The Crowsnest and Me

Without question my preferred stretch of paved paradise in British Columbia is Hwy #3, affectionately named “The Crowsnest Highway”. She snakes from Hope in the west all the way through the Kootenays in the east, and one could spend a lifetime riding and enjoying her and neither find them self bored nor encounter a flat, direct, or straight section anywhere. Michealangelo himself could not have created a more perfect work of art if he were to dip his brush in asphalt and drag a meandering  line across this beautiful land of ours.

It is with more than a vague interest that I find myself preaching the virtues of travel on the Crowsnest Highway. Aside from the obvious majesty and beauty of the surroundings, and places unexpected that pop up along her entire route, Highway #3 has provided on more than one occasion in my life with a much needed escape route from various Metropoli that I have previously and do presently reside in.

I have actually tasted her pavement at one particular and unfortunate random locale (known in the 2-wheeled community as “the downward decreasing radius corner”), and while she took her ounce of leather and flesh from my body, she allowed me to continue on my journey...…humbled and sore, but continue nonetheless. Since that memorable episode I always remind myself to pay respect as I glide through that exact same curved stretch of her backside that took its toll so many years ago now.

On another not so memorable incident I misjudged the arc at infamous Saturday Creek crossing and firmly planted my Mother’s new sports car squarely underneath a rather large (and subsequently angry) semi-truck trailer. Ms. Crowsnest released me from that encounter with nary a scratch or bruise, and while the receiving staff at the closest emergency ward found it slightly difficult to believe the outcome of our rendezvous I realize now that this strange connection that we share has existed for longer than I have thought to consider.

If favoritism is bred from familiarity then I would have to say that the part of her I love above all else is the short but ever rewarding stretch from Penticton (via Hwy#3A) to Keremeos then eastward on to Osoyoos. Her corners are ever so subtle, her views so full of awe and coolness (as in Fonzie “coolness”), and her twists and turns so mesmerizing, they seemingly draw you in like the proverbial moth to a flame. Time is both advanced and impeded when you find yourself riding a section of 2 lane blacktop such as this. She hurries you along, whispering you into a certain place that is so enjoyable it seems as if the experience has concluded all too soon. At the exact same moment she also has the uncanny ability to delay time and space by providing you with so many morsels of tarmac seared to perfection you feel as if this dish will never end.

Experiencing the Crowsnest Hwy is recommended to all, and should be mandatory for the 2 wheeled crowd. I often wonder if those Friday evening boulevard pirates realize what awaits them....…if they would only venture a slight bit further than continually "re-cycling" Main Street or posing at one of the multitudes of Timmies parking lots. She was without question created for motorcycles and if I were ever limited to riding a single digit for eternity, there would be no question the number I would choose. I have actually been considering for some time now inking her trademarked road sign on my body, the previous scars she provided me have long since healed, and while the memories of our meetings will last a lifetime I think a permanent homage to my all time favorite stretch of road in BC is in my immediate future.

Before I depart I should also add that The Crowsnest will also always hold a very special and important place in my heart. It was beside this favorite stretch of highway of mine that we bid a final goodbye to my Mother and scattered her ashes in the Similkameen River, an equally majestic body of water that intertwines with this extraordinary piece of pavement and flows through the same grand mountains above and spacious valleys below like a twisted twin. Ms. Crowsnest is, like my Mother was, certainly a one of a kind.

Out The Front Door................

In searching for the places unexpected, points of interest, and the sights sounds and smells that intrigue us we sometimes neglect to look under our own noses as we head out the door on yet another distant adventure. We live in such a captivating part of this fine Country, that one could not toss a dart at a map pinned to a wall without hitting a target that proves to be a worthy destination.
I decided it was time to take a well deserved stress break from the virtual support of my Nations athletes as they strived for athletic excellence, step out my front door, follow that trail at the end of my street that has been begging at me….. and see where she leads.

