Extreme Frontiers: Racing Across Canada from Newfoundland to the Rockies (19 page)

We’d done a lot of extreme things since we left Cape Spear, but this was one of the gnarliest. The entire way down all you
could hear was the howl of brakes and people swearing. It was as intense as anything I’ve ever done, way more difficult than
being on a motorbike. It was also energy-sapping in a way I hadn’t been prepared for at all.

After a while the snow disappeared and we were riding over dirt, scrub and rock. Mark suggested we take an old mining trail
known as Viper, which according to him was pretty ‘out there’. We had arrived in Whistler at the same time as the Crankworx
mountain-biking festival, which meant that the main bike routes would be busy, so the trail sounded like a good idea. Dave,
however, sounded a note of caution.

‘Charley,’ he said. ‘Just so you know. If we take this old prospector’s trail, we’re on our own. If anything goes wrong, we
have to make it out of there by ourselves. OK?’

‘OK,’ I said, with a quick glance at Mungo. ‘Let’s do it then, shall we? Let’s go.’

We dropped off the main route on to the trail, and I could see at once that Dave had not been kidding; this was the boonies
for sure. We were on a tiny path between the trees, with really steep drops that had me clamping on the brakes with both hands
so hard I was all but over the handlebars. At one point it was almost sheer – the trail just plummeted to the floor fifteen
feet below. As I sat and looked at it, a kid came racing by and took the drop as if it was just another turn before carrying
on his way. Dave and Mark made the jump too, both hitting the deck below without so much as a murmur, then they were into
a left-hander where the back wheel was off the ground again. Nope, there was no way I was doing that. There was an easier
way through the trees, and at this point in the expedition I was really looking forward to seeing my family. I wasn’t about
to risk my neck now. I wasn’t the only one; the muddy trail alongside the path was littered with footprints where other people
had pulled up and padded back after making a similar decision. I can hear my dad now, talking about the path of least resistance,
and floating downriver rather than swimming against the tide. I’m sorry, Dad, but you really had to be there … The fact is,
I managed most of the descent from the top of the mountain, but I couldn’t bring myself to make that drop, no matter how extreme
the buzz might have been.

‘Charley!’ Dave yelled. ‘You wuss! I thought you did the Dakar?’

‘That was different,’ I informed him. ‘I had an engine. And anyway, I broke both thumbs along the way.’

I did manage a couple of smaller jumps here and there, landing hard enough on the saddle to give my single testicle a
bit of grief, but it was all in the name of honour. Little by little we careened our way to the valley floor below. It was
mind-blowing fun but really tough, and I was absolutely knackered when finally we made it back to Whistler.

W
e spent the night in Whistler, sharing war stories about mountain-biking exploits. Dave and Mark were competing in the Crankworx
mountain-biking festival, alongside people who’d travelled from all over the world. Mark said it was the busiest week in Whistler’s
calendar by far. The next morning we were up and about very early having a wander through the town, then a quick breakfast
and back on the bikes for the glorious ride to the ferry at Horseshoe Bay. From there we would cross to Vancouver Island,
the final frontier on this amazing expedition.

We’d spent a lot of time on the trip at high altitude: climbing, gliding, riding. But apart from a brief foray into the mine
at Drumheller, we’d not really explored this great country’s nether regions. So for our last challenge, we’d be going subterranean.
We had been told a while back about the Horne Lake Caves on Vancouver Island, and had come to a team decision that we would
make them our last physical frontier before we rode into Tofino. Our guide was Shane, a caver from Australia, who told
us that he had come here for a holiday and never really left. He had a climbing background, which makes sense, because if
you think about it, the two activities share great similarities. Much of the gear is the same; you’re just going down first
instead of up.

The path led us right through the forest, which was eerily silent. There was nothing in the trees, no birds singing, no animals
moving – in fact the only thing I could hear was Russ, Nat and Mungo jabbering away. I was keen to find out more about the
caves from Shane. He told me that nobody really knew anything about their history until the point when they were logged on
a geological report in 1912. Only two caves were discovered initially – what they called the Main and the Lower Main – and for
years afterwards they were only really known about by the logging crews who cut timber in the area. Then in 1941 the Riverbend
Cave was discovered, and in 1963 the Euclataws Cave. The whole region was granted park status in 1971.

It was an uphill climb to get to where we could access the caves, and halfway there a second guide, Richard, joined us. He
told me that some of the earliest cave systems to be explored were in Britain and France, and that most of the gear they used
here had been developed in France. He explained that all the caves in the Horne Lake system are connected, though you can’t
get through them all because in some places the connection is a gravel bed and the only way to tell they’re linked is from
the water system that seeps through.

