The Rockies – Banff National Park, Alberta

The US makes a big deal of its bear population, particularly in campgrounds where signs inform you of the illegality of storing food in anything other than a bear locker. Wardens advise you at every checkpoint to be bear aware and you spend the days rubbernecking as you walk and drive, expecting a monster to get you at any minute. In Canada things are very different. With just as many bears as their southern neighbours one would expect the national parks to be hot on bear safety but other than friendly advice from the odd warden at campsite entrances to keep your food inside the car there is little to make you afraid of these animals. I posed this thought to a local in Banff and he simply said that if a bear comes near you just shoo it away. They have a far more relaxed relationship with their native species up here.

Banff is the heart of the Canadian Rockies experience.  A jumping off point for most of the major sights and within a few hours’ drive from Calgary this town is a hub of activity and excitement and with so much excitement comes the cost. Because the town of Banff resides within the national park borders it is necessary to have a parks pass to stop within the park limits. This wasn’t something we realised as we wound our way through the town towards the cheapest campground named Two Jack. Having paid for our camping spot Emma suggested we go look at the nearby lake whilst I protested that this would probably contravene the rules of requiring a park pass to look around the park and Emma pointed out that we probably needed one to camp as well. We drove down to the lake anyway and Emma made us stop so she could take a picture. As I stropped like a scared little girl a park ranger pulled up next to us to check passes. Emma dived back into the van and we took off down the road like Thelma and Louise. We made a beeline for the visitor centre to purchase a pass, making it just before the office closed for the night.

The next day we visited Lake Louise, a body of water remarkable for its milky blue colour. This is caused by the rock flour or glacial sediment which makes its way into the water. On the shores of the lake sits a ‘chateaux’ which is more like a giant chateaux shaped Best Western and accompanying the edifice are hoards of Asian tourists. A little over 4km from the lake is a tea house perched high in the mountain side. Fortunately the walk prevents 95% of the visitors from visiting the tea house and we trekked up the hill in relative solitude. The walk was very steep and we passed the beautiful Mirror Lake before arriving at Agnes Lake. We had an expensive lunch at the top though the price was justified when we realised that all the supplies had to be hiked up the mountain by foot. A notice on the back of the menu informed us that when the current owner purchase the tea house from a train company her daughter would walk the steep climb to and from the school bus stop every day. After splashing our sweaty faces with ice cold lake water we made the walk back down and back to Banff for the night. We would explore the local museum, visit the sulphuric hot springs, browse the shops and drink in the local brew pub (crap beer compared to their American counterparts . . . just so you know) and thoroughly enjoy what Banff had to offer.

Having decided to visit Calgary we set off on a Saturday morning and drove a slow 45 mile per hour towards the city, stopping off at a Denny’s by the Olympic village. I don’t know what it is about Denny’s but we have developed a soft spot for what is essentially a reasonably priced, large portioned fry up. We tucked into our bacon and eggs and researched where we might be able to spend the night in Calgary. The answer was a resounding nowhere, not unless we were prepared to pay through the nose. The annual Calgary Stampede was soon to start and the prices of campgrounds were through the roof. It was a shame as Emma and I would have loved to visit the stampede, billed as “the greatest outdoor show on earth.” We decided to make our way back to Banff but as we pulled in to the Two Jack campground turning we noticed that everywhere was full. Fortunately they had an overflow campground which was essentially a glorified car park but at $10.70 a night we didn’t mind paying for it and it would give me plenty of space to change the wheels around. I set to work taking the wheels off, using the jack and the spare wheel to prop the van up at various points to allow me to switch them. The park began to fill up with tents and soon the next RV camper arrived and was directed to park next to us. The driver pulled in and I could hear a distinct Aussie-Kiwi twang to his voice so, as he climbed out of his truck I struck up a conversation, using the colloquial ‘mate’ to indicate a common ground. Kiwi Robb and Aussie Dani were on the first night of their Canadian adventure and it didn’t take long before we cracked open the beers (despite the no alcohol weekend restrictions) and began working on our friendship.

