The next day
we took off across the final stretch of Northern Washington and crossed the border
into Canada. The border official asked us stern questions regarding fruit and
veg and took particular interest in the ownership of the vehicle and what we
were going to do with it when we left. He had no interest in the fact that we
had no flights booked out of the country though and after my usual excessively British
repertoire I reserve for police officers we were allowed back in to Canada.
Rather than head back to Vancouver we turned East towards the BC countryside and the town of Hope. The first night took us to Silver Lake Provincial Park where the prices were reasonable. Being a sunny weekend we snagged that last spot. After Hope we had a choice in routes to take East towards the Rockies. We opted for the Crowsnest highway, the southernmost route and one which took us through the fruit growing district of Okanagan. As we drove through the rising peaks of BC the temperature began to rise and rise until we were dripping in the mid to high 30’s. To add to the discomfort we noticed a slight bumpiness to the front of our ride although I couldn’t locate any issues with the van. After pulling over and checking all the vitals we set off again, the shuddering gradually getting more and more prominent.
The towns of Osoyoos and Penticton sit aside the Osoyoos and Okanagan Lakes, respectively. In the burning heat the orchards stretched across the hills and seasonal workers punctuated every junction, trying to hitchhike their way around. We arrived in Osoyoos searching for a highly regarded ice cream parlour and were rewarded with a cooling sticky treat. We dipped our feet in the relatively warm lake and watched the hundreds of French Canadian hippies congregate in the parks along its shore. Apparently French Canadians make up a huge portion of the migrant workers around these parts. Apparently they also make up a huge portion of the world’s population of dreadlock owning weed smokers as well; it felt more like Kingston, Jamaica than southern BC.
Penticton had a similar feel to it though more retirement community than Rasta congregation. The lakes around these parts can be as warm as 22 degrees so we spent the afternoon as one of the beaches playing bat and ball in the shallows. Having spent a few nights in Provincial campgrounds we decided to hunt out some free campsites in the area. As in America these locations took us off the beaten path and onto some gravel forestry roads. The shuddering in the van was continuing and I began to research reasons this could be although driving on the gravel you couldn’t really tell there was an issue. We spent a few nights tucked away by some remote lakes and recreated our Washington rainforest adventure by getting stuck down a very rocky 4x4 road out of the sticks. Having navigated terrain more suitable for mountain goats than campervans we were forced to turn around and head back a long way to the main roads. When we finally hit the tarmac the familiar sensation of gliding on ice was no longer present as the juddering of our van continued, filling us with no small amount of trepidation.
Having read up that there was probably some issue with our tyres I stopped the van at a local tyre shop and asked them to inspect and balance the front wheels. The Indian mechanic was a man of few words and dramatic gestures which left us $50 out of pocket and no wiser as to what was wrong other than our wheels were 16.5 inches which was an old and hard to find tyre size. It was at this point that a friendly local who was having his tyres changed advised us to visit a junk yard in the next town to see if they might have some spare rims or tyres of this size. I started to fear that this was going to be an expensive issue to fix.
The junk yard up the road was operated by a couple of friendly mechanics who were more than happy to take the van out on the road and look into the issue. I sat in the passenger seat as Fat Willy drove us at 70mph down the freeway, shuddering like an old washing machine. He spent the time telling me to camp at his buddy’s campground down by the lake and offering me deals. When we pulled back at the yard he inspected the front tyres and suggested swapping them for the back ones; there was no luck on finding 16.5 tyres here. As he scrabbled around under the front end he noticed that one of the shocks had come away from its mounting and quickly proclaimed this to be the issue with our van. As we breathed a sigh of relief at what was an easy job to fix I recalled an incident a month prior when, whilst driving down the highway, a loud bang akin to a gunshot went off from under the hood. Although I couldn’t see any issues then I now realised that this was most likely the shock coming away from its fixing.
We sat on a dusty old sofa in the front of the junk yard, slowly basting in our own sweat as the temperature topped 37 degrees. I couldn’t help but ponder the broken shock – if that was indeed the cause of our shuddering then why had we not experienced it immediately after it broke? Half an hour later Fat Willy was back and as we settled a further $100 for his work he all but agreed to see us down at the campsite later that evening. We turned out of the junk yard heading away from the direction he has sent us in, Emma cheering loudly at the lack of vibration in the front of the van. As we sped up to 40 miles per hour her cheering stopped as the familiar bump-bump-bump crept into being, haunting every strait and turn of the road eastbound towards the Rockies.
Clueless to what we could do I endeavoured to swap the wheels around myself and see if we couldn’t identify the problem but first we would stop off at Revelstoke, the last town before the mountain pass took us into the Rockies proper and on to Banff. Revelstoke is a small ski resort town with a number of snowboard shops, mountain biking rental places and cafes. Pleasant but by no means stunning we decided to visit the local ski shop/bar named The Cabin. On a Wednesday at 6pm the place was empty but Emma and I were very pleased to find it contained a 5 pin bowling alley in the back. We paid for some house beers and a few games and set about hurling the small balls down the lanes. 5 pin bowling is perhaps harder than 10 pin bowling. The lanes are similar size in width but the smaller number of pins means it is harder to hit anything. The balls are the size of a large grapefruit and without holes meaning all action is gained from the wrist, rather like a cricket bowl. We had great fun drinking beer and performing outrageous spin shots in the empty alley. Afterwards we were advised to drive across town to a pub renowned for its chicken wings. I don’t intend to do another gastronomic review but quite simply these were the best wings I have ever eaten. It was two for one and after we had consumed the first two batches I made Emma order us some more. It was far too much but I didn’t care, these were the best damned chicken bits on earth. Round the corner from the pub was a truck stop which, although busy, was free so we slept there for the night, bellies swollen from countless bird limbs and beer.