We crossed a dry creek bed that for half the year is a raging torrent. It was that creek that led to the discovery that the
caves are connected. Richard told me that the water found a crack in the mountain, and made its way hundreds of metres down
before coming out again and forming another creek further down the valley. He explained that the forest was what they call
second growth – the original trees, which had been logged seventy years before but whose stumps were still visible, would
have been much bigger and thicker. What we could see now was natural regrowth, since back then logged areas were not replanted.
It was a good example of nature’s resilience: a whole new forest in less than a hundred years. It was a totally different
story underground, however. Both Richard and Shane were keen to point out that any damage in the caves took so long to repair
that all visits were designed to have zero impact on the sediments and crystal formations.

The entrance to the cave was a hole in the ground that had been boarded over with a door cut in the middle. You had to sit
down and shuffle your legs through first, then slide your body around so you could climb down the fixed iron ladder. From
there we picked our way down through a series of big boulders. I tried to imagine what it would have been like to be the first
person down here. The lamps on our helmets were the only lights we had, and the beams bounced across the rock, picking out
the crystal formations Richard had been talking about.

He pointed out where we could and couldn’t walk; what we could and couldn’t touch – in particular the brain rock that grew
up in places underfoot. That’s exactly what it looked like: pale limestone with bulbous growths of calcite that resembled
the lobes of the brain. It was forty thousand years old, and if we damaged it, it would take another forty thousand years
before anyone coming after us could see what we were seeing now.

To our right, a great bank of calcite reached deep into a recess. It grows at the rate of a millimetre a century, which meant
it was millions of years old. We continued on down – some
of the rock was moist and slippery, and we had to be careful where we placed our hands. In places the roof was very low and
we were forced to crawl, sliding across a bed of stones or slick limestone on our stomachs, using elbows and knees to worm
our way to the next cave. It was really hard work and very claustrophobic, especially when we moved from a crawl-way that
measured one body length to one that was more than five. The roof of rock pressing down on my back put me in mind of the coal
mine, and Jay’s talk about ‘squeeze’.

When we were through that long crawl-way, we took a much-needed breather. It was not just the exertion that was tiring, but
the way the mountain seemed to weigh down upon you. Richard told us that originally the crawl-way had been full of water;
for years anyone who came down here thought it was the end of the cave, so nobody bothered to explore any further. Then one
day some ‘crazy chick’ called Stephanie held her breath, slipped into the crawl-way and came up on the other side. From there
she discovered three more hours of caves that led right into the heart of the mountain.

‘Hang on a minute,’ Russ said. ‘You’re telling us that a woman went through that tunnel underwater, not knowing if there was
another side?’

‘Yeah.’ Richard nodded. ‘That’s about the size of it.’

‘But you can’t turn round in there; what if it was a dead end?’

‘Then she’d have had to crawl backwards.’

‘You can’t do that,’ Russ said.

‘Sure you can.’ Richard smiled. ‘If your life depends on it.’

He explained that the tunnel wasn’t full of water for its entire length. At one point there was an air pocket between the
water and the ceiling, and Stephanie was able to suck a lungful before going on. Even so, it was a hell of a thing to do.
What an
achievement, to be the person who unearthed this whole section of caves by taking an unknown crawl-way underwater.

Before we carried on, Richard pointed out what he called the ‘chilli pepper’ – a delicate protrusion of calcite that had been
there for ever. We had to be really careful as we made our way past it. We were walking again now, water underfoot and keeping
our heads low. The cave was covered in tiny stalactites hanging from the ceiling – they’re hollow in the middle, with the water
actually coming down a sort of tube. Every time a drop falls off, it leaves a residue of particles, and that’s how the stalactite
grows. It was all amazing stuff. We were not just exploring the bowels of Canada, but learning how they were formed and discovered,
and all about the crystals, the calcite deposits that give them such significance.

We were 120 metres into the system already, and 20 metres down. It was mad to think of all that earth on top of us. Richard
told us that by the time we got to the end, we would have travelled 384 metres and dropped 68. The next section was more technical,
and here we took out the harnesses we had brought with us in drag bags. I was getting pretty good with a harness by now, and
could buckle up without any help. I also felt pretty comfortable abseiling after all my adventures on this trip, and I made
my way down into an amazing open space. This wasn’t a cave; it was a cavern. From the tight squeeze, the claustrophobia of
those crawl-ways, it was suddenly majestic. The roof above our heads was covered in calcite, almost like something alive clinging
to the stone. The deeper we went, the greater the deposits of calcite became. The colours down there were amazing – not just
grey rock, but pale stone, ochre and gold – and the only sounds were the constant trickle of water running down the walls and
the occasional echo of our own voices.

