World Affairs Part XI

Airport disorientation then mountain bound, but first the blunt route through downtown. Pick up Granville and point straight at the Shore. Negotiate the squeezing combustion and the choking commotion as you nudge through the city. A left-right to roll upon Lions Gate before a spiral and a merge put you on the final road to the source.

The mouth of the Howe is wide as it swallows sail boats, ferries and isles with tidal yawn. On one shoulder is rock, on the other is water, so be careful how you step. Carved and piled by battalions of workers, blasted by force and risen from care, the Sea-to-Sky is now a cineplex experience where every seat is front row. 

Horseshoe and Lions Bay whisper at you to stop but the pull of the road whisks you along. Porteau Cove, Furry Creek, Britannia Beach flash by at one tonne speed; on the horizon Double Cone points the way. Around the arm and the Chief comes into view, little men rising as Shannon is falling. Former pulp town boomed not pulped, here the Howe Sound comes to an end, and though Squamish is worth more than a coffee break, this time further perks call out. 

The road starts to climb earning its name, through the canyon then off to the west the mighty Tantalus draws breath. Cracked and crevassed, its vast scale distorts its distance. Black Tusk makes a brief cameo, its fin a curious sight. After this stretch the walls of pined peaks close tighter and interlocking basalt columns offer pattern in the haphazard greenery. The temperate rainforest boasts bountiful biomass and cloaks the earth in all directions. The detail in the rough uniform trunks and green foliage of the cedar, pine and fir start to come into focus just as a sign announces the fringe of your destination. 

The first look of old London is from its rear quarter, and not till Function Junction, Spring Creek and Tamarisk have passed do you see the first sign of the mechanical hoists that are strung all over the haunches, skirts and crowns of the mountains. Large trucks with many bikes lashed down, buses bustling with cycles scooped onto their noses, and pedal pushers playing. Everywhere you look you see evidence of a locale built upon these two-wheeled toys and you feel you have arrived before you have even reached the core. 

My favourite drive in the whole world is the one from Vancouver to Whistler. Every time it makes my heart fly with excitement because I know what lies at the terminus – miles upon miles of tasty technical trail laced upon the flanks of all the mountains in this little sunny valley, ribbons of singletrack more plentiful than you need, and a population made up of lively, motivated, appreciative riders. The destination is the reason but the journey still moves me.

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