How To: How I Didn't Die In British Columbia

INTRO

In the summer of 2006, I decided to take my 1986 Isuzu Trooper (with 170,000 miles on the odometer) for a month-long, solo road trip from San Francisco to British Columbia and back. I looked forward to the thrill of the open road, clear-blue water, wildlife, remote outposts... I prepared well, packing my tent, gear, and a month's worth of food, in case I ended up stranded and needed to wait on some remote roadside for rescue by husky team, or however that works in Canada. I took a trip into the wild, learned a few things and returned to tell the tale. I also found that not everything in the wild is so lucky.

SOINTULA

While waiting for the ferry on the island of Sointula, just offshore of northern Vancouver Island, I met a guy who advised me on all things British Columbian "bush." "You got bear spray?" he asked. Bear spray? I was going to see actual bears? I checked on said spray: $40 for a travel-sized, single-use can. I passed. From the stories I've heard, unless you're packing a pot roast, sleeping with choice cuts of bacon in your tent, or—and this is very important—hanging out near their cubs, bears aren't interested in you. As with most animals, we're more dangerous to them. In the bear’s case, we offer meals with one hand while dissuading them from their people-food habit with the other. The behavior modification program we offer is 100%-effective—it comes in the form of a bullet. A sign at a nearby campground puts it succinctly, "a fed bear is a dead bear."

THE BC FERRY

At some point in the planning process, I realized that there are no actual roads that traverse the British Columbian coast north of Vancouver Island, so I reserved a seat (and a parking space) on the BC Ferry to Bella Coola, via the Inside Passage (book far in advance). During the 12-hour trip, while the captain plyed us with tales of the gruesome ends met by local lighthouse keepers, and one of the crew sang banjo-fueled sea shanties on the back deck, I had time to walk about the cabin. I happened upon a public service poster designed to help passengers identify bear and cougar footprints. Whoa—this was really going to be serious business.

BELLA COOLA

In Bella Coola, the only town for 200 miles north or south that can be reached by land, I headed for the Bailey Bridge Campsite, a beautiful little private campground on the banks of the Bella Coola river. On the way I crossed a bridge on which stood two or three people staring intently into the water. Surely they weren't thinking of jumping the 12 feet to their deaths in the ankle-deep stream below. No, it turned out that they had been staring at about 200, two-and-half-foot-long salmon, which had just started running. Amazing. The salmon remained mostly still but occasionally jockeyed for position, then spawned and, one by one, literally and figuratively, slept with the fishes.

BC CAMPGROUND

About 22 miles east of town, on a dirt forest road, I found a very nice BC provincial campground. Since this was Canada, there were stacks of firewood, which, along with the campsites themselves, were free of charge. I walked down to the glacial-blue river and surveyed the scene: a ring of 8,000' peaks, lush forest, wild flowers, not a soul in sight, fresh bear and cougar tracks—iirrrrck!—fresh bear and cougar tracks? By now I was cool with the idea of bears, but cougars, according to my "bush" guide, snuck up behind you and chomped your neck—you never heard them coming. The trick, he said, is to sit facing your buddy. You literally watch his back and he yours, so, together, you have a 360˚, cougar-scanning view of the forest. I, being solo, headed back into town for another night at the Bailey Bridge campground.

THE ROAD OUT

Since the mid-1950s “Highway” (my quotes) 20, the one-lane, guardrail-free, dirt road that edges its way along steep Heckman Pass has been the only land route out of the Bella Coola Valley. Before that there was nothing—only wilderness. Amazingly, even large trucks can now make the trip. Side note: uphill-facing cars have the right of way on one-lane mountain roads (it’s harder for them to get going again, if they have to stop). However, I found that, faced with 80,000 lbs. of 18-wheeler heading down the hill straight for me, I didn’t mind bending the rules a bit. I nudged the Trooper closer to the cliff edge and was greeted with a friendly wave as the semi lumbered past. My other concession to safety was to not travel the road at night, on the off chance that I could have run across a wayward cougar or bear (most active from dawn to dusk), swerved and careened over a pitch-black cliff face. Ok, who knows… I actually only saw one bear the entire trip, a little cub, next to the highway, 40 feet up a tree, climbing around, busily doing bear stuff.

SQUAMISH

On the return leg, in the forests near Squamish, I ventured further afield, 4-wheeling through a dry river wash. Encountering the river itself, I put the truck in reverse and backed towards the road. Where I ended up though, was down a sandy slope with the truck’s rocker panel scraped and dented by the boulder it was now resting on. No problem—I had prepared for such an eventuality. Out came my winch, anchor and rope. 45 minutes later, the rope had stretched, and the anchor hadn't held (something called a Pull Pal works better). Shit. I could have either waited a few days for someone to come by, given the food I had left, or I could have hiked the ten miles back to the highway. Then I remembered the trick for getting out of sand: low tire pressure. I dug the truck free with my shovel, deflated the tires to about 18 psi. Like magic, the 4-wheel-drive hooked up and I drove out. I reached the highway, refilled the tires and headed back to SF, sweaty and dirty but still very much alive.