small errands, and then went hiking in the rainforest, to a place called Grassy Bay. I’m hoping Gerg can get the pics up soon, since those describe the walk a lot better t han words. Let’s just say it was wet, muddy and extremely green, and a lot of fun. Except the bit where I slipped on the log. That wasn’t fun at all. Luckily the pain didn’t hit my back until we were almost done, but when it did… ouch. It was my introduction to the wonderful world of back spasms, and I’m hoping it was a one-way trip, since I’m not wanting to relive the experience. Especially the bit when my right arm and leg went pins-and-needles.
Gerg got me back to the hostel and I took some Advil and passed out for a while. He woke me at dinnertime, and things were much better, so we went to the fish and chippery round the corner for local halibut and chips. The place had been given a write-up in the Guide, and it was well deserved. Great stuff. The r est of the evening was spent organising packs for the Islands – no car, remember? – and watching the Magic Picture Box, also known as TV.
ÿr