I was finishing the tyre changes whilst sipping on terrible Molston lager when I noticed that the right rear tyre was absolutely shredded; I mean beyond bald and with wire poking out. No wonder we had been vibrating so much. I swapped it for the spare and checked the rear left which was bald but not as badly. We would have to try and find some replacements in Calgary and pay the price whatever it was. Having realised how close we were to a highway blow-out we settled down to drinks with Dani and Robb and thanked our lucky stars we hadn’t been hurt. As the beer flowed the mosquitos began to bite relentlessly and Emma and Dani retired to bed leaving Robb and I to finish the entire crate of beer. As a Brit my constitution for beer is quite high and I hadn’t realised quite how drunken Robb was getting. He held it together though before stand up, proclaiming that his head was on backwards and staggering to bed after urinating on the front of his truck. I ducked into our van and spent an hour engaging in futile mosquito genocide. The morning after Robb’s head poked out of his van proclaiming that he felt “fucking sick” which made me laugh though I abruptly stopped when Emma pointed out the 30 plus bites I had across my back.

We arranged to meet up with Robb and Dani again later that week as Robb had kindly offered us a place to park in Calgary. His Aunty and Uncle lived just outside the city on a sizable plot of land which meant we could park up for free and get the chance to visit the Stampede. I located some incredibly expensive tires in Calgary and arranged to pick them up later that week after we had limped up to Jasper and back. We said goodbye to Robb and Dani and I felt a jolt of pleasure at meeting such nice people and greatly looked forward to seeing them again. For now it was north bound though, limping on a spare tyre and a bald tyre, through the ice-fields and up to Jasper, a wilder little sister to Banff.

Southern British Columbia

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.

Washington - Take 2 - The Olympic Peninsula

The northern towns crowning the Olympic Peninsula are of the rugged working class type established when lumberjacks were lumberjacks and the concept of a lumbersexual was a gay 80’s fantasy instead of a hipster style of dress. No doubt it’s the foreboding landscape and apocalyptic feel of destitution that led to some woman setting her Twilight novels in the town of Forks, Washington. We snapped a picture at the town entrance sign and it must have been an odd time of day for we were the only ones stood on what was clearly well trodden ground. I grimaced so that should anyone be watching me they’d know I wasn’t there by choice. The town has clearly benefitted from the books as a number of shops have sprung up offering vampire related merchandise and the supermarket counters were adorned with leaflets advertising Twilight tours etc. As we moved on to the slightly larger but equally rough-and-ready Port Angeles, Emma was amused to tell me that a local Italian restaurant named Bella Italia had been doing a roaring trade in mushroom ravioli and coca cola since this was what the female protagonist from Twilight ordered on her first date with her vampire lover. We spent an uneventful night in Walmart car park with a dozen other RVs, only occasionally peering past the curtains for signs of the supernatural.

The next wet day was spent relaxing in a coffee shop, writing blogs, uploading photos etc. When we decided to move on we had to make a decision on how we were going to get back on the main route north to Canada. The Puget Sound which separates Seattle and the mainland from the peninsula would add an extra few hundred miles on to our journey and we weren’t particularly set on going back to Seattle. The other options took us by ferry to Vancouver Island or Whidbey Island. I searched around for some free campsites in the area and other than Walmart again the options were slim. We settled on another casino in the improbably named Sequim (improbably pronounced ‘squim’) and were pleasantly surprised to discover free parking with a free electrical hookup. Deciding I wanted some entertainment for the evening, even if it was of the cheap Wednesday night local casino variety, I dragged Emma in to the Rainforest bar where I was immediately befriended by a terribly drunk local named Mason. On greeting me, Mason proudly announced his foreign heritage, as do so many Americans, although apologised that he hadn’t actually been to Norway nor did he speak any Norwegian but god damn it his blood was Norwegian. Only a short time later he was buying me drinks and I was warming into winding him up about American gun laws and why everyone here drives a truck. He told me stories of meth labs and trespassers to justify his M16 assault rifle ownership whilst I bought him drinks in return and he fed me a sugary bbq pizza. Before too long the bar tender was involved and the discussion moved on to his travels in the UK, scotch whiskey and cigars. As I ordered myself a cheap cigar (too many beers at this point) Emma slid to the other end of the bar, supposedly to avoid the smoke though I suspect her drink choice of lemonade wasn’t having quite the same effect as my Fresh Squeezed IPA was having on me and her enjoyment levels were perhaps a little short of enthusiastic. Mason, Sid the bartender and I wrapped up the night with me buying a round, Mason staggering off home and Sid disclosing to me a personal tale of bereavement which made me regret the last order of ale. I collected him on Facebook, invited him to stay in my bed in the UK (wherever that will be) and apologised to Emma for boring her all evening on the way back to the van. I left with a headache but also a pleasant sensation that the local people of Sequim, particularly patrons of the Seven Cedars Casino, were a really nice bunch of people, even if they were gun toting, heavy drinking, truck driving, boat building republicans.

