An Almost Selkirk Loop – And A Border Crossing
Motorcycle Vapors . Social StudiesOnly 1609 Units Travelled – One Unit Equals One Kilometer
A NOTE ABOUT THE FREEDOM OF MOTORCYCLE RIDING –
Riders will often proclaim that they enjoy the freedom of riding – the 360-degree stimulation of the senses, the open-air concept of riding with perhaps some faint knowledge of the movie, ‘The Wild Ones’ starring Marlon Brando, that portrayed a free and rebellious rebel biker lifestyle where ‘ya do what ya wanna whenever ya wanna’. “What are you rebelling against?” “Waddaya got?” The notion that you might be living the life others might fear is also misguided. Some people may just not like the sense of vulnerability of travelling on two wheels instead of four. Fear and exhilaration produce endorphins that may not produce the same effect in different people. Some people prefer the comfort and security of driving in a climate controlled, armored and air-bagged cocoon while watching videos, eating Doritos or texting on their idiot control device. Fear, anxiety and situational awareness are healthy states of being to nurture and manage when engaging in two-wheeled therapy. These same states of being do not necessarily imply or endorse freedom from anything.
My apparent ‘freedom’ directed me to take another trip to another dart board destination. Am I a slave to my freedom addiction?
Probably.
I left for the partial loop on the sunny and mildly cool morning of Friday, August 22nd through light traffic on Hwy 2 south to 201 east and south, and then back on Hwy 2 south all the way to Hwy 7 west to Diamond Valley, formerly known as Black Diamond. The former name was deemed racist, hence the change. This may not be entirely true but the spirit speaks. I topped up my tank with some Black Diamond ‘light amber’ gasoline. The color ‘light amber’ is not racist yet. I’m sure city councils are having struggle sessions about it.
Onward, southward on Hwy 22X to Longview and the longish and truly scenic Cowboy Trail, a road I have often travelled and marveled at, except usually heading northbound. The grip tightening, high wind warning signs thankfully did not deliver.
At the end of The Cowboy Trail I head west on the very familiar Hwy 3, The Crowsnest Pass, past the Leitch Collieries, Bellevue, old Frank and his really big slide, Blairmore, Coleman and then up and down into Sparwood. I do not stop to marvel at the really really big limey green mining truck. From there it’s down to Hosmer, Fernie and Elko where I bend up on the 93 and down the 95 to Cranbrook. I spend the night at the Almo Motel which should be avoided. Avoid being ripped off by Hotels.com.
The next morning I stay on the 95 and roll through Moyie, Yahk, and then bend up on the 3 all the way to Kitchener, Erickson and Creston where I slow roll to get back on the 3 to ride through some really pleasant bush and mountain and valley scapes. Eventually I get to the junction with Hwy 6 south and take it to the border.
I was feeling alive and refreshed aside from some vague threats of an intermittent major right calf cramping event for which which I stopped to stretch and walk out at a trail head and rest stop which provided other comforts.
CONSPIRACY, OR NO? – THE NELWAY BORDER CROSSING
Did I mention that I was doing great, that I felt great?
I presented myself and my passport and answered all the ‘kveschuns’ and passed through. I stopped briefly without dismounting, to button up and adjust and localize my phone and GPS when I was suddenly stricken with a star blinking faintness and a tremendous total body hot flash, almost to the point of passing out. WTF!!!??? I recovered quickly but my first thought was, “What do I do now?”, “Can I continue?”, and “What just hit me?”. It’s not as if I could just wobble walk back and ask the agents what just happened, inadvertently admitting that I was somehow too incapacitated to continue my journey. Thoughts of arrest, hospitalization and impound lots came easy. I cautiously carried on.
