Escape From Valhalla

Don’t worry. The wildfire did not cross the ridge in Valhalla Provincial Park. Better yet, there was no battle between gods and monsters during Ragnarök. There were apparently wild animals afoot, but without any drama we simply followed the trail back out.

The sky was blue and reassuring the next morning. We had a couple cups of coffee on a rock beside the lake, with breakfast. Then we set off at a leisurely pace for the next lake, leaving all our heavy gear behind. Our plan was to make an easy day hike to Cahill Lake, go all the way to Beatrice Lake if we felt like it, and return to our camp for a late lunch and a relaxing evening.

We stopped for snacks and tested out the status of our joints after a night of sleeping in a tent on dirt (we are no longer as young as we once were). Pedro had a new idea. He had been thinking about how we had to step over all those boulders beside Slocan Lake. It had been hard enough in the morning when we were fresh and eager to hike. It would be more challenging at the end of the day, after pounding down the trail for hours first – downhill is the hardest part for hikers with knee issues. If we camped at Emerald Lake a second night, then on the third day we would have to come down out of the mountains and THEN cross all the boulder slides. Instead, he suggested we skip Beatrice Lake, and instead go back down to the beach at the mouth of Evans Creek, and camp there. That way, we would only have the last four (awful) miles for the final day. I liked the idea.

In no time, we had arrived back at our camp. We packed up and then scoured the entire area for anything we may have left. We had not seen a soul for 24 hours at that point, and had confidently left our stuff scattered everywhere. My little whisperlite stove was at the cast iron cooking platform next to the bear box. Our food bag (and all our trash) was inside the bear box. Various items were hanging over branches to dry. Solar phone charger was on a boulder in the sun.

Anyway…that is how it came to our attention that we had been sharing the site only recently with a wild cat. Though I respect them, bears do not worry me. Or wolves, or moose, and I have had multiple close exposures to all of those. Other than humans, the only mammals that actually scare me are cats.

That was not all. I don’t know how we had missed it up till then, but for whatever reason I took a close look for the first time at the damage on the outhouse we had been using. This was not ten minutes after Pedro discovered the cat tracks.

By the time we discovered the signs from apex predators, we were packed up and ready to hit the trail. I was relieved at that timing.

We had a fun hike down, into the groove of things by now, the weight of our big packs feeling familiar. We arrived at the beach camp at Slocan Lake with lots of sunshine left, even though we had started the day going the other direction. We found an awesome platform to put our tent on, and claimed it by placing our packs on it. But first of all we wanted to go down to the water and put our feet in.

After we had rested a while, and chatted with several of the other campers at the location, we went to set up the tent. This beach was as popular as it had been the day before when we came through on our way up. Everyone else there arrived in a canoe or kayak, and no one was hiking. They could not believe we had hiked in from Slocan, asking, why didn’t we just come by kayak, which was much more pleasurable. So funny. I wonder if everyone here just has kayaks, like they have umbrellas or frisbees. There was a dog that made rounds through every single campsite, and the beach, visiting. He wanted a hello, a pat on the head, and then he moved to the next group. He came to visit us at least six times that evening.

Camp set up, we grabbed warmer shirts and headed back down to the water. We had found a favourite island and memorized the path across stones and along a fallen log to get there while remaining somewhat dry.

The shape of the beach, with all its little rocky islands surrounded by water made us feel safe starting another fire. Someone else had built a beautiful temporary fire pit by digging a hole in the sand and lining it with stones. Pedro left the island to gather fuel while I made dinner. By the time the food was ready, we had a cute little fire on the beach and we enjoyed our meal there in the warm night with the sound of the crashing creek all around giving us privacy from others on the beach. We could not hear the other campers that way, and after the sun went down, we could not see each other either.

The next morning, we felt refreshed. It is easier to sleep on a level wooden platform than on slanted, rocky soil with the occasional root jutting up.

Off we went! First order of business was a bath. We recalled the lake felt warm the day before, but right at Evans Creek it was very cold because of the icy stream. We walked about 1/2 mile down the trail till we found a nice clean granite shore, and stripped down and got in. After not too long, our bodies adjusted to the cold and we swam around sloshing as much dust and sweat off as we could. We did not use soap, but the fresh water was enough. We both went underwater and scrubbed scalps too. It felt great! Baths are luxurious when camping. The sun was baking the wide, flat rocks and we laid there to dry, then put on clean, sweet-smelling clothes. Ahh.

No longer interested in the scenic route, we skipped the ferry option this time and took a different route south, stopping for a fabulous lunch in the city of Castelgar, BC. As we drove, the skies grew smokier. We arrived at the Porthill border crossing with light still in the sky, which was great.

Except. There was a gate across the road that said the border was closed. Crossing not allowed. WHAT?! I never heard of the border closing on a random Friday evening. Not except for COVID anyway. We sat in stunned silence for a second. We backtracked to the Canada border post, hoping for someone to ask questions of, but no one was there. The security camera flashed at us and took a shot though. I looked it up online and found that the Porthill crossing closes each evening at 5:00 pm. It was 5:25.

The Idaho panhandle is less than 50 miles across, but I knew there was another border crossing, so I pulled it up on GPS and found that it was 45 minutes away, which was tolerable, as long as that one was open. It’s in the Canadian town of Kingsgate, which we both thought was quite an appropriate name for a Commonwealth Country border crossing.

This much bigger facility was open. We tried Pedro’s idea, which was to hand over our Global Entry cards along with our passports. I would not have thought of it, but he just got his card a few weeks earlier, and it was fresh on his mind. This crossing was a distinctly different experience, perhaps because of the cards. After about three questions “Where were you? Why were you there? For how long?” Our stuff was handed back and we were sent on our way. The easiest border crossing into the US in years.

We wound into the mountains through some really spectacular Idaho mountain country. This part of North America is simply outstanding. Construction slowed us down a bit. By the time we were approaching the Kootenai River Valley, it was pitch black and we could see – uncomfortably close – the fire of the Kootenai River Complex burning. Huge pillars of red and orange flames leapt up across the mountainsides. I wanted so much to stare in awe, but I was driving a narrow, winding, unfamiliar, mountain road in the dark. Have you ever been close enough to see the flames of a wildfire? It’s a crazy adrenalin surge. The feeling that comes over me is supercharged emotions of fear and attraction and awe. I wonder if this is what people throughout history who have had a close relationship with their god feel like. Through my peripheral vision, I could see 80-foot pine trees engulfed in flames that soared to 140 feet. There was both dread and excitement. I was pulled like a moth. Good thing I was forced to focus on the highway most of the time. I hope Pedro got a good look.

We finally rolled in to Jim’s house in Moyie Springs, Idaho. He had just returned from the birthday party of a granddaughter. We were all tired. We chatted for just a little while and everyone hit the sack. The next day we drove through thick smoke the entire 10 hours to get home. Everywhere was buried in smoke: Spokane, Kennewick, Portland. Wildfires have become a way of life for Pacific Northwest summers. It is a sad thing. It made us oh, so grateful for the three-days respite while we explored the mountains.