Our “Away Team” consisted of Tracy and me, along with a couple of good friends, their ever-willing to hike forever kids, and our dogs. It is amusing to note that my level of interest and excitement no matter the degree always pales in comparison to the utter state of joy and bliss our dog Jet finds himself in when he comes to the realization that he too is headed out for another journey.

We headed south from our home, passed through the looking glass at the end of the paved world, and hiked into adventure. I had reconnoitered the approximate route the weekend prior and knew we had a relatively easy 5K walk in front of us. As always (and I could not have it any other way) we prepared and packed a picnic to accompany us. I figured that a lunch of sandwiches with roasted peppers and zucchini, feta cheese, tomato and spinach all jammed between thick slices of fresh homemade bread would do our appetite well at some point along the hike. With the dogs breaking ground we followed the trail as it snaked through small rocky canyons and alongside the grassy slopes that blanket the hills surrounding our Valley. During the hike it became apparent that we were bidding a fond farewell (hopefully) to Old Man Winter and enthusiastically welcoming in Ms. Spring. We passed by bouquets of buttercups as they reached out from between the rocks yearning for that ever important ray of sunlight. Our hike was accompanied by the soundtrack of local birds, singing, chirping and chatting away with each other as we strolled past. The deer were also out and about, keeping a watchful eye on these two-legged interlopers as they grazed and sunbathed in the noon-day sun. It was a perfect day for a hike, fantastic conditions at that, I do not believe it could have been scripted better.

And then something quite remarkable presented itself to our party. We had been following a power line access road for a short distance, and as we rounded a corner we noticed the tell-tale warning sign of a string of yellow caution tape blocking access to a small sheltered rocky nook. We had found what we believed was a First Nations camping site long since utilized. The rocks seemed to poke out from their wall creating a small but perfect natural tent, and if there were any question as to who used the spot all was answered when we noticed the well positioned pictograph on the inner wall. We take it for granted, it seems, that others had tread on this land long before “we” laid our tarmac and rail tracks here.  

It seemed like the perfect spot to park our weary selves and devour the aforementioned picnic lunch we had prepared. Of course we never would have imagined that we would have dined there with the ghosts of long since past Aboriginals, sitting on the bluffs looking out over the beauty of Skaha Lake, our breathtaking Okanagan Valley and beyond.

We carried on, after refueling, following the crude trail on to our eventual (and hopeful) destination. Not long after, that feeling took hold of me, you know the one……..the feeling that someone (or something) is watching (or worse, following) me (in this case, us). I stopped, looked across a small divide and noticed a gang of Bighorn Sheep glued to our every step. They were perched atop a granite face of gargantuan proportion, hanging out as if clinging to the vertical side of Earth was as commonplace for them as the gravitational pull that I am faced with every single time I pass by a lone curious dirt path feeding off any paved stretch of highway. They watched, observed and then merrily continued upward and on with the tasks of their day. I’m certain one of them took notes so they could later discuss the ever so odd, flat-footed, and clumsy creatures they happened upon that day. As we kept moving along, following the dogs that were sniffing the trail ahead, we happened upon another set of Native pictographs. Apparently we were “on the right path”, as we trekked along what must have been a well travelled route a few hundred years ago. One can only imagine what this trail had seen over the centuries, and what stories it could tell if it could only utter the words.  

Not long after, the trail said goodbye and spit us out of the rocks and canyons and onto the weathered plains just outside of Penticton. Civilization was once again parked squarely in front of us, and from our newly acquired vantage point we were able to look out over the entire city below. We were led unceremoniously down and thrown back onto the real world that was marked with a simple paved road. A sign, erected by “the city” pointed the way back to yet “more city”……..though I must admit I preferred the hundred year old painted rock signs that had been leading us along prior to these hollow tin and metal structures. From there all we could do was locate our drop vehicle (the ever so evil mini-van), pile in, turn tail and head back home to reality.