Backscatter X-ray systems are an imaging technology that detects X-rays scattered back from an object, rather than those transmitted through it, allowing for the visualization of materials based on their interaction with radiation. This method relies on the Compton scattering effect, where X-ray photons interact with atoms in the material, causing them to scatter in various directions, with a significant portion returning toward the source. The intensity of this backscattered radiation depends on the material’s properties, particularly its density and atomic composition, making it highly effective for detecting low-density organic materials like plastics, explosives, drugs, and water. My body is mostly water, atoms and cells. Hmmm. Of course, there are ‘new’ technologies that are ever being tried on the population to ‘enhance’ border security and discourage travel and while I have never had a problem with scanners of any kind beyond the indignity of the violation of personal space and privacy, this pass through the Nelway border crossing gives me pause for alarm. While the radiation used in backscatter X-ray scanners is ionizing and can potentially damage my cells and atoms, the extremely low doses involved mean the risk is considered ‘trivial’ by the U.S. Transportation Security Administration (TSA) and other experts. I doubt that I will ever get a straight answer from any ‘experts’ on whether or not I was subjected to some ‘trivial’, newer cell damaging technology or whether a trainee agent pressed the wrong button or something. At least I wasn’t busted for the apple and two bananas I had in my pannier.
Then again, it may have been a combination of a low hemoglobin count and high cortisol levels – but I am allowed my suspicions. I am entitled this way. I’ve had ample experience with good and bad cell damaging x-ray and other imaging technology throughout my cancer career but this was different. As ever, everything is and remains and will be plausible for all my days.
Motorcycle Rule #23 –
Do not follow loaded livestock carriers too closely. The animals are under stress and can be suffering from loose bladders or bowels. How human. I suspect they know where they are going. Why not let fly on motorists and riders that are going to eat your meat protein. Allow at least 200 meters distance and be cautious when attempting to overtake them. At the very least close your visor all the way.
I stay on Hwy 31 south to Metaline Falls, along the Pend Oreille River where I take a break for lunch in a green and shady park. I read the history of the place in a visitor center built out of a vintage passenger rail car. There is a book exchange. I don’t take or leave any books. I head to the other neighboring Metaline, the one without the falls and on past Box Canyon, on to Ione where I soon bend off to Hwy 20 southwest, past Crystal Falls on the Coleville-Tiger Road. This portion of the Selkirk Loop is a pleasant, interesting and mildly challenging ride, never long out of the sights and smells of forests, rocks and river water. Yes, I can smell rocks.
Both sun and shade wash over me. There is dappling. I instinctively thank God.
I pass the the umpteenth sign advising me that there is a litter barrel ahead. I wonder, has anyone ever seen the sign and thought, hey, I should stop to get rid of my empty beer cans, soda bottles, chip bags and dirty diapers and ash tray and expired vapes? The amount of litter in the ditches say not.
I pass the ‘First Selkirk Credit Union And Funeral Home’, past the ‘Coleville and District Super Car Wash And On-line Betting Center’.
Yellow and black signs tell me to watch for falling or fallen rocks. I don’t see any.
I spend the night in Coleville, WA. It’s a clean and orderly town of about 5,000 people. I think it was the Northeast Washington Fair that was happening at the time I was there. There was live music coming from the fairgrounds that went on into the night. The Farm Jam Musical Festival doesn’t happen until August 29th. I’ll have to miss that one. Of course the hotel room was pricey and the exterior and parking lot were a bit scruffy but the room was well appointed and the manager was a nice lady that baked the ‘free’ breakfast offerings fresh daily. I made the mistake of looking in the mirror that night and was marginally alarmed, yet again, at the image looking back at me. Is it me? Am I getting scrawnier? Are my shirts and underwear getting baggier? I look up sarcopenia. It’s an aging thing. It’s not a good thing to have.
Kettle Falls is fifteen minutes from Coleville. It’s a small city of about 1600 people in Stevens County, Washington, United States, named for the Kettle Falls on the Columbia River – which was submerged after Grand Coulee Dam was built. The ‘city’ itself is located on the Coleville River immediately upstream from its confluence with the Columbia River. The town features a large silo of some purpose with an illuminated cross on top.
