Everything Was Fine Until It Wasn’t | Unexpectedly Wet #4

It was 8:40am when we finished airing up at the Rady Creek FSR (Forest Service Road) trailhead. Still reasonably early, we weren't in any rush as far as our daily itinerary was concerned, but I knew that it took about 45 minutes to reach the Galena Bay ferry - departing for Shelter Bay at 9:30am - from our current location, so we zipped along at a good pace on our way toward the terminal.

The N52010 Fire smoldered at the base of Mt. Murray in the Lardeau Range as we passed by.

Terminal - in the case of Galena Bay - is a conceptual term. More appropriately, the loading area is a ferry-sized boat ramp, but whatever its designation, our timing was impeccable. I had only enough time to setup the drone on the shoreline - my plan, to fly across the lake for some unreal photos - before we were directed onto the ferry for our 4.5-kilometer (2.5-mile) ride to Shelter Bay.

And we're off!

As we pulled away from shore, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a little nervous about the drone. I was pretty sure that everything would be OK - I've flown much further than 2.5 miles on a single battery charge - but the voices in the back of my mind (and in the passenger seat next to me) kept wondering what would happen if something "went wrong" and my proven-disastrous droning skills resulted in a water "landing," or if the drone lost contact with the controller and decided to return to its "home point" on the wrong side of the lake. And of course, we had no idea if capturing our crossing from the air was even allowed, though I assured @mrs.turbodb that no one was ever going to notice. (Note: I've since confirmed that my piloting was kosher, so long as I stayed more than 30 meters from the vessel, an envelope I was never in danger of entering.)

Why is Canadian water always so brilliantly beautiful?

This is a lot more enjoyable when you aren't nervous about your piloting skills for a flying camera hovering over certain, soggy death.

Final approach.

While our destination - outside of Radium Hot Springs - was a mere 30 miles from where we'd camped the previous evening, the most direct route via road meant that we had five hours of pavement before tackling the final 40 miles of dirt. #efficiency

Still, that route - through Revelstoke and Glacier National Park's Rogers Pass - was a beautiful one, and we thoroughly enjoyed the views along the way.

Rogers Pass panorama.

After stopping for lunch in a strangely empty campground that was signed as "campground full" and that we thought might have been the same campground we stayed in on our first visit to Canada's National Parks in 2017, we pulled into Radium Hot Springs ready for a little splash of something sweet. In fact, one of us had been pining after a frosty cold cone for the last few days, so we made our way to a local joint and spent nearly every last Canadian cent we'd gathered up before leaving home.

I say nearly, because it turns out they don't use pennies in Canada anymore, so our ice creams were had for $17.20, rather than the actual price of $17.22!

A lot of places could take a lesson from Screamers, where this is a "double" scoop.

With that - and a full tank of some spendy fuel - we were off. It was 3:00pm.

I'd planned for three hours to cover the trip from Radium Hot Springs to The Glacier, mostly because I figured that we'd be stopping a lot to snap photos along the way. It was - if memory served me - a reasonably jaw-dropping route, and I wanted to be sure that @mrs.turbodb was able to soak in those moments of amazement just as I was when Mike @Digiratus first brought me here back in 2022.

Things start normally enough, which is to say, beautifully.

Traversing valley our way through long valleys, we followed rushing creeks full of murky glacial runoff as we pushed our way deeper into the mountains. Soon, they towered all around us, their jagged peaks and U-shaped forms indicative of the ice that once carved these paths. For now though, we saw no ice.

Surrounded.

And then, with little warning - or perhaps no warning at all - our route turned south and it became obvious that we were headed to a very special place. Directly in front of us, the headwaters of ▮▮▮▮▮▮▮  Creek were visible high on the mountainsides. There, still frozen solid, they gleamed in the afternoon sun, beckoning us to come experience the expansive views they enjoyed every day.

This is where things start to get really interesting.

As the miles ticked away, we got closer. Slowly.

Scale becomes an interesting conundrum when one is thrown into a landscape such as this. Initially, it seemed that we weren't all that far from our destination. That we would be setting up camp in no time. But these places are deceivingly large, and nearly an hour passed before we found ourselves climbing out of the trees and towards the base of our glacier.

A hike to these falls would surely be an exhilarating experience.

We would pass this glacier - on the northern flank of ▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮  - on our way to the next.

Up there somewhere, we'd find delight, and then, disaster.

To reach the glacier, there are two sketchy obstacles. The first of these - a bridge - comes just as the road turns to make a final, steep push to the base of the glacier. At one time, this bridge was just like all the other bridges in British Columbia. Built strong, large beams span the raging river below. On these, 12x12-inch joists support a wooden deck of 4x12-inch planks. These are bridges that loaded logging trucks cross countless times each day.

