HIGH COUNTRY HUSTLE
Clockwise from far left: If the hike is long, the reward is plenty; high-alpine slogs afford time to reflect; Mike Hopkins and the author ponder backcountry ethics.
IT’S MID-JULY IN BRITISH COLUMBIA’S PURCELL MOUNTAINS AND THE SUN SITS COMFORTABLY BEHIND A KNOT OF CUMULUS CLOUDS IN AN OTHERWISE BLUE SKY.It’s a nice break from the big burning orb as our crew slogs the final leg into the high country during a scorching stretch of summer.
Photographer Bruno Long, Mike Hopkins and I have been pushing our bikes up a 9,000-foot mountain for nearly four hours. The swampy quad track we started on, complete with overgrown alder patches, eventually leads to a larch-filled alpine meadow and a ridgeline slung low between two smooth peaks. When we finally gain the ridge, jaws drop. The scene beyond looks like a mix of Patagonia and Narnia— 11,000-foot granite spires protrude from vast ice flows, with azure lakes and limegreen pastures punctuating the foreground. Meanwhile, our ridgeline shores up endless miles of some of the most rideable natural terrain imaginable. “Holy shit!” proclaims Hopkins, a pro who’s ridden his bike all over the world.
We drop our gear at a makeshift campsite in the saddle between the two summits, and spend the hours until dusk pedaling through heather, hiking up scree and surfing down wild mountainsides. The setting is surreal, and we have it all to ourselves. Two weeks later, though, I’ll take abuse over the phone from another alpine adventurer. News of our ride reverberated through the valley and our assailant wielded apocryphal accusations about the backcountry ethics we trampled on by leaving tracks up there, despite having done the same thing himself.
In the Columbia Valley, between the towns of Invermere and Golden, exists an exclusive cadre
