The second leg of our BC trip took us inland along the Cheakamus River, deeper into the mountains, where glaciers clung to jagged peaks and jade forests swaddled the valley floor. We had spent the first four days of our stay in Squamish, hanging out with some of our SoCal climbing amigos with high hopes of getting in four days of climbing, but having to settle for two due to inclement weather. But the climbing gear was now pushed to the back of the trunk. Now we were venturing into mountain-biking country. Pemberton. Whistler. Especially Whistler, the irrefutably best mountain-biking destination in North America—or at least that’s what we’d been hearing for years, so it was time to take the pilgrimage and see for ourselves.
Our first stop was quaint little Pemberton, population 2,400. Sited in a fertile valley on the banks of the Lillooet River, the town got its start in the 19th century as a Wild West outpost for fur traders and gold prospectors. There were no roads into town—only a rugged mule trail—until the new railroad line from Squamish reached it in 1914. This became the only way in or out of Pemberton until the highway was completed in the 1950s. A laid-back, counterculture lifestyle is the way folks like it here, sans the glitz of Whistler twenty-five miles down the road. There’s a couple of good music festivals each summer; a nice golf course; good fly fishing—and of late, a stellar network of cross-county bike trails built by the local riders, which, of course, was why we were here.
It was past nine o’clock when the last of the sun’s rays were cast upon Mt. Currie. We were dining at The Wood at the time, where the view of the peak from our table was as you see it here. Beautiful.
We were at the Pemberton Bike Company first thing in the morning. It’s the only mountain bike shop in town: housed in the same building as The Pony, which is the only saloon in town
(no irony there). A kindly chap named Peter ran the bike shop, and while he fitted my wife for a cross-country ride to rent, I browsed around the tiny store. Mounted along the top of the interior walls were old Bob Marley record album covers, a complete collection of everything he released, according to Peter. He’s a big fan of the reggae legend. In fact, the Rastafarian colors—green, yellow, red and black—are also the colors of the Pemberton Bike Company’s logo. But, as Peter explained, the connection runs much deeper: The last big music festival that Marley performed before his untimely death from cancer… was in Pemberton.
Peter finally got us fitted out on a couple of x-country Giants, both of them decent performance models. Unfortunately they didn’t have any women-specific bikes available, and the smallest men’s frame he had was a medium with 29-inch wheels. The bike was a little too big for her, and she had ridden a 29'er only once before. Not the best match by far, but… Peter handed us a trail map and we were off.
Fifteen minutes of riding got us to the railroad bridge across the Lillooet River and into the wilderness. Bike and foot traffic across the bridge was prohibited, but Peter assured us that everyone did it—just watch out for the Mounties, because they occasionally ticketed people. On the other side, we stopped to consult the map. That’s when I heard rustling in the woods, but it was too dense to see what lurked there. A bear? No. It was a solo rider, hiding in the trees until he was sure we weren’t Mounties. In the end, he heard us talking—our foreign accents gave us away—and he came pedaling up the trail with a friendly smile, and even helped us with directions.
Peeling off from the railroad, we followed the Teepee Trail into the forest. I had all the trail connections memorized to make a loop: Teepee to Happy to Waco Connection to Nimby, and then a rollicking ride back down Lower McKenzie.
We caught glimpses of the Lillooet River as we zipped along, the woods becoming so dense and shadowy that we had to remove our sunglasses to see the trail clearly. Not long after I took this photo, no more than a mile from where we left the railroad bridge, Terry took a spill. At first it appeared to be a small tumble—hell, I’ve seen this lady crash far worse than this, where she just got back on her bike, wiped away the blood and grime, and kept riding. But not this time. I could tell by the way she cried out. And when I ran back to where she was sitting in the trail, the first thing out of her mouth was: “I think I broke my leg.”
Though it was soon apparent that she didn’t break a leg, her right knee did get tweaked and she was limping badly. Continuing was not a wise option, so we turned around and headed back. On the rougher parts of the trail, I had to ride one bike ahead; jog back; ride the other bike ahead; then jog back and help her along. This took some time, and it was mid-afternoon when we got to the bike shop.
We bolstered our resolve with many Mohitos at The Pony. In retrospect, it had seemed like such a silly accident—in ski parlance, like falling on the bunny slope. If anything at all, it validated the importance of fitting the bike to the rider. Which is why hindsight is such a virtue. Now, the best we could do was head down to Whistler, check into the hotel, ice the knee, and hope things would look rosier in the morning.
