Bikepacking in BC's Interior Part 2 (or, the lengths I go to get a good cup of coffee.)

A guy with enormous calves hoonin' down the trail on a sleek gravel bike towards us should have been the first clue.

"Why does he look so fresh?" I ask Kyle, who is pushing his bicycle up the rugged gravel track that heads due south out of Douglas Lake. It is an afternoon in early May. Towering cumulonimbi sweep across the grassland of the southwestern flank of British Columbia's Interior Plateau bringing scattered greyish sheets of rain. A sudden burst of sunshine is warm enough to make us apply sunscreen in the shade of a scrubby bush.

Rain sweeps across the Interior Plateau.

Up we go. Past fence posts and cattle guards. Up past a cow with her two calves. Past ponds and power pylons. Red winged blackbirds sing our farewell song as we enter an aspen forest. Still up. And not for the last time, I begin to question the wisdom in using Google Maps to route plan. Did it not say 26 kilometres to Paradise Lake? Or did it randomly decide to Gimli Glider me and plot out my route in miles? Still up. Turn right at the gravel pit and keep climbing. 26 kilometres came and went long ago and I am thinking about the cyclist with enormous calves and wondering where on earth he came from. It wasn't here because here is a river and his shoes were dry, I'm almost sure.

As the sun is getting low, the decision must be made; camp on this side of the river, next to the washed out bridge, or on the other side on the decommissioned road? An easy choice to cross while it is warm. After a much-needed river bath and a delicious packet of Dal Makhani, sleep comes easy.

The wind of the night had died down by the time Kyle and I shovelled oatmeal into our mouths. We pack up and ride out of the aspen and into the spruce forests of the loftier regions of the Plateau. Rounding a bend I catch a glimpse of the cinnamon-coloured humped back of a grizzly bear as it galloped into a thicket of trees.

"Chain's busted!" yells Kyle. The mud from the previous days has taken its toll and one of the links snapped.

"The bike shop convinced me I needed a new chain," Kyle complains. "Luckily I kept the old one." And he procures a second chain out of his voluminous pannier, pops a link and fixes the chain with much consternation. Not ten minutes later, the chain breaks again.

Eventually it came down to that the bike needed an impromptu roadside tune-up after rolling through kilometres (or was it miles?) of mud. A new link was installed and it ran smoothly. We crested a small knoll and it was downhill to Paradise Lake.

The broken link.

There is apparently a route between the Okanagan Connector and the Kettle Valley Railtrail. At least that is what my smartphone says as I finger-pinch my way through a tiny map with limited details. And yes, I know, this would be so much easier with a dedicated GPS app, but at the moment, this is the perfect tool for the job. I load the blue line that indicates a route and screenshot it then stuff the phone into the chalk bag, I mean "feed bag" that Is hanging off my headset.

Immediately I can see this is not an ideal route. The road is accessed through a squatters camp that exists behind a service station. Rounding the corner, we see the trail rise like a wall before us, taunting our already tired legs. I take a sheepish glance at Kyle, knowing that I've been promising downhills from here on out.

"Onwards and upwards," I say, for like the tenth time.

Onwards and upwards brings us into the cooler parts of the forest, where the early May sun has not yet melted the abundant snows of winter. Great white sheets spread across the road causing us to push our laden bicycles in smeary lines between increasingly smaller sections of gravel. I am holding out hope, however, in the knowledge that this is a north-facing slope and the sun will have melted the snow on the other side of this pass. We reach the top with a whoop and begin cruising down the snow-free side, picking up speed, enjoying the flow. Then, on a blind corner, the road turned just enough away from the sun. I hammer on the brakes and skid to a stop just before another expanse of snow. Riding through is impossible and so we trudge.

Eventually we lose enough elevation that snow is a distant memory. We catch glimpses through the trees of a landscape that is vast, only visited by lumberjacks and lost folk.

A rough ride on decommissioned roads.

Crossing another creek.

We end up along the brown waters of Trout Creek and follow it downstream in the direction of Summerland. The Kettle Valley Rail Trail is here but for the most part, it is completely unrideable due to the endless washboard caused by motorized traffic. We stick to the road.

The next morning we awoke to sunlight streaming through the trees and we began the easy descent into Summerland. The Rail Trail is scenic, but doesn't offer much of a challenge so we put our heads down and try to cover as much ground as we can. This brings us to Penticton in time for lunch.

Now, I have been living in "the sticks" for quite sometime. I have also lived in Canada's largest city. I was curious whether I would remember how to cycle with the hoards of vehicle traffic a city produces. But first, we have to get across the busy intersection that crosses the highway. A driver, turning left, ignores us and almost collides with me, walking my bike across the crosswalk.

"Hey, I'm walking here!" I yell in a New York accent. I think now I remember how to bike in the city.

I really only have one thing on my mind after three days away from civilization and that's a flat white. Luckily I know of the perfect place.

Mission complete. The perfect flat white. Here's to no flats.