Steve Vanderhoek and the Art of Risk Taking

Steve Vanderwho?

I met Steve Vanderhoek in 2021 when I ran into him at the local mountain bike hangout, near a few famous garbage cans. He was friendly and easy to approach. After a short exchange of ideas, we quickly realized we could grow this into a really easy friendship. I've always admired Steve's riding. From guinea-pigging serious Digger stunts to incredible slab control, I was not only impressed but also somewhat intimidated about riding with him.

Sometimes, when you are extremely good at something, you lose touch with the barriers that make the same task daunting for the people around you. Steve however, has made every ride we've been on a joyous and non pushy experience.

As I got to know Steve better and worked with him on a couple of photo projects, I've gained more admiration for his work ethic and our off the bike chats. So, it wasn't a huge surprise when he invited me to have a look at the new zone he was working on. It was a three hour commute from home for both of us. Wanting to keep it away from curious eyes and daring groms, the line's inaccessibility was key to its success. With our busy schedules magically lining up and my affinity to take my new-to-me truck off road, we headed out to the zone where the magic was just starting to happen.

Steve is not a nervous guy. Like most first responders I've encountered, he carries a calm and observant energy. This approach allows him to assess a situation and act in efficient and calculated ways. When we arrived at the zone he'd told me about, I was already buzzing from the challenging road we'd been on. Like a really slow, engine-powered version of mountain biking, we crawled our way up to a 600-meter elevation in our trucks. On adventures and drives like this, I like to carry a chainsaw, trail tools and quite a bit of food and supplies just in case the need arises. Fallen trees may need to be cleared off the road, stuck trucks need to be shovelled out, or you may even need to spend the night should something unexpected happen.

As we built the landing, we realized it was going to be the easiest job of the whole line. The run-in with its cracks, steps, and mud was sure to get him if his focus wavered a little. The run-out? It was literally unrideable. Steve needed muscle and he needed it fast. With the fall and winter approaching, a community effort was needed. I lent a hand wherever I could: helping set up the Alaska Mill to manufacture the wood needed for the landing right in place; scoping the run out; heading deep into the forest to see if there was a line above to link down and document. It was non-stop.

The Day

After countless visits and trail days, solo and with friends, Steve got ready for the big dance. September weather is unpredictable in the coast mountains so there was trepidation. Around 20 of us headed to the zone to see the fruits of Steve and his crew's labour. Margus Riga, Kelsey Toevs, Geoff Livingston and I were there to document the day. As we drove through the forest service roads and started climbing up into the mountains, the fog got dense and threatened to shroud our opportunity to see something special.

We still hiked around and found our angles, got set up for our shots and helped Steve decide if the ride was going to happen or not.

Weeks prior to this day, Steve would tell me something interesting: "Just because we are building this doesn't mean I'll ride it." It stuck with me.

Putting in the time, spending thousands of dollars in supplies and fuel; the purpose was to "be there". Going through the process, assessing, calculating, visualizing, and finally deciding whether to ride it or not. It was all an exercise in trusting friends, the process, his bike, and finally himself.

The drop itself went unexcitingly smoothly. Not that it wasn't exciting to watch, but knowing that Steve would not have grabbed his bike that day to hit the drop unless all the stars were aligned, took the edge off a little. What makes Rampage exciting is the unknown, the unpredictability of the weather, the soil and the pressure put on by the clock to televise an extremely consequential run.

Mr. Pepinillos was the anti-Rampage. The calculation and risk management were the priority for this ride. There was no room for error, but error was not an option on the table to start with. After all the planning and preparation, riding off a 100-foot rock, that is so steep you can't even stand on it, was one of the safer things Steve would do that day. Certainly safer than driving in Sea to Sky traffic for a few hours.

As I set up camp in the valley below after the day's events, I wanted to reflect. I wanted to enjoy the warmth of the early fall before winter took hold. My legs weren't shaky like they are after some close call on a casual trail ride during lunch. There was no certainty to anyone's health. We take risks just going on with our daily lives and when things go wrong, fine men and women like Steve come to our aid like we are family. We owe it to them to sit and think about our time on bikes. There is simply nothing better than a ride on sweet singletrack with the people you love, enjoying life. It's a privilege not offered to many, and I sure won't take it for granted. It could be taken away in an instant.

Steve and I since sat down and had a chat about this line and some projects he is working on. You can listen to the podcast here.

See the video capture and some more photos of Steve riding Mr Pepinillos.