The Epic: Fail

“The last of human freedoms is the ability to choose one’s attitude in a given set of circumstances.”
      –Victor Frankl, Man’s Search For Meaning

Although these words were written about the effects of concentration camp life on the human psyche, they resounded with me as I dug through my meager belongings to get a band aid to stop the bleeding. It was just a minor cut but as I sat there, squeezing my finger and thinking about all the other things that had gone awry, I started to think that this trip was becoming an epic fail.

The trip began as a kayak trip, which became a float plane drop, which morphed into a bikepacking trip to Horseshit Lake. In other words, I just wanted to get out there and unplug someplace in this great big backyard of ours. I’d also been hankering to do a little bikepacking for some time so with the boxes all ticked and good weather in the forecast I got my junk together for a 4 day backcountry trip.

I headed out midday and promptly ran into parking-lot traffic due to a motorcycle accident ahead. No problem, I had all day to get to the trailhead and if this somewhat gruesome start was any kind of indication of what was to come, I was certainly oblivious to it. Eventually I got going again and made it to Bordertown, where I gassed up to take on the logging road over The Pass. Everyone seems to have a story of The Pass wreaking havoc on their car or truck and my personal tally for 2 trips over with friends was 2 flats and 1 rolled-but-drivable truck. So naturally I was a little hesitant this time.

  Every good road trip should trip start like this.

But it’s just a road and, with a little due care, it shouldn’t be a problem. And it wasn’t a problem – I made it over and rolled the last few kms to the valley with just a minor vibration from the canopy. Which got a little louder. Which actually sounded a bit like a flat tire. Sure enough, the right rear was punctured and going down. Since it was already late, I injected some sealant and got it back up to pressure with a floor pump and finally rolled into a riverside campsite 10 km from the trailhead.

  F-bombin.

By morning the tire had lost 8 psi, which was good enough for me. I carefully gave’r up the last and roughest 10km and made the trailhead more or less on time. A quick visual inspection of my bike revealed a questionable sidewall patch on the rear tire, and a chain link about to let loose. I threw in a couple of dismissive repairs and pedaled off into the wilderness with my pack and blissfully ignorant confidence in my shaky equipment.

  What could possibly go wrong?

The ride into Horseshit Lake and the first night of camping were relatively uneventful, other than adjusting to a few new pieces of ultralight nerdery. The next morning I packed up my riding gear and headed out for roughly a 40 km loop over Barf Pass. On the way I stopped in at Mosquito Lake and also at Lake McBlackfly. Surprisingly, the bugs were quite bad so I chomped a quick Clif bar and saved my lunch for a more inviting spot.

  Its not all bad.

From there, the ascent began, very steeply at first, and then gradually easing after an hour or so. When I reached the alpine, the bugs were long gone and at every turn the perfect lunch spot appeared. But the flaws of human nature drew me further and further up because the best spot must be just around the next turn, and the pass can’t possibly be much further. Needless to say, another hour went by before I reached the pass, very much on the edge of bonking. My lunch was entirely unappetizing and I almost barfed it up, but I knew that I’d need the energy for the afternoon so I held it down.

After resting up and enjoying the panoramic views and I crossed the snowfields and made the long descent to valley, with my spirits and energy improving with each km. At the valley bottom I arrived at the first of several creek crossings and I recalled a friend’s words – “you won’t make it down the Lost Shoe Creek trail with dry feet.” Since it made perfect sense to turn a nonchalant comment into some kind of personal mission, I removed my shoes and waded through the icy water with them safely tucked in my pack. “Ha, wassup now dawg?” I thought smugly, suddenly getting all gangsta about my fear of wet shoes.

The numerous creek crossings were all within a short distance, so it kept my shoes off and walked, barefoot, between each crossing. At the third crossing the creek was narrow with a strong current that almost swept me off my feet, so I decided that putting my shoes in my pack may not actually keep them dry, and that tossing them across would better ensure their safety. At the fifth crossing, one shoe hit a tree and almost rebounded into the creek, and yet I still didn’t see the potential downsides of this method. It was not until the 6th and final crossing that one shoe hooked a bit on my finger and went way high and a little short. It came down in a calm little eddy with a splash. And I thought, “with a little luck it’ll just stay… right… mother%$ker.” My shoe was floating away down Lost Shoe Creek. Who could’ve guessed? With the swift current, there was nothing I could do other than watch it float away and start thinking about ways to craft a shoe from meal wrappers and duct tape. Luckily, very luckily, it got caught on a logjam further downstream and I was able to carefully retrieve it. And hey, it actually floated on the sole and remained bone dry. Ha wassup now dawg??

