A Journey Through British Columbia’s Coastal Mountains
Words & photography by Tyler Ravelle
One thing many of us are guilty of is not following through on our plans. We’ll talk about ideas at a party, influenced by a few beers with our friends. “Bro, this will be the year we finally get that ride in.” And we’ll all feel stoked by the thought of desolate dirt roads, endless views, remote campsites and the stories that follow a journey far away from home. We’ll cheers and say, “It’s about time! We’ve been wanting to do this for years.” Then the weeks and months slip by. Warm summer days fade into fall, time starts running out, and the floodgate of excuses starts to wash in once again.
“I can’t get the time off work.” “The weather doesn’t look good.” “My bike needs a service.” And suddenly the trip’s not happening. Too many variables, and things just aren’t lining up. You convince yourself it’ll actually happen next year. Now you’ve got more time to plan, and you’ll book more time off work. And the weather will be way better. Right?
But does life ever line up perfectly? Eventually you just have to go, and that’s what we decided to do this year. Rain or shine, there’s no better time than now.
With this newfound excitement, my close friends Mason Mashon, Kris Kupskay, Morgan Parker and I began to prepare for the adventure. Mason is an accomplished photographer who capitalized on a break in his schedule to join in on the fun. Kris is a professional artist and longtime riding buddy who made sure not to take any commissions that would mess with our time window. And Morgan, a marketing guru by day, cashed in on some vacation time and let the crew know that he was ready to ride.
Winter was approaching quickly in the coastal mountains of British Columbia, and this was our last chance to squeeze in the adventure before another year passed. Fall on the West Coast is typically a very wet and stormy time, but we wanted to keep our bags as light as possible, so we left the heavy rain gear behind. Crossing our fingers for warm weather and sun, we saddled up in the early hours of the morning, and I could already feel my anxieties about the trip slipping away. They had been replaced with the sheer excitement about the road ahead. Starting in the small resort town of Whistler, we’d point our bikes north and follow a network of old mining and logging roads that would eventually lead us to the desert town of Lillooet.
Smoke from wildfires across the border had made its way into the Canadian mountains, clinging to the ridge lines with an eerie glow in the morning light. In no time at all, we made it to our first dirt road, aptly labeled “The High Line,” and started climbing above Anderson Lake, one of BC’s finest glacial-fed bodies of water. Just underneath the constant revs of our engines, I could hear hoots and hollers as we jumped off every visible rock and popping wheelies like a bunch of kids. Day one, and the trip is already worth the effort.
We were traversing through traditional St’át’imc territory, who were the original inhabitants here. The territory is composed of 11 self-governing communities that span across the region. The St’át’imc vision of a good life is one of continually renewed relationships between the people and the land, so we were very careful where we rode as we traversed through this sacred ground.
As luck would have it, the First Nation town of Seton Portage was open for business, and this would be our first stop. We refueled our bikes with gasoline and our bodies with beers and good old-fashioned pub grub at the infamous Highline Bar. I’ve been coming to this place with my dad since I was a young boy ever 30 years ago, and it hasn’t changed one bit. It’s still the same old dimly lit pub with two-dollar bills lining the walls and stains on the pool table. It’s a rare kind of charm that comes only with the wear and tear of a colorful history.
We continued crushing more miles into the afternoon and enjoyed more spectacular mountain views along the way. BC, in my opinion, is a mecca for dual sport riding. The province has a long history of logging and mining, which has resulted in numerous public forestry roads that provide remarkable access to this wild terrain. With this wide network of roads, constant navigation was required because one wrong turn could lead us a day in the wrong direction, and we could risk running out of gas and getting stranded.
We made it to my favorite spot of the trip just before sunset: a massive tunnel blasted through the side of Mission Mountain. There was something special about riding through this rock with the golden light bouncing off the walls and the sound of our exhaust ringing in all directions. Shortly after exiting the tunnel and just after dark, we found our first campsite. We set up our sleeping pads in the dirt and shared stories around the campfire while making plans for the day to come.
Our next destination would be the old mining town of Bralorne. Once one of the highest-producing gold mines in North America it had a bustling community of over 1,500 people. Eventually the mine had gotten too deep to run a profit and shut down operation in the late ‘60s, rendering it a ghost town.
Upon arrival the following morning we found a neglected ski chalet and claimed it by ditching our heavy packs on the floor. Then we hopped back on our bikes and ripped up the mountain, free from the shackles of our overnight packs. We tick-tacked our way through the rooted singletrack and eventually crested tree line, blasting into the wide-open spaces of the alpine. I’d almost forgotten how nimble motorcycles are without bags strapped to the sides. It was a very welcome break for our suspensions and our spines.
The crackling flames became our nightly source of entertainment out here in the middle of nowhere. It warmed our bodies and souls as we talked through the highs and lows of the day. Dark clouds moved in as the sun sank behind the mountains, and for the first time on the trip it started to rain, so we hunkered down for the night in the old chalet with the resident rats.
The following morning we continued the ride along the remarkable Carpenter Lake, a 34-mile-long reservoir boasting unbelievable glacial blue hues. We watched in amazement as the light beams radiate between the peaks and glisten off the lake. I’ve never had such a long ride go by so fast, with every corner on the road exposing new breathtaking views and jagged peaks.
We continued farther and farther north as our surroundings transformed into a drastically different desert landscape. The massive cedar and spruce trees transitioned into dry and desolate fields of sage and tumbleweed. When we pulled up to a canyon on the side of the road we looked down below and discovered the perfect campsite.
In hindsight, we should have checked the line down into the canyon before riding it, but by the time we dropped in, it was too late to turn around. Navigating the minefield of soccer-ball-sized rocks, it was a miracle we all made it down in one piece.
Celebrating our survival, we built a fire, and Mason found a small fishing hole along the side of the river, finally scoring a plethora of beautifully colored cutthroat trout. Unfortunately, the fish were just too small to eat, so Kris and I decided to cook some old sausages we found buried in our saddle bags. We were filthy from the days of dust layered on our clothes as our greasy hands clutched the last beer of the trip. We could hear coyotes howling at the rising moon, and we had this remarkable feeling that we were exactly where we needed to be. It doesn’t get any better than this.
During this trip we got a small taste of the struggle that life on the road can throw your way, but we loved it. We were slapping a few high fives to celebrate the end of an adventure, and we chased each other down the old desert roads one last time into Lillooet, the final town on our loop. It was smooth sailing from here.
The mountain peaks are showing a line of snow and it seems we snuck this trip in just in time. Retiring the what-ifs about this ride and just saying YES was the best choice we had made in a long time. And until the snow melts next spring, we’ll have these memories to look back on, and remind us to worry less and ride more.