On Fitzsimmons Creek, near the base of Whistler Mountian, Andy Munster built a makeshift cabin out of scrap lumber. The year was 1974, and even back then, there was no cheap rent to be found in the Whistler area. So Andy and some of his friends erected their own abode on Crown land, across the road from the garbage dump. He had no electricity, no running water, no indoor plumbing at all. But it was a place to live rent free—and the ski lift was just a short hike away. In no time at all, more rustic cabins were being erected by free-spirited souls, and soon they had their own little squatters’ village. Their frontier lifestyle was short lived, however. Land developers had their eyes on the same Crown land, and the shanties were razed in 1979 to make way for progress. As for Andy Munster: he’s now a big-time builder of custom homes in the area, each fetching millions of dollars.
Trendy Whistler Village now stands on the site of the old garbage dump and squatter cabins, and with all the restaurants and shops, it’s a hopping place well into the evening. We stayed at the Clock Tower Inn
(thanks, LeRoy!), which was comfy and walking distance to everything. Whistler hosted most of the ski and snowboard events for the 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympic Games.
In the morning, Terry called a doctor’s office in the village and they said to come right in. Her knee did seem better—the ice and naproxen had definitely helped—but if we were going to ride bikes, even an easy ride, she wanted an MD to assess it first. In the examination room, the doctor probed Terry’s knee and bent her leg every which way, and when she was done, she gave us her frank assessment: “You tore your ACL, so no riding.” Just like that. Boom. The doctor didn’t have the greatest bedside manners
(think House), but recognizing that she had pretty much dropped a bomb, she assured Ter that there was no reason to cut our vacation short and rush home. Just stay away from any athletic shenanigans. Take it easy. Smell the roses.
During one of our walkabouts, we came upon the Whistler Museum. Inside is an impressive collection of memorabilia and displays recounting Whistler’s history, from the Squamish and Lil’wit First Nation presence to the 2010 Winter Olympic Games. One of my favorite exhibits was this old refrigerator that belonged to one of Whistler’s more prominent ski bums, Gord Harder. It doesn’t get any more renegade than this. Live to ski… drink beer… sleep… repeat.
Sean works at the Whistler Resort rental shop, fitting each bike to its rider; tuning shocks; checking brakes. On his time off, he rides the mountain. Hard. It’s a simple life: working to ride, and living the dream. Come fall, at the first dusting of snow, he’ll return to Vancouver and college. Or maybe not. Many of his friends will stay and get jobs as lifties and ski all winter. Like gravity, the allure is unremitting.
I rented a bike for our last day in Whistler. At first, I didn’t want to ride without Ter. It felt weird. But she assured me it was okay, we had come all this way, yada yada. From that perspective, I could see her point. It would be like flying all the way to Rome, and then not bothering to see the Coliseum. So I rented a Giant
Glory, strapped on body armor and I was set.
The trail
Dirt Merchant illustrates the meticulous detail and labor involved to achieve flow and harmony for the downhill shred. When it comes to trail design, this place takes the cake.
In Whistler, kids learn to ride a bike before they can walk.
The caliber of riders here was astounding. I sat for a while at one of the high-speed jumps on A-Line and watched a few soar by, transforming momentum and gravity into an art form.
The inuksuk Ilanaaq stands vigil over the valley with a panoramic view of the Coastal Range. About twelve feet tall, it was designed and erected for the 2010 Winter Olympic Games and also became the event’s icon. The Inuits built the first inuksuks in the arctic regions of Canada centuries ago, using them for landmarks and reference points across the vast tundra. But they were more than just giant “cairns.” There is a spiritual nuance as well. In Inuit dialect,
inusuk means “Something which acts or performs the function of a person.”
Mid-afternoon, I met up with my sweetheart for lunch at the Roundhouse Lodge, the gondola station near the top of the mountain. Afterwards we spent the remainder of the day hiking some of the easier trails in the high country. Whistler is indeed a special place, but for us, it lingered as bittersweet. As the old adage goes: If handed lemons, make lemonade. And with a few more days left in our vacation, we were going to make the best of it. In the morning we would pack up, head back to the coast and hop on the ferry. Next stop: Victoria.
MORE PHOTOS
For the entire photo album of Pemberton and Whistler, go here...
https://www.flickr.com/photos/91696789@N00/sets/72157647644393890/
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