I could not imagine a finer land to live on, or a more preferred Country to call my own. It seems a strange coincidence that I find myself waxing nostalgic with pride over this slab of partially frozen rock called Canada at the exact same moment as 2500 of our finest athletes have managed to pull this identical feeling, intensity, and outward showing of pride from an otherwise reserved population. It is now obvious why I bleed red, and grossly apparent that I am among the most fortunate of individuals……to be able to live free to explore the places that intrigue me within this Country of mine.

Searching for The French Mine

If the Mascot Mine hangs “up there” clinging to the mountainside like a distant but visual beacon begging for exploration, then the French Mine seems to be a whole other world away. The French Mine could be considered the lesser known step-sister, quietly churning out that most lusted after commodity as her more famous sibling basked in the glory of that time. As the crow fly’s, the two are separated by no more than a mile, yet the French Mine is hidden, tucked into the bosom of the mountains, yearning for only the more adventurous and curious to seek her history out.

Locating the French mine would be first foray into the local wilderness for the combination of my Wife, the pooch, and our recently acquired “search and expedition” vehicle….the little red Jeep.
Armed with my trusty gps, a well abused map book, and recently gleaned knowledge from the ever-informative “world wide web”, we set out on a perfect October morning to find, explore, and examine what the French Mine had to offer. On this inaugural trip I decided to bring along Brent and Jodie, good friends of ours who jumped at the chance to accompany us on this episode of our search for the unexpected. Unaware that I had absolutely no real clue where we were headed, exactly how we were going to “get there”, what if anything of interest we would actually find, and most importantly..... if we would complete our exploration with a safe return home……they followed along willingly, smiles in hand.

As it turns out, locating the mine site herself was relatively easy and straightforward process. Fortunately though, not easy and straightforward enough to encourage the rest of society to venture off the paved path to locate, explore, and as so often witnessed before..…to destroy. We ascended from the Similkameen Valley below; following what can only be described as a paper thin road cut along the path of a mountain goat with obvious attention deficit tendencies. Once we located the mine site we eagerly geared up (gearing up meaning grabbing a flashlight, the camera, and attaching the bear bell to the dog) and headed for the nearest willing and accessible portal.

The French Mine was laboured upon between 1950 and 1960 and in total she yielded 77000 tonnes of ore. Approximately 21 grams of gold per tonne of ore was recovered from the underground workings. I have conversed with a gentleman who like me is burdened with this sickness to search out and explore places like the French Mine. Both his experiance and experiences have allowed him to navigate the many miles of tunnels, portals, and shafts all branching off from the few remaining entrances to this fantastic and complex subterranean structure. For now, my cravings for exploration seem to be satisfied with forays of no more than a few hundred feet through the open portal and into the darkness of the Mine’s belly herself.

Sensory depravation is a strange beast. With a few solitary steps one can be transported from the brightness of the real world, back into a pitch blackness that holds the past. A flashlight is your best friend in times like these, and a simple flick of the switch leaves you standing there in a vast solitude, suffering the temporary and absolute blindness that can not be experienced above ground. While hovering as little as 50 feet from the safety of the light and warmth of the sun, you can almost feel as if you have been taken to a nether world, and that at any moment Gollum himself will tug on the rear of your jacket and pull you into the depths of the mountain…….never to be heard from or seen again.

Our adventure was completed with a well deserved picnic at the French Mine. We perched ourselves atop the boulders, rocks, and rubble that were once part of the body of the mountain…all excavated in search of that elusive 21 grams of preciousness per tonne.
We dined on fresh made sandwiches with aged white cheddar, devilled egg, and roasted red peppers, and snacked on homemade apple pie with whipped cream. We sat and devoured, and conversed of the destination for the next chapter in this journey….all while looking down at the Similkameen River winding through the Valley far below, a perfection of a picture postcard view if one their ever was.