Rather than head back to Vancouver we turned East towards the BC countryside and the town of Hope. The first night took us to Silver Lake Provincial Park where the prices were reasonable. Being a sunny weekend we snagged that last spot. After Hope we had a choice in routes to take East towards the Rockies. We opted for the Crowsnest highway, the southernmost route and one which took us through the fruit growing district of Okanagan. As we drove through the rising peaks of BC the temperature began to rise and rise until we were dripping in the mid to high 30’s. To add to the discomfort we noticed a slight bumpiness to the front of our ride although I couldn’t locate any issues with the van. After pulling over and checking all the vitals we set off again, the shuddering gradually getting more and more prominent.
The towns of Osoyoos and Penticton sit aside the Osoyoos and Okanagan Lakes, respectively. In the burning heat the orchards stretched across the hills and seasonal workers punctuated every junction, trying to hitchhike their way around. We arrived in Osoyoos searching for a highly regarded ice cream parlour and were rewarded with a cooling sticky treat. We dipped our feet in the relatively warm lake and watched the hundreds of French Canadian hippies congregate in the parks along its shore. Apparently French Canadians make up a huge portion of the migrant workers around these parts. Apparently they also make up a huge portion of the world’s population of dreadlock owning weed smokers as well; it felt more like Kingston, Jamaica than southern BC.
Penticton had a similar feel to it though more retirement community than Rasta congregation. The lakes around these parts can be as warm as 22 degrees so we spent the afternoon as one of the beaches playing bat and ball in the shallows. Having spent a few nights in Provincial campgrounds we decided to hunt out some free campsites in the area. As in America these locations took us off the beaten path and onto some gravel forestry roads. The shuddering in the van was continuing and I began to research reasons this could be although driving on the gravel you couldn’t really tell there was an issue. We spent a few nights tucked away by some remote lakes and recreated our Washington rainforest adventure by getting stuck down a very rocky 4x4 road out of the sticks. Having navigated terrain more suitable for mountain goats than campervans we were forced to turn around and head back a long way to the main roads. When we finally hit the tarmac the familiar sensation of gliding on ice was no longer present as the juddering of our van continued, filling us with no small amount of trepidation.
Having read up that there was probably some issue with our tyres I stopped the van at a local tyre shop and asked them to inspect and balance the front wheels. The Indian mechanic was a man of few words and dramatic gestures which left us $50 out of pocket and no wiser as to what was wrong other than our wheels were 16.5 inches which was an old and hard to find tyre size. It was at this point that a friendly local who was having his tyres changed advised us to visit a junk yard in the next town to see if they might have some spare rims or tyres of this size. I started to fear that this was going to be an expensive issue to fix.
The junk yard up the road was operated by a couple of friendly mechanics who were more than happy to take the van out on the road and look into the issue. I sat in the passenger seat as Fat Willy drove us at 70mph down the freeway, shuddering like an old washing machine. He spent the time telling me to camp at his buddy’s campground down by the lake and offering me deals. When we pulled back at the yard he inspected the front tyres and suggested swapping them for the back ones; there was no luck on finding 16.5 tyres here. As he scrabbled around under the front end he noticed that one of the shocks had come away from its mounting and quickly proclaimed this to be the issue with our van. As we breathed a sigh of relief at what was an easy job to fix I recalled an incident a month prior when, whilst driving down the highway, a loud bang akin to a gunshot went off from under the hood. Although I couldn’t see any issues then I now realised that this was most likely the shock coming away from its fixing.
We sat on a dusty old sofa in the front of the junk yard, slowly basting in our own sweat as the temperature topped 37 degrees. I couldn’t help but ponder the broken shock – if that was indeed the cause of our shuddering then why had we not experienced it immediately after it broke? Half an hour later Fat Willy was back and as we settled a further $100 for his work he all but agreed to see us down at the campsite later that evening. We turned out of the junk yard heading away from the direction he has sent us in, Emma cheering loudly at the lack of vibration in the front of the van. As we sped up to 40 miles per hour her cheering stopped as the familiar bump-bump-bump crept into being, haunting every strait and turn of the road eastbound towards the Rockies.
Clueless to what we could do I endeavoured to swap the wheels around myself and see if we couldn’t identify the problem but first we would stop off at Revelstoke, the last town before the mountain pass took us into the Rockies proper and on to Banff. Revelstoke is a small ski resort town with a number of snowboard shops, mountain biking rental places and cafes. Pleasant but by no means stunning we decided to visit the local ski shop/bar named The Cabin. On a Wednesday at 6pm the place was empty but Emma and I were very pleased to find it contained a 5 pin bowling alley in the back. We paid for some house beers and a few games and set about hurling the small balls down the lanes. 5 pin bowling is perhaps harder than 10 pin bowling. The lanes are similar size in width but the smaller number of pins means it is harder to hit anything. The balls are the size of a large grapefruit and without holes meaning all action is gained from the wrist, rather like a cricket bowl. We had great fun drinking beer and performing outrageous spin shots in the empty alley. Afterwards we were advised to drive across town to a pub renowned for its chicken wings. I don’t intend to do another gastronomic review but quite simply these were the best wings I have ever eaten. It was two for one and after we had consumed the first two batches I made Emma order us some more. It was far too much but I didn’t care, these were the best damned chicken bits on earth. Round the corner from the pub was a truck stop which, although busy, was free so we slept there for the night, bellies swollen from countless bird limbs and beer.
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