  Logjammin’.

I continued down the trail, eager to get back to camp when BAM some more shit went down. I knew from the loud pop that the rear tire patch had blown. Didn’t even need to check. So I walked. And walked. And walked. I walked so long that I achieved near bug zen, where just you just don’t even care anymore that you’re being eaten alive. Hours later I arrived at camp, mostly destroyed, with just enough motivation to wolf down some dinner and get a fire going before bedtime.

  From a totally different trip. Don’t tell Cam.

The truck was 18 km downstream and 18 km of walking a bike with a flat tire down sweet singletrack seemed pretty much unbearable so I surveyed the sidewall damage in the morning and discovered that the patch hadn’t failed – rather, there was an entirely new hole. With some buoyed confidence in my repair skills, I patched the new hole with meal wrappers and put in my only spare tube. It went together nicely and at 10 psi it actually looked like a very solid repair. Then, out of blue, the pump handle broke off. Oh wait, I screwed it back on, never mind. But then some kind of seal blew inside and it wouldn’t go past 20 psi. Yeah, false alarm about having something go smoothly. In the course of cutting the wrappers to size I also managed to put a pretty good gash in my right index finger, ya know, the one that I use for braking and just about everything else that requires dexterity.

  Sidewall repair: part deux.

So I was back at square one – a bike that I’d have to walk out the next day. And a finger that’s leaving little blood stains on my new gear nerdery. I decided to make the best of the situation and hike up to nearby Goodview Pass. On my way out of camp I heard the familiar clatter of bikes and was stoked to run into a group of riders, one of whom happened to be a friend of a friend. Although they couldn’t spare a pump, they did inflate my tire to 50 psi – more than enough to ride.

Despite having a functional bike again, I decided that it would still be prudent to hike Goodview Pass, rather than risk getting another flat and ensuring an 18km downhill walk the next day. I know, why would I play it safe when I’d had such good luck? Anyway, the hike to Goodview was pretty nice, although I was a little jealous of some other riders I passed on their way down. I also didn’t really like being charged by a mama black bear who clearly hadn’t been paying attention to my audible warnings. I would’ve crapped my pants but I didn’t have any spare clothing.

  Push it, push it real good.

The next morning I woke up and checked my rear tire. It was still holding air just fine! Yeah, I know, wtf! I had 18 km of downhill singletrack ahead, winding through gorgeous alpine meadows with amazing mountain views all around. Regardless of what had gone down, it was time to throw caution to the wind and let ‘er rip. After breaking camp, I hit the trail, happily arcing dusty turns without a care in the world. I blasted through sharp scree with little consideration for the sketchy sidewall patches, and sprinted short climbs despite the fragility of the chain repair. Aside from one hard endo courtesy of a shark lurking in the tall grass, it was a joyous descent that somehow made all the mishaps seem trivial. Wassup now dawg??

  Even the morning broke.

At km 17 I got that familiar feeling of rear end looseness in the corners. Knowing my rear tire was going down slowly, I took it a bit easier, trying to stay upright in the final smooth straight section. I was less than a km from my truck and I was determined to ride all the way. I hit the final bridge and pedaled into the parking lot with the tire just bottoming out on the rim.

The flat tire on the truck (forgot about that did ya?) had lost half its pressure but with some quality time with the floor pump it was good to go. I took the longer-but-safer route home and made it without any further issues. When I took the truck tire in for repair, the tech said to me, “you’ve got virtually no sidewall left on this tire, if you drove 5 hours on a twisty highway without a blowout, you’re one lucky sonofabitch.”

Yep, that’s me – one lucky sonofabitch.

  Photo ~ Trevor Hoskings

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Does Bryce’s story take the cake, or have you had a fail of even more epic proportions?