We were both tired and stir-crazy when we finally got to Bella Coola, a full thirty-one hours after leaving home. The plan - given that it was already 6:30pm by the time we disembarked - was to head up a nearby Forest Service Road (FSR) to find camp.
But then, as I maneuvered the Tacoma into position for a final shot of the Northern Sea Wolf, another truck - fresh off the same boat - headed up the same road! This immediately gave us pause - we're not generally keen to share the end of the road with other folks when we want to be in the middle of nowhere - and we did a quick run through our options:
- Head up the road. As equipped, the Tacoma is markedly faster - at least, it can be if I'm not stopping for photos all the time - than almost any other vehicle we've encountered. We would certainly pass the other truck and have our pick of what we considered the best camp site.
- Find somewhere else to camp, and come back to the spot we'd planned to camp the first night, later in the trip.
About 45 seconds into our conversation, our decision was made for us. Another Tacoma - albeit one that looked as if the GFC-clone on the bed had never seen dirt - headed up the same road. It was going to be busy up there, and we wanted no part of that party.
After a quick look at the map, we set out for another spot that I was reasonably certain would be just as amazing. A little further away, we took solace in the fact that the sun wouldn't drop below the horizon - not that we could see the horizon with the mountains around us - until 9:35pm.
Shrouded in shadows, we began our ascent. Somewhat ironically, we were climbing toward a place called Purgatory. The reason for this name would become clear shortly, but for now - in the safety of the cab - we laughed off the incongruity as we admired the towering terrain at every turn.
With each meter we climbed and kilometer covered, our excitement grew. The once-distant mountains grew in front of us; the snow-covered peaks hinting at what was to come. It was an ascent that - on a normal day, with me jumping out of the truck to exercise my shutter finger - would have taken at least twice as long. But today, I showed the requisite restraint that would get us to camp by dusk. Barely.
The thing about some of these FSRs - and something that was becoming patently obvious on this particular evening - is that it can be hard to decide exactly where to camp. Theoretically, the end of the road - the point at which you know for sure that you're alone; a spot that should be selected for its view - should be the best. But spurs, logging platforms, and exposed ridges can sometimes offer an even more dramatic display.
It turned out that on this particular night, the decision would be made for us. We hadn't seen another soul in the 35-km route, but as we turned the corner to the end of the road, there was an ADV rider with his bike resting on its kickstand, sitting there, enjoying the view.
I always love running into guys on bikes - perhaps a holdover from my time on two wheels - and after warm greetings, we chatted for several minutes before graciously refusing his offer to consolidate his belongings and make room for a second set of campers.
Canadians are the best. 
Obviously there was no way we were going to intrude, and a few minutes later were back at the most amazing spot we'd passed only a few minutes before. And it was at this point that the name of this place suddenly made sense.
Purgatory.
For those who believe that there is such a place, Purgatory is generally understood to be located very near to Hell, inhabited by the souls of sinners who are expiating their sins before going to heaven.
And if the number of mosquitoes here did not define "hell," I don't know what does.
I think I swallowed three of those blood suckers just setting up the tent.
There was no way we were going to make dinner - that would mean becoming dinner for the soup of little devils buzzing around outside - so we grabbed some pre-made chicken pesto pasta from the fridge and scurried back into the cab.
After killing the dozen or so mosquitoes that made it in with us, we settled into our evening's entertainment - the moon rising behind the glacier - savoring every bug-free bite until we were full.
Eventually, we could procrastinate our re-emergence no longer, and it was a mad dash to brush our teeth, go to the bathroom, and get ourselves into the safety of the tent. There, we quickly extinguished the lights, ensured the complete closure of every screen, and nestled ourselves into the comforters, hoping we hadn't missed any of the little bastards that surely tried to follow us into our sanctuary.
And then, we were asleep.
The following morning...
Next to a cascading fall that provided the sleepiest white noise, we really did pick the best spot on the mountain to camp. Having gotten scant little sleep the previous night - and knowing that we were in the shadow of the ridgeline to our east - I didn't even set an alarm. It was 8:30am when we finally opened our eyes, and the views were as spectacular as they'd been the evening before.
But there were still mosquitoes, so I hunkered down in the cab and sent our little buddy out into the swarm, hoping it'd decapitate a few thousand of the little pests, as it climbed high above the valley for an expansive view of the glacier. While I'll never know the full body count, it certainly succeeded on the photo front.
We'd hoped - a bit - that the ADV biker would putz past us given our slow start to the day, but like us, he was surely enjoying the view as the sun raced down the hillsides towards the valley. And so, after batting away the bugs as we stowed the tent, we headed back toward the end of the road to say good morning and snap a quick photo.
It was another very pleasant chat - albeit one where we were constantly swatting at the bugs around us - there at the end of the road. As often happens, we'd been to several of the same places over the years, and we each had plans to cover ground the other already had. It's these sorts of interactions that I really enjoy on trips, and as we parted ways, the smiles on our faces were evidence of a great start to the day.
With more smiles and waves, we'd end up leapfrogging each other down the mountain. For now, though, we were off to find a sunny spot to dry the tent and eat breakfast. Ideally, away from the skeeters.
There was no rush as we descended through the green, and our search would take significantly longer than it might have the previous evening.
With our slow pace, we hadn't even made it five miles - or really even found a candidate breakfast location - when we were passed for the first time. On this particular stop, the flying camera was doing its thing, recording for posterity the reason we'd spent so much time getting here.
A little after 10:00am, we finally arrived at Odegaard Falls. I forget how, but we'd somehow passed our biker buddy - he, too, was probably taking a few photos - and we were becoming well-acquainted as he slowed down to ask what was for breakfast as we gazed out at the view.
With the tent in full sun, it didn't take more than about 20 minutes to dry out, which was about the same amount of time it took us to eat and clean up after breakfast. As @mrs.turbodb buttoned up the tailgate, I stuffed the tent back into its tarp, and soon we were once again blasting down the mountain, ready for more views.
It was noon when we finally reached the trailhead, having continued our game of hopscotch with the motorbike. He'd finally pass us for the final time - on the trail - about 5 km from pavement, and we'd spot him once more at the only fuel station in town.
It was a fantastic introduction to the area, made better by the lazy morning and Canadian camaraderie we'd found high in the mountains. But our day was far from over. In fact - we hoped - the views would only become more spectacular as we climbed ridges immediately adjacent to the inlets we'd floated through the day before. We were headed for a place where the mountains plunged thousands of feet to the sea, and then just kept going down.
The Whole Story