Until they rot.

I don't know when this bridge started rotting, or what caused it to fail in the way that it did, but approaching it now is an exercise in self-control, and crossing it, an indication of insanity.

Looks safe.

No truly good story starts off with, "Hey, we drove over this really safe bridge."

We spent several minutes - what seemed like hours - inspecting, and arranging the planks I planned to traverse as I drove our 5,500-pound ticket home in a direction that meant we'd have to do it again to actually go home. Gaps in the joists were covered or reinforced with a second board. My copilot - to her obvious dissatisfaction - was moved into a spotting position.

Ultimately, everything went smoothly. There was only one point at which @mrs.turbodb was visibly shaken - beckoning frantically for me to "keep moving" - as one less-than-solid section of bridge deck dropped several inches towards the ice-cold creek.

Sometimes, stupidity is rewarded. Temporarily, at least.

The second obstacle is much closer to the base of the glacier. Here, the meltwater has converged into a rushing stream that can seem daunting. At certain times of year - and late in the afternoon on hot days - it may even be as impassable as it looks.

It was here that we ran into a group of hikers. Having seen their Jeep Compass on the didn't-want-to-cross-it side of the bridge, I rolled down my window to greet the group - a father and his two sons - and ask if they were on their way up or down.

"We're headed back down," the dad shared, asking if we were going all the way up. When I said we were, he mentioned that they'd left their Jeep at the bottom because they weren't sure if they could make the water crossing. Looking at the Tacoma, he thought that it would be doable for us, but that we should watch out for some big rocks in the middle of the creek that we could get caught up on.

Thanking them for the info, I was sure to roll up the windows before I joked with @mrs.turbodb that they hadn't hiked 1,500 feet of elevation in just over a mile because they were worried about the water crossing; they'd done it because they were smarter than we'd been at that rotten bridge!

With an audience of hikers, we made quick work of the crossing. If there were large rocks, we didn't see them.

And with that, we entered the magical world of the glacier.

The last time I'd been here, I'd been surprised by a large cabin built at the bottom of the bowl below the icy flow. Built by the Canadian Olympic Development Agency - which also built the road - it was used as a summer training facility for the ski team. To this day, the cabin is tightly sealed and surprisingly clean. With a large table, propane stoves, bed frames, and a wood heat stove, it provides shelter to those who venture this way in the winter or get caught in a summer squall.

This is no longer the ski out location it used to be. The glacier has receded quite a bit since it was built.

From the cabin, Mike and I had been able to continue only a few hundred feet up the road, snow blocking our path higher toward the centuries-old ice. But today, that snow was gone and with excitement in our eyes, we slowly crawled the Tacoma up a series of switchbacks and water crossings, to the very end of the road.

As far as we can go.

Caught in the act.

Quite a view from up here.

No more road.

I'd planned for us to relax once we'd arrived in camp, hiking to the glacier the following morning, but with the road climbing so much higher than it had the last time I'd visited, I chalked the whole situation up to good fortune and figured that we'd either visit a different arm of the glacier in the morning or get an earlier start on our long drive home. For now though, it was time to pick our way over the rubble and get us a taste of that bright blue ice!

As @mrs.turbodb climbed towards the closest ice cave at the lower left extent of the flow, I caught her in front of the torrent of water melting from the massive sheet of ice.

Getting closer.

As is generally the case when I get to locations like this, I immediately went into OMG pictures mode as we reached the ice. Actually, it was snow and ice, and the ice was calving off, so I was extra excited, messing around with settings, generally oblivious to everything around me.

Situation: normal.

Then I remembered. In situations like this, it's important to stay hydrated.

Crunchy.

After eating a bit of million-year-old water and whatever equally-old parasites it contained, I got my second "great" idea. By "great," of course, I mean one where @mrs.turbodb gave me that knowing, "of course you are," look we all know means, "you are crazy, and I'm not doing it."

Into the ice cave!

It shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone not infected by million-year-old parasites, but the ice cave was cold, and not just in the "dang, this is super cool" kind of way. Not only that, but it was loud in there - I could hear the entire glacier creaking and groaning. I could hear water rushing through a bus-sized maze of tubes, crashing down from one level to the next. And it was windy. It was awesome.

Tunnels led deeper into the turquoise, but I'd left my Yaktrax at home.

The have faces!

It's hard to convey how much we enjoyed poking around at the bottom of the glacier. We've hiked near - beside, above, below - three or four glaciers in our time, and have seen many more than that from afar, but this is the first glacier we've touched and tasted.