As we drove to the north eastern tip of the peninsula we decided we would catch a ferry to Coupeville which in turn would set us on the road back to the mainland and northbound. The ferry left the pretty maritime village of Port Townsend and took a short 30-45 minutes to cross the calm open water to Whidbey Island on the other side. As we disembarked the ferry Emma and I were transported to the Cornish countryside and the rolling hills of southern England. Hedgerows lined the narrow roads which wound their way through gentle fields of grain, the horizon dotted with farm buildings and the occasional Dutch windmill. It was a rather surreal experience which reminded me of home enough to pang at my heart. The town of Coupeville was not dissimilar to the small Cornish fishing villages which turn themselves over to tourists in the summer months and we spent the day in the sunshine watching sail boats take to the water whilst drinking coffee.

Despite not finding any free camping opportunities in the area we decided to have dinner in town and online reviews and guidebooks pointed us to a restaurant named Christopher’s. We took a table at 5pm and pondered the menu whilst the overbearingly enthusiastic waitress fussed around us, earning her tips. Emma decided that this was the right place to have some seafood and ordered the special of Cajun style mussels and salmon. I couldn’t decide between surf and turf so opted for both in a dish of lamb and sockeye salmon. We hadn’t eaten all day so we ordered starters as well, Emma choosing the clam chowder and I selecting the fondue. As the waitress scuttled back to the kitchen we took stock of the already full dining room and in particular the size of the portions which started arriving at the tables. The eyes of the five little Korean women to our right nearly fell out when their plates of pasta arrived. As our sizable starters landed I noticed as well that everyone was being given salads. The waitress had asked us what type of dressing we wanted and although I replied without question I began to wonder whether this was a sneaky trick employed to get you to buy a salad. Rather than ask you if you want a salad I assumed they just asked what dressing you want and charge you for the greens. As I scoped around the room for the salad prices, memories of my dad arguing with salespeople rang around my head and I formulated my argument for when the bill came. Obviously I needn’t have been so paranoid, the salads were free, but what shook me more was the volume of food which arrived at our table. After the liquid cheese and bread I was pretty stuffed and Emma’s creamy clam chowder was not on the light side and we were perhaps regretting the choice to splash out on a fancy meal. My lamb ribs were served atop a pile of couscous and vegetables the size of my head and I had to dig around to locate the hand sized slab of salmon. Emma gawped at her 20 mussels, equally sized slab of salmon and fists of gnocchi. We tucked in without delay and relaxed a little when we witnessed the Korean delegates take most of their food away in boxes; at least we wouldn’t be paying for food to be binned.