The Mascot Mine

I had wanted to visit…. scratch that…. explore the Mascot Mine for as long as I can remember. Its remains sit perched precariously on the side of a rock faced mountain a thousand meters above the village of Hedley in the Valley below. It is as if someone grabbed a handful of history, threw it at the side of a mountain, and it just stuck like pasta to a wall. Ore was pulled from the Mascot Mine from 1936 until 1939, and in all over 7 tons of gold was removed by the miners that lived and worked on the side of a vertical mountainside. Once the ore was removed from mountain, it demanded to be transported down to the town of Hedley (one full kilometer below) for processing. An ingenious, if not somewhat unbelievable, method of moving the ore was devised. An aerial tram line was strung from the mine all the way down to the valley floor below, and ore was moved in giant buckets attached to steel cables. Occasionally, miners would also hitch a ride up or down in these suspended ore carts…..though the practice was frowned upon by the mine owners. Imagine that exhilarating journey, sitting in a metal bucket strung to a cable being transported into the clouds and beyond……..a true magic carpet ride if there ever was one.

For years I drove through Hedley heading to points beyond, but as always my eyes and thoughts we pulled upwards focusing the mine as it taunted my desires. One day, I thought, one day I will have to find a way to satisfy both my curiosity and appease that sickness and find the means to make my way up to the ruins of the Mascot Mine.

During my late teens or early twenties (my failing memory fails me at the most inopportune time) a cousin and I concocted a hair-brained scheme to scale that imposing mountain and explore once and for all the skeleton of what was once one of the highest producing gold mines in this Country. Sir Edmond Hillary had nothing on the ambition of two young men it seems, yearning to explore the unknown. We went so far in our plot as to attend a rock climbing course on more than one occasion. You see, we were most certain we would require these lifesaving and worthwhile skills if our dreams of ascent and exploration were to come to fruition. As with many well laid plans that flow from the minds of young men, we never saw our scheme through to completion. My cousin was unceremoniously recalled from his “unauthorized leave” of the military and I returned to my continued relationship of worshiping the Mascot from afar.

Fast forward one life chapter later; I met Tracy as we were both walking through the exit doors of failed relationships. We “clicked” right away and I realized that she was truly the partner in crime I had been waiting for all these desperate years. She was looking for the opportunity to experience life, and I was all too willing to drag her, kicking and screaming if need be, into my quest to search for the unexpected.

Coincidentally, the local First Nations Band was taking it upon themselves to diligently resurrect the long since abandoned Mascot Mine to her former glory. Their plan was to restore the site and offer limited groups guided access to the mine camp, buildings, and even into the mine shafts as well. A jackpot, if there ever was one for the likes of me, was won for the paltry admission price of thirty five dollars, a 45 minute ride in an off-road bus with my Wife in tow, and a hike down the infamous 600 steps to the Mascot Mine.

Exploring the Mascot was equal to strolling into the shallow end of the community swimming pool for the first time. It offered us the chance to see, touch, smell, and experience the working of an actual piece of mining history without offering up our safety and/or well-being as collateral. I spent the next two hours in an unadulterated mining heaven, soaking up the history and stories as they were relayed by our most knowledgeable tour guide. The climax of our trip and experience lay inside the mountain herself. We were led into the frigid hard rock via a mine tunnel, where we were given an example of the conditions miners tolled in, as they tried to eek out a living wage. A new uber-version of “dark” was learned that day, as the guide flicked the switch and we stood there…. stood there in 110% complete darkness, void of any light whatsoever. A candle was then lit, a solitary flickering flame, to illustrate the meek luminescence that would have existed inside a working mine shaft many years ago.

As we were led out of the shaft, and away from the Mascot Mine I was both grateful and thankful for the experience. Grateful to the Upper Similkameen Indian Band for providing this once in a lifetime peek into a forgotten part of our history. And thankful to my Wife, my willing companion, in this introductory foray into my search for the unexpected. (If she only knew what lay around the corner…….)