Garrett here, writing from the western edge of the continent! A few more kilometres east of here, actually, and I'd be sitting soggy in the Pacific. Yes -- after 5500 km of cycling, we're in Victoria! For those keeping track, this marks the completion of the first third of our tour.
It's probably redundant to explain just how much of a milestone this is to me -- the opportunity to visit long-unseen family and to reconnect with west-rooted friends, the finale of our Canadian trek, the exploration of a sudden and surprising coastal ecosystem, the chance for a great deal of reflection, and the addition of our newest tour member, Steve O'Brien -- so I won't elaborate. I will, however, mention the surprise with which our arrival sunk in.
Justin and I were cycling from North Delta, southeast of Vancouver proper, north to Burnaby to check out Canada's largest allotment community garden (it was big). As we crossed the Pattullo Bridge (the cheerfully-orange but hyper-trafficked twin to Ontario's Skyway), one of Vancouver's iconic robotic SkyTrains cruised over a towering concrete suspension bridge beside us towards a congregation of high-rises to the west.
With rumbling trucks, blaring horns, and choking exhaust fumes accompanying us over this bridge to a shiny blue-glass tower horizon, I felt as though I were moving into some over-stimulating futurescape amusement park. The mountain towns, tamarack stands, and cedar groves of the past several weeks hadn't prepared me very well for this populous profusion of people or the associated smells and sounds. It was while I was watching the SkyTrain head for those skyscrapers that I really appreciated the significance of our situation. This was the edge. The river below us? It became salt water in a few scant kilometres. I recalled seeing a sign in northern Ontario indicating that Wawa was only 180 km away, and I remember thinking, "Golly, we're really out there, and we've come all this way on our bikes! I mean, gosh, Wawa!"
To tell the truth, the distance between here and Wawa doesn't seem any more significant than the distance between Wawa and home. I can vividly recall the mountain passes, the thrilling descents, the cold mornings, the sunny days, the rainy days, the furious headwinds, and the innumerable warm people of our journey thus far, and it all feels like a logical progression. Having reached the coast doesn't suddenly make everything that came before an "endeavour"; the endeavour has grown each day, and in most cases it's been as understated as just about "day in the life" scenario. But our arrival here helps turn all those experiences into a tidy "past," and the future feels embodied in a cardinal direction: South. In a few days, we'll be crossing the Canada-U.S. border and hitting the pavement in Washington!
Backtracking now a little: in getting this far, I've been biking through surreality. On descending into the Okanagan Valley towards Osoyoos... well, it's not that the sight is unprecedented in its drama; it isn't the highest, the steepest, the most vast, the most lush, or the most stark landscape. It is, however, unprecedented in its character. The hills in the valley are undulating in gentle, irregular slopes. The mist among the slopes is very disperse, more like a broad, fine veil than a discrete body of vapour -- transluscent and homogeneous, I suppose. It gives the light passing through it a very unusual and beautiful quality as the sun penetrates in ghostly shafts.
Farther down, the descent becomes one of the most dramatic of any: the most immediately thrilling and impressive (considering the impression it left on me) experience yet. The city of Osoyoos opens quite suddenly to our front-right as the valley expands upon passing a rise in the terrain. A lake swells to fill my vision south of the city, far below on my left.
The road down to the city concedes completely to the landscape in a way that is nowhere near so evident anywhere else we've been. The hard petroleum line traces the top of a sinuous, descending ridge stretching out before us; out of necessity, the road follows the shape of the hills precisely. No straight lines, no great gashes through the hills, no elevated causeways. The ridge switches back on itself repeatedly in graceful curves, and the speed with which I ride its back should demand my full attention -- but I'm stunned by a scene that reanimates often in my memory.
Justin is perhaps six or seven hundred metres ahead of me, and he's barreling around a switchback beyond which the ridge drops precipitously to the valley bottom. I know he's moving fast -- 50 km/hr or more -- but to me, he's moving in slow motion. It's the landscape behind him... it's so vast. It's so deep below us, I realize with a rush, and it stretches far off towards the horizon behind Justin. Whereas many vistas become subtle and understated as they recede towards the edge of perception, this valley celebrates its enormity. It just keeps going, off into the distance. The slopes are shimmering with golden grasses and musty purple shrubs, and the dry vegetation accentuates the land's stoney complexion.
So, I have this image of Justin careening around this switchback, and his size and speed are dwarfed -- overwhelmed -- by the world around us. The Okanagan is the northernmost extension of an arid stretch originating in the Mojave Desert, so if this landscape is a precursor of the US southwest, our new southward orientation holds a great deal of promise.
:)
To tell the truth, the distance between here and Wawa doesn't seem any more significant than the distance between Wawa and home. I can vividly recall the mountain passes, the thrilling descents, the cold mornings, the sunny days, the rainy days, the furious headwinds, and the innumerable warm people of our journey thus far, and it all feels like a logical progression. Having reached the coast doesn't suddenly make everything that came before an "endeavour"; the endeavour has grown each day, and in most cases it's been as understated as just about "day in the life" scenario. But our arrival here helps turn all those experiences into a tidy "past," and the future feels embodied in a cardinal direction: South. In a few days, we'll be crossing the Canada-U.S. border and hitting the pavement in Washington!
Backtracking now a little: in getting this far, I've been biking through surreality. On descending into the Okanagan Valley towards Osoyoos... well, it's not that the sight is unprecedented in its drama; it isn't the highest, the steepest, the most vast, the most lush, or the most stark landscape. It is, however, unprecedented in its character. The hills in the valley are undulating in gentle, irregular slopes. The mist among the slopes is very disperse, more like a broad, fine veil than a discrete body of vapour -- transluscent and homogeneous, I suppose. It gives the light passing through it a very unusual and beautiful quality as the sun penetrates in ghostly shafts.
Farther down, the descent becomes one of the most dramatic of any: the most immediately thrilling and impressive (considering the impression it left on me) experience yet. The city of Osoyoos opens quite suddenly to our front-right as the valley expands upon passing a rise in the terrain. A lake swells to fill my vision south of the city, far below on my left.
The road down to the city concedes completely to the landscape in a way that is nowhere near so evident anywhere else we've been. The hard petroleum line traces the top of a sinuous, descending ridge stretching out before us; out of necessity, the road follows the shape of the hills precisely. No straight lines, no great gashes through the hills, no elevated causeways. The ridge switches back on itself repeatedly in graceful curves, and the speed with which I ride its back should demand my full attention -- but I'm stunned by a scene that reanimates often in my memory.
Justin is perhaps six or seven hundred metres ahead of me, and he's barreling around a switchback beyond which the ridge drops precipitously to the valley bottom. I know he's moving fast -- 50 km/hr or more -- but to me, he's moving in slow motion. It's the landscape behind him... it's so vast. It's so deep below us, I realize with a rush, and it stretches far off towards the horizon behind Justin. Whereas many vistas become subtle and understated as they recede towards the edge of perception, this valley celebrates its enormity. It just keeps going, off into the distance. The slopes are shimmering with golden grasses and musty purple shrubs, and the dry vegetation accentuates the land's stoney complexion.
So, I have this image of Justin careening around this switchback, and his size and speed are dwarfed -- overwhelmed -- by the world around us. The Okanagan is the northernmost extension of an arid stretch originating in the Mojave Desert, so if this landscape is a precursor of the US southwest, our new southward orientation holds a great deal of promise.
:)
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