Mere spits of rain in the morning meant I had no excuse to blow our planned hike out. We’d parked up at the end of the snow ploughed section of road, so our hike was going to be snowbound. Out of nowhere, Darren produced a couple of hiking poles and the magic grippy things that attach to the bottom of your boots to stop you skidding around when it’s icy. Mightily impressed at his packing skills!
In the past, I may have likened snow shoeing to walking with a ball and chain – every step you take is hard going and heavy, making meters feel like miles. But now it was time to find out what hard going was like without snowshoes. The snow was surprisingly soft, so every step was a gamble as to whether you would drop just half an inch, or practically lose a leg as you sank through the deceptive white blanket up to your knees. Hard going was an understatement. Although I’m sure a good workout.
As we left the friendliest ghost town in Alaska, we kept an eye out for bears, just in case. We’re not normally early to events, but in this case we had about 3 months grace. The bears flock here for the salmon run in July but right now they’re mostly still tucked up in their beds, maybe the odd one braving its first spring meander from its den, driven by hibernation hunger.
We passed Bear Glacier. No bears.
We stayed on the lookout throughout the drive though, every roadsign rekindling a glimmer of hope, a constant reinforcement that bears DO live here. Imagine my squeals of delight when we re-joined the Cassiar highway and were rewarded by the sight of a mother and two cubs munching dandelions by the roadside!
Got so excited I failed to be able to hold a camera, press the button and watch the bears at the same time
Damn bears, photo bombing my picture of the grass
Not only bears but moose! And more bears followed – the Cassiar Highway really IS ‘stuffed with bears’ – on my list to come back some time in the summer!
The evening’s entertainment at the rustic campsite with the awesome view by the river, was provided by Darren. He swiftly realized that skimming stones was kind of difficult on a frozen river, and took instead to trying to hurl a heavy rock onto just the right place where it would fall through the ice – too far and the rock would land with a heavy thud on the thick ice, too close and it was one hell of a splash. By the time he hit bullseye and cracked through the ice, our hands were getting too cold and numb to hold our beer, time to retire to the campervan.