I cross the rather impressive steel Kettle Falls Bridge on Hwy 395, also known as ‘The Thomas S. ‘Tom’ Foley Memorial Highway, to Boyds one and two, Orient and then Laurier. Who was Thomas S. Foley?
Dunno.
I hum and grumble and shift along for many units of travel without seeing a ‘Deer Smear’ and then pass seven or eight of them of varying length and area. Was there a suicide pact of some kind going on? A non-reindeer game or festival?
As the morning settles into afternoon I experience the sometimes elusive competence and confidence that comes with riding on two wheels instead of four, straddling and controlling a machine with an amply respectable 66 horsepower and a tremendous power to weight ratio. I am in control of what carries me.
My thoughts are interrupted by machine gun fire. A big ass truck with big ass tires is passing me. Those center line rumble strips can scare the crap out of me sometimes.
I’m a wee bit more alert now.
I take my time after I cross back into ‘Canada The Myth’ at Laurier. I was not hit with any DEWY scanning devices this time, at least that I felt anyway. The agent was friendly. He said he owned an Africa Twin. From Laurier I head on up to Christina Lake, one of the last bastions of exclusive Canadian lake cottage country. Many of the hill clinging, lakefront properties display Canadian flags, as if the owners think that these symbols will protect them from any UNDRIP, Liberal Home Equity Tax property seizures. Keep those elbows up as you drink those craft beers and cocktails and wine and crappy Tim Hortons coffee.
I stay on Hwy 3, ‘The Crowsnest to Castlegar’ where I stop for fluids and solids. I am Creston bound where I planned to stay. I shoot the Kootenay Pass, ‘The Salmo Creston’, enjoying the changes in elevation that rise to 5823 ft., and rollercoasting curves that challenge. I get to Creston in good time and decide to press on after eating some A&W, my first ‘restaurant’ meal. I had a coupon. It was only another 1.5 hours to Cranbrook.
As the warmish and pleasant day settles into early evening my vision starts to cross a bit, something that happens occasionally with a certain pill I take. This happens when fatigue sets in. Riding with one eye shut is not recommended. It’s time to stop for the night. Cranbrook will have to do.
Meanwhile.
I am courteous. I obey road signs. I more or less follow truck advisories on speed recommendations around curves and steep grades. I use the passing lanes. I keep right to let others pass. I watch for moose, sheep, deer and other wildlife. I am a good boy, a goodish aging man with a scrawny neck.
Coming up on Cranbrook, a big popping, barking blue Harley with ape hanger bars and streamers passes me after passing three four wheeled vehicles. Straddled on board was a very wide bottomed woman with braided pigtails flying in the wind from under her half lid. Also flapping in the backwash were her tattooed arm and back fat. I’ve never seen such a thing. Good for her. Ride on.
I stay at a Motel 6 in Cranbrook that has an outdoor swimming pool filled with rocks and weeds. The ‘NO DIVING’ sign is still up. As I’m packing up the next morning I have a conversation with two old guys, older than me bless em, that were up on the second level having their morning room coffee and fragrant doobies. Of course they were Harley riders. And why wouldn’t they be from Lethbridge. I say I like Lethbridge. They laugh and say that they don’t hear that often. I qualify that I like what I remember of Lethbridge. They laugh again. They had some good wipeout stories. Not exactly what I wanted to hear in the morning.
I fuel up and get on Hwy 93, The Kootenay Highway, north to Fort Steele, Wasa, Skookumchuck, Canal Flats, Columbia Lake, Fairmont Hot Springs, Windemere Lake, Invermere and Radium Hot Springs. I hadn’t taken this route on two wheels instead of four before but it brought back some memories of solo travels and those with the kids and their mother seemingly so long ago now. I carry on to Kootenay Crossing and Vermillion Crossing on ‘The Banff Windemere Highway’ to the Continental Divide where I have lunch and watch the tourists come and go. Some of them speak English when they argue in public. I vow again to never stop anywhere that has bilingual signs. Boom Lake is not Lac Boom! Damnit!