For now though, it was time to head back to the Tacoma to enjoy the rest of the evening and get our grub on. Staying hydrated had made us hungry!

I discovered that, "Maybe we should just back down", was the wrong thing to say as we got back to the Tacoma.

Camp on the edge.

Where it was cold at the base of the glacier, it was an amazingly pleasant 72°F in camp. A gentle breeze cascaded down off the mountain and two plates of tacorittos with guac were quickly assembled for our enjoyment. Turning our chairs to face uphill, we soaked in the surroundings of one of the most unique places we've had the pleasure to call home.

It seems so big, and then...

...it's even bigger.

Dinner done, we got everything put away and went up to check out the cabin. With no log book, people have taken to writing their names on the walls, carving inappropriate phrases into the wooden table, and placing Insta-Tube like-follow-and-subscribe stickers on whatever flat surfaces they can find. Yuk. Unwilling to do any of those things, no one will ever know we were there, which is probably just as well.

It must have been amazing, because it's we have a lot of truck photos, but rarely taken by this one.

And that's when everything started to go sideways.

After a long day of travel, we were getting ready to head into the tent as we noticed a flash of lightning behind the ridgeline to our east. Then one behind the glacier to the south. We didn't think much of it - just a lightning storm on the other side of the range - given how pleasant it was on our moraine overlooking the valley.

Hoping for some cool screen grabs, I setup the camera to record the dark clouds that were racing by in the distance, and - if I was lucky - to capture some bolts of electricity screaming through the sky. A few drops of rain plonked down on our camp.

15 minutes, sped up into 40 seconds.

Looking at the video now, the change in wind direction - initially moving parallel to the ridge, then coming directly over it - is obvious. To us, at the time, it was not. In fact, so engrossed in our own personal little light show were we, that I even sent the flying camera 1,640 feet into the air see if we could get a better shot of the cloud-to-cloud lightning over the million-year-old ice.

A few exciting frames.

At some point as I was pointing cameras in different directions and wondering if the flying variant would suddenly be struck by lightning, my companion - always slightly more aware of what's going on in these situations - looked over at me. "We've got about a minute," she said, pointing to a cloud that'd just crossed the ridge and was clearly dropping a lot more rain than anything we'd see so far.

A mad dash ensued. The drone was lowered and retrieved as quickly as possible. Rain started to fall in earnest as the camera was pulled from the tripod and stashed in the front seat, the tripod thrown - still fully extended into the back of the cab.

And that's when the wind hit. Luckily, I was already on the ladder of the tent when the first gust whipped through camp; if I hadn't been, even with a 50-pound jerry can of water tied to the ladder, the entire contraption would have folded up on itself. Though, in hindsight, a fold-up at this point might have been a blessing in disguise.

As it was, we both got into the tent and I got the door zipped up just as the 40mph gusts grew to 50-, 60-, and then 70 miles per hour. To keep the tent from folding up with us inside, I had to sit on the very edge of the cantilever, and even then, it was still lifting several inches into the air. Outside, raindrops the size of grapes were hammering away at the fabric. Lightning and thunder were erupting directly overhead.

It was by far the windiest conditions the CVT Mt. Shasta RTT has ever endured, and I was worried on two fronts. First, I was worried that the entire frame of the tent would be ripped from the hinges, the fabric ripped from the base. This, we attempted to solve by holding onto the poles, bracing them against the gusts with our body weight. Second - and more importantly, I was worried that the entire tent - essentially a sail mounted to the back of the Tacoma with four relatively small bolts - would rip off of the bed rack with us inside, carried straight over the edge of the moraine by the 70mph winds.

Battling the storm as best we could, I mentioned - or maybe I hoped - to @mrs.turbodb that the wind would probably die down once the initial front passed through. At that point the rain might continue, but rain on the tent - as long as it stops with enough time to dry by morning - is a soothing sound, and one we both enjoy immensely.

An hour later, the wind hadn't relented. By now, the constant battering of rain against the side of the tent was forcing water droplets through the fabric. We were still holding down the frame poles and concerned for our safety. We had to make a decision: try to ride it out (as we were currently) or brave the elements and try to fold up the tent and spend the rest of the night in the cab.

Ultimately, we decided that it was simply too risky - at least, given our current camp spot - for us to stay in the tent. While we'd survived so far, I wasn't sure how much longer the bolts would hold, or whether there were even stronger gusts in our future. We battened down the hatches as best we could and worked out our plan for as methodical-as-possible closure of the tent.

