Elbow Falls or Bust

(1653 words)

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“Ready to go?” I called to Dave.

“Yup, sure am,” came his enthusiastic reply – we were both excited. My stomach was tumbling like butter in a churn.

Dave and I were ready for our first ever bicycle camping trip. I had my CCM three-speed bike, with the Sturmey Archer shifter, tuned up and ready to go. I used a bunch of spare parts that I had accumulated, and put a second three-speed bike together for Dave. Both bikes had racks on the back, where we tied all our gear - a pup tent, sleeping bags, food and utensils. My bike carried the small round barbecue on the back, where we wired a handwritten sign that read, “Elbow Falls or Bust”. We were ready for our journey.

With some grunting and groaning on the up hills and coasting on the down hills, it took most of the first day to arrive at our destination – these weren’t exactly racing bikes, and we weren’t racers. Our spirits soared every time drivers slowed to honk and wave, in support, as they read our handwritten sign. It wasn’t quite the cross Canada ride I had originally hoped to do, as a Centennial project, but that would have required one of those new ten-speed bikes, that I couldn’t afford. This was ambitious enough for a first time jaunt by a couple of pre-driving-age teens.

The falls roared with approval upon our arrival; the frothy water pouring out of the mountain river to the rocks below. Dave and I were about to become experienced outdoorsmen and campers. We pitched the tent on the side of a hill overlooking the falls, so we could hear the thundering water during our stay. I started a fire and fried up some canned Klik luncheon meat, and canned potatoes for our first meal. The smell of the open fire, and the almost burning food in the tin fry pan, made our mouths water. We didn’t even know the word “gourmet” but if we did, we would have used it to describe this scrumptious meal. Dave grinned from ear to ear, as he satisfied his hunger with my speciality. I beamed with pride as I chewed the tasty meat – I felt I was quite the outdoor chef.

The greying sky was threatening to spit on us, but I wasn’t worried. I took the yellow rain cape, that we had packed, and draped it over the pup tent, to shed any rain that may hit our canvas home. Besides, there was a small hole in the top of the tent that might leak during a rainstorm. One problem solved – so I thought.

And what a rainstorm it was. Thunder clapped, in competition to the roaring falls, and the rain pelted down all night. The rainwater gushed down the hillside, creating a second waterfall, where we pitched the tent, but fortunately, most of it rolled right on by, leaving the inside of our pup tent dry – sort of. But the hole in the top of the tent was more of a problem than I anticipated. The rain cape was doing its job so far, however it started to bulge on the inside roof of the tent, as it accumulated the rainfall, and caused the small hole in the roof to grow into a large rip in the canvas. A balloon started to form over our heads. Dave decided to try to drain the bubble by pushing it up, hoping the water would drain on the outside. No luck, it drained right into the tent – all over our sleeping bags, our clothes, and us.

We were soaked. I started to feel like Noah, and thought the rain would last for forty days and forty nights. The pelting rain didn’t let up until morning. Like gophers that had been drowned out of their hole, Dave and I crawled from the front flap of the tent. There wasn’t a dry piece of fabric anywhere. We hung everything on trees, to let it dry and air out. Fortunately, day two was sunny, and everything was dry by nightfall. We puffed out our chests at having survived a near catastrophe.

I cooked up some more of my special “gourmet” canned foods, but shivered when I realized that I had not brought enough food, with barely enough to cover the second day, let alone the third day we had planned. My confidence was shaken, but not shattered.

Day two was devoted to hiking on the trails by the falls and freezing as we tried to wade in the shallow mountain Elbow River. Even as young teens, we were in awe of the serene beauty of the majestic foothills of the Rockies.

The second night was dry – no rain, thank goodness - and we slept like bear cubs in a den, until the morning sun baked us out of our tent. In the morning, we scrounged what little food we had left, which wasn’t enough to satisfy our aching bellies. With a last longing look at our campsite, we loaded our bikes and started for home – earlier than expected due to hunger.

After several hours, our legs burned as we cycled onto 16th Avenue north west, where we spied Phil’s Pancake House reminding us how hungry we were. Should we stop and eat now, or cycle the two hours it would take to reach home, at the south end of town?

We decided to eat at Phil’s - but did we have any money? We scrounged through our pockets and found some coins, but not enough to buy a meal to share. Dave opened his wrinkled wallet and found a single dollar bill, which, combined with the coins, would cover one order of “dollar” pancakes to share. Our mouths watered, but as we were about to enter the restaurant, I noticed this wasn’t an ordinary dollar bill. It was one of the limited edition bills, printed by the Canadian Government. Where the serial number was supposed to be, were the numbers, “1867-1967” representing Canada’s first one hundred years. There weren’t many of these around - now we had another decision to make. Do we spend this rare bill, to receive a dollar’s worth of food, or save it, on the belief that it was worth much more than one dollar. Hunger won out – we ate. The single order of mini-pancakes tasted even better than my “gourmet” meals at the falls. We smeared them with butter, maple syrup and strawberry syrup to maximize the energy value for the remainder of our trip home.

Now the final leg of the journey – cycling from the northwest end of town to the southeast. We no longer had crying bellies, but a new problem reared its ugly head. Dave’s bike was not holding up well. He was struggling with the wing handlebars, and the front wheel was getting loose. I agreed to let Dave ride my bike, and being the better cyclist, I took the beat up bike.

We creaked along McLeod trail at a snail’s pace, with all of our gear wiggling on the back of the bikes and cars and trucks whizzing by at near highway speeds. Where were all the supportive drivers now? We approached 82nd Avenue, crossing the railroad tracks that spanned the busy street. The bike I rode, didn’t survive the rail crossing. The front wheel twisted, as I crossed the diagonal tracks. It fell into the slot between the pavement and the rail, and I flew over the handle bars, as the bike halted in the front, but kept moving from the back. I lost all perspective as I tumbled to the pavement, and lifted my head to see a huge semi bearing down on me. It happened so fast, I couldn’t comprehend the danger I was in. The truck veered out of the way, just in time, with his air horn blasting, and I was saved. But the bike was a mess, with the front wheel bent so it no longer resembled a usable bicycle part. I was feeling shattered and defeated now.

Not sure of the strength of the bent wheel, I decided to push the broken bike from here. Dave pedaled the good bike beside me, as the old bike bobbed up and down, on the bent front wheel reminding me of a child’s toy.

We came to the corner of 90th Avenue – our final stretch. The road wasn’t paved, and was still muddy from the earlier rains. I knew this mud would glob on my shoes and make walking feel like you were wearing cement shores, so I decided to try to ride the broken bike the last mile. I pedaled for a couple hundred feet, with the bent wheel pushing me up and down like a circus clown, while mud gathered on the wheel and clogged the front fork. The front wheel flew off, rolling in the mud rut until it fell over with a splash, the forks dug into the mud, and I again flew over the handle bars like a stone in a sling shot – face first into the brown sludge. I was so angry, I wanted to throw everything into the ditch and leave it there.

Less than a mile from home, I was fuming as I slung the broken wheel over the wing handlebars, and hooked the forks of the broken bike to the carrier, on the back of the good bike, and we walked the two bikes to my back yard. Dave looked a tired mess, but my folks didn’t even recognize his “Sasquatch” looking companion. It took three days of baths and showers for me to once again resemble a human being. My CCM lived to make other trips, but the makeshift bike got a less than decent burial, at the dump.

Elbow Falls or Bust? No – Elbow Falls AND Bust.

Dave ignored me, the next time I asked, “Ready to go?”