After lunch and a stretch and a wee, I carry on to Castle Junction where I bend off onto The 1 east which takes me to Banff, Harvie Heights and Canmore. Banff no longer holds any attraction for me. This part of the Trans Canada ‘Carnage’ Highway is too familiar to present any kind of challenge beyond the usual distracted tourists, reckless adventure enthusiasts and truck and RV traffic. I carry on past Dead Man’s Flats, Lac des Arcs and take the Mini Thni exit to get on the 1A to take me the back way home through Cochrane. I see one of the saddest black on yellow signs ever to be posted. I watch for pedestrians on the road that runs through un-stolen land. I don’t see any.
I remember that New Years morning so long ago now. We were taking the kids on a ski trip to Nakiska. We came upon a white van parked on the highway with it’s flashers on. There were two men that were in the process of collecting the red stained white sheet covered pieces of what turned out to be a sixteen year old girl that had been struck by a car while walking home on Highway 1 some time in the wee hours of the new year. Of course I slowed when we passed the scene. The girls asked what was going on, what that was. At first I thought it was a deer strike but saw a pale arm and black hair sticking out from under one of the sheets. We stuck with the deer story. The event eventually made the news and police were investigating. They were asking for anyone with information to come forward. It was a mystery to be solved. Meanwhile the Stoney Nakoda community rightly mourned and eulogized the victim as a sweet girl with promise. She wanted to be a veterinarian – not a rapper or a nurse this time. Of course nobody talked about why this sweet girl was walking home alone from a New Years Eve party on the TransCanada during the wee dark hours. She was just another casualty of a tragic grifting, failed socialist industrial Truth and Reconciliation system – just another pedestrian on the road to watch out for.
I have mixed, free floating feelings for the last few units home. The free floating anxiety and exhilaration waned the closer I got. There was a construction zone and slowdown to be managed.
Of course my gas gauge started flashing on the last bar.
Of course range anxiety had to rise up now after a near flawless rip – An Almost Selkirk Loop.
The question always comes up. Why do any of this? The answer is in finding the joy in continuing to live to spite those who mind and twist and flick the switches.
And was there a song that popped in and out of my head during this trip? Yes there was. Other than the fact that bits and pieces of it rattled around and wafted and swirled inside my helmet and made me feel good, what does it have to do with anything?
“What does anything mean basically?” – Chameleons
Nothing, absolutely nothing. The Chameleons were awesome 80’s and beyond post punk. They still record and play.
“There Must Be Something Wrong Boys!” – The Chameleons
“Up The Down Escalator”
I’m gazing at faces staring blankly at me
Oh, I suppose it’s just a sign of the times
They tell me tomorrow will never arrive
But I’ve seen it end a million times
I lost my direction while dodging the flack
Oh, give me a hint or something
If I could freeze time at the flick of the switch
I wouldn’t hesitate, no
There must be something wrong, boys
Yeah, there must be something wrong, boys
Obnoxious actions, obnoxious results
Yes, teachers who refuse to be taught
Distorted pictures and dizzy, dizzy people
Rush by me at the speed of thought
They sit at the tables and throw us the scraps
For Christ’s sake leave me something
Now they can erase you at the flick of a switch
Oh, there must be a way
Oh, there must be something wrong, boys
Yeah, there must be something wrong, boys
There must be something wrong, boys
They’re dragging me down
Eden, there’s no Eden
Anyway
They sit at the tables and throw us the scraps
For Christ’s sake, leave us something
Now they can erase you at the flick of a switch
How long will it take
Oh, there must be something wrong, boys
Yeah, there must be something wrong, boys
There must be something wrong, boys
And they’re dragging me down
And they’re dragging me down
And they’re dragging me down
You either swim or you drown