By the time we were done, we were both soaked to the bone. Climbing into the cab, we changed into dry clothes and fired up every heating and drying device at our disposal. And as water cascaded down the road and under the tires on its way into the valley below, we moved the truck away from the edge.

Everything had been fine until it wasn't. Hunkered down in our seats, the Tacoma now facing into the wind, we did our best to sleep. It didn't go well. Just as I was finally nodding off around midnight, I thought I heard a rustling in the back of the cab. And then, again. Convincing myself that it must be something in the bed, or perhaps a bit of ice sliding down the window, I closed my eyes again. And then I felt a mouse scurry across my feet!

How the hell a mouse got into the Tacoma, I have no idea, but even in our less-than-ideal situation, we needed to get that little shitter out of there. Waking @mrs.turbodb, I informed her of the situation, of which she was dubious. Because seriously, how could a mouse get into the Tacoma?

Luckily for me - given that I'd woken her from hard-to-come-by sleep - a little work with the flashlight revealed two little mouse terds in her footwell. We searched the back of the truck. Under seats. I contorted myself into the strangest of positions to look up under the dash. That little poop-factory was nowhere to be found. There was nothing to do but share our space for the night, and pick up the search in the morning.

We stayed warm enough through the night - our feet toasty in the electric socks I'd picked up at Christmas - as the wind and rain continued to rock the truck on its suspension, but actual sleep could be counted in minutes rather than hours. And then, just as the sky began to brighten, the clouds began to clear. Whether or not it was a sign, there would be no hike to the glacier for us this morning, we were getting ourselves off the mountain.

Right after another search for our unwelcome companion. Who, again, remained elusive, probably camped out on some warm heating duct under the dash, nibbling on my wiring harness. Asshole.

We made it through the water crossing and over the rotten bridge - now a little icy - without incident.

Out of the clouds.

Blue skies on the horizon.

Speeding down the mountain roads, we were making great time back to Radium Hot Springs, even with a few photo stops along the way. Careening past a campsite, I commented to my copilot that a group of guys with a Tacoma were camped there and wondered how their experience was the previous night. Not a quarter mile later, A 16-inch diameter birch tree lay across the road.

Time for the chainsaw!

Naturally, I hadn’t brought the chainsaw. It was late August, and I was convinced that any trees that had fallen throughout the winter would surely be cleared by now. Of course, they were, but hours of saturating rain - and the windstorm that had threatened to blow us off the mountain - weakened this tree's anchor, and down it came.

Hoping that the guys I'd just noticed were more prepared than I was, we turned around and rolled into their camp just as they were starting breakfast. “Any of you guys have a chainsaw?” I asked, glancing around to see that all of them were in their early 20s. “Nope, but we have an axe,” was the unanimous reply.

I explained the situation - apparently using miles rather than kilometers, @mrs.turbodb would later tell me, to describe the location of the blockage - and told the guys that we would appreciate any help they could muster. They seemed happy enough to lend a hand, but, "after breakfast."

With that, we headed back to start chopping and clearing.

Before I could Paul Bunyan this thing out of the way, I cleared a few branches to make the operation a little safer.

Always nice to have help!

By the time they boys showed up, we had removed - and cleared - all of the branches and I was already two-thirds of the way through the trunk with my wonderful axe. Hoping that these young guns could finish the job, I sunk the ax into the wet wood and stood back to watch them make a quick work of the rest.

It was slow going. With a dull and rusty axe, and a "chopping" action that might better be described as flailing, they made little progress over the next 10 minutes. Eventually, thankfully, it was my turn again and a few minutes later, I was 80% of the way through. Now, with only a few inches of material left, I hoped that the Japanese pull saw would be enough to separate the two segments of tree. It was, and the look of pure wonder on the boy's faces when the saw cut like butter through the wood was priceless.

Now, it was time to clear the lighter half of the tree from the road. Keen to use their brand new tow strap - not to mention the new-to-them 2010 Tacoma - there was a whirlwind of action as they positioned the truck for the pull. Luckily, I noticed that their plan - to pull using the safety chain loop on the bumper - was going to end in disaster. Jumping in, I offered my receiver pin as a more secure attachment point, and set them up for a successful pull.

Cameras blazing, and Instagram accounts at the ready, the clutch smoked, and the tree was out of the way.

Thanking the boys for their “help,” and giving them a bit of advice on the trip to the glacier, we bid our farewell and headed into town. Along the way, four more trees had fallen across the road, but none of them completely blocked passage as we eased around.

Everything had been fine, until it wasn't, but that's what makes memories that last a lifetime!

 

 

 

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