It was a very pleasant meal although both of us have come to the biased conclusion that Welsh and New Zealand lamb is of far superior taste to the limited amount of lamb they eat in the States. Emma enjoyed her meal as well though it was hard not to feel that the restaurant had overcompensated for OK tasting food with huge portion sizes and excessive meat combinations. I looked around the packed dining room and noted the smiling faces of people who genuinely seemed to think that this was a truly fantastic gastronomic experience. It reminded me as well of an American friend of mine who, at the age of 50, was championing the merits of various fast food restaurants found in the states. I like burgers as much as the next guy and I by no means suggest that the cities of America don’t provide some world class restaurants. Maybe it is because I’ve lived in London for the past 8 years that I’ve been spoiled for choice of eatery or maybe it is because my parents treated me to exciting styles of cuisine (my mum cooked llama last Christmas) but I couldn’t help feel proud of the food we have on offer back home. I am of the generation where the notion of terrible British cooking is a stereotype of the past and I wanted to tell that to that dining room in Coupeville. I wanted to tell them to strip back the portion sizes, remove half the ingredients and serve their seafood as simply as possible. More than that I wanted to tell them to visit the seafood restaurants of Cornwall or the River Cottage Canteen in Axeminster; I wanted to invite them to eat a £12 dinner at Le Mercury in Angel, to tuck into potted saffron shrimp at the Bistro in Southport or enjoy a fry up at the Kitchen Table in Mumbles. Maybe it was the scenery from earlier, the thoughts of my mum and dad, or the fact that we were heading back to Canada, the home of our van and the start of our trip, but I had home on my mind and home firmly thumping in my heart. That in itself was a problem because I was so full the thumping was making me feel sick.

After the serenity of Whidbey Island it was back down to earth with a bump as we pulled into Camping World, Burlington for the night. I’d read online that these places allowed overnight RV parking although, with the store being closed, there was no indication of where or if we could park. We pulled up next to a row of 30 or so giant RVs and drew the curtains hoping that we’d just blend in as another vehicle. 

Washington - Take 2

After the warmth of inland Oregon the north pacific coastline was a shock to the system again. Little had changed in the weather since we were there two and a half months earlier. There was slightly less rain but a biting wind blew off the ocean as we pulled in to camp at the Quinault tribal casino. We couldn’t complain though – the parking was free and right on the beach which provided us with our first sea-sunset for months. The morning after we decided to take a back-roads route north towards the Olympic peninsula in order to save us a few miles on the 101 which headed inland. The GPS said it was only 14 miles but would take 2 hours. After the drama of Wards Ferry Rd we decided together that we would share the blame if the road went wrong and would embrace any craziness the road provided. An hour later the road began to run into deeper and deeper forest with the gravel giving way to rubble and dirt. After a particularly steep incline with trees scraping along the side of the van we came to a break in the road where heavy rains had subsided the track. 

I got out to walk across and noticed that the road steeply inclined to the right where it dropped into a deep ditch of swampy water and trees. To the left the track ran across the roots of a dead tree with holes collapsed between the protruding boughs. The track was the width of our van. Having driven this far and being only two miles from the 101 I decided I could drive it and told Emma to navigate me across. As I edged my way forward the van began to pitch to the right so I opened the door on the left hand driver’s side to try and weigh it over and provide me with a quick escape should it start to tip. Fortunately the water and fuel tanks were on the left as well so we were weighted in the right direction. As I edged the front wheels past the dirt drop offs Emma jumped out the way and I gunned it past and up the other side. Emma got back in, heart in mouth and we continued for two minutes into a dead end. 

After all that I had to turn a twenty foot camper around in a dense rainforest. Having cleared a good section of protected tribal land with my manoeuvrings we had the van facing the subsided road once more only this time the weight was all on the wrong side. As I edged the van towards the dip again it began to tilt only this time to the left with me inside it. I closed the door this time and buckled up. If it went there was going to be nothing we could do. The van would be on its side in a remote rainforest, miles from anyone or even phone reception. As I crept forward I shouted to Emma to move out of the way of the road. She moved briefly only to step in front again. I shouted over and over to get out the way but she kept repositioning to better see the wheels. As I felt the back wheel begin to slip I had no choice but to floor it and try to get it up the other side. As I roared forward, screaming at Emma to get out the way she jumped to the side at the last moment and the van made it across once more. As Emma got back into the cab we sat there for a second pondering our stupidity but seconds are short and before long we were off again and laughing, wondering how on earth a 1978 van could make it through rainforest without even breaking a sweat. Two hours later we made it through the labyrinth and back onto the 101 where the smooth tarmac felt like gliding on ice compared to the rubble tracks of the forest floor.