Finally we got to the China Cave, where water tumbles the height of a seven-storey building. I was really into this now – after
my tentative effort abseiling on the glacier, I was full of confidence and bounced all the way to the floor. One of the guys
in our group, Don, had told me earlier that he was more scared of heights than any other person on the planet. Standing at
the top of that cave, looking down into nothing but a black hole, he was absolutely terrified. Eventually he managed to trust
his rope and began to make his way down. But the fear didn’t leave him until he touched the bottom, where I was waiting to
help him unclip his harness. He was a massive guy, well over six feet, yet he was trembling like a newborn lamb.

‘Charley,’ he said, ‘I have never been more scared in my life. I don’t know how I did that. I think I must’ve been more worried
about what you guys would say, though, the ignominy of having to be hauled back up.’

I knew how he felt. ‘Don,’ I said, trying to reach up and pat him on the shoulder. ‘The thing is, you overcame your fear.’

Shane led us through the next set of tunnels, where the calcite was formed like rows of whale’s teeth. Underfoot the water
was getting deeper. We were almost there now; after just a few more twists and turns, we came to the end of the road. Our
384 metres had been accomplished, and we were almost 70 metres under the earth. I don’t know what we’d been expecting – something
a little more dramatic than the way the roof just gradually dipped until it met the tunnel floor in nothing more romantic
than a grubby puddle.

‘What did you want?’ Richard asked. ‘Starbucks or something? It’s a tunnel, guys; a hole in the ground.’

He was right, of course; what more could we expect? It
was
a hole in the ground. But we’d made it as far as anybody could,
pushed the boundary as far as it could be pushed, and all that was left was to climb out again. We took a minute to pause
and reflect on all that we’d done. This blocked tunnel was our final extreme frontier. We had been 3,000 metres up Mount Fable,
and now we were 384 metres underground. It called for champagne, but not one of us had remembered to bring a bottle. Oh well,
I’d make do with a high five from our guide instead.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘The final frontier and no champagne, so the last man out buys the beer.’

W
e were coming to the end of our trip. Sitting there underground, I reflected on what had been an incredible journey: an expedition
where we had gone from east to west, south to north; up a mountain and deep underground. It had been hard at times, but I
had loved every minute of it.

We spent the night in Nanaimo, the third oldest city in British Columbia. This area had once been the site of five First Nations
villages. These days it’s a city of some 80,000 people, with a bustling night life and a really busy harbour. It’s also a
haven for bikers, something we had been counting on, because it was from Nanaimo that we were setting out on the very last
leg of our journey. In true Boorman style, we had let it be known that we were in the area, and had invited local bikers to
join us on a ride across Vancouver Island. Our last stop was Tofino on the western coast.

*

It was really fitting that we were riding the last stretch of our journey with a bunch of enthusiastic Canadian bikers. One
of the things that had struck all of us was how well people had taken care of us; the way we had been welcomed and wished
well on every step of this epic expedition. I did have to point out that if they crashed on the convoy it was their own fault,
though – nothing to do with us – and that got a laugh.

Our convoy gathered in downtown Nanaimo. The route had been organised by Don, the guy who had been with us in the caves. When
we’d told him what we had planned, he’d said he’d ride with us, and suggested that we stop about halfway at a place called
Coombs Market, where we could grab a cup of coffee. Now he made the point that although we had informed the RCMP what we were
doing, we had no escort, so we should ride carefully, particularly at intersections. I added that in my opinion wheelies were
completely acceptable. After that, all that was left for me to do was thank Mungo and Nat for filming the adventure, and Russ
not only for organising the whole thing with Lisa and the team back home at Big Earth, but for putting up with me again. Standing
up on the seat of my bike, I gave the convoy a big thumbs-up. ‘Let’s ride!’ I shouted.

We were off, with Russ and me out front and Mungo and Nat filming the convoy. We had done what we’d set out to do: pushed
the boundaries of this marvellous place, explored its many frontiers. We had begun at Cape Spear on a cold June day, with
a mist gathered over the sea and dank clouds picking at our clothes. Now here we were a couple of months later on Canada’s
western tip, with the sun overhead and temperatures warm enough to wear only a T-shirt. Up came my front wheel in celebration.
Not only had we really seen what makes Canada such a great country; we’d met a group of new friends, which
is what travelling is all about. I’d learned how the country came into being, how parts of it were a haven for American bank
robbers and horse thieves, how Sitting Bull took refuge after the Battle of the Little Big Horn. I’d seen coal mines and gold
mines; I’d seen how the Inuit hunt beluga and I’d been in a sweat lodge with First Nations people. Together Russ and I had
dived on wrecks in fresh-water lakes, climbed mountains and explored underground. I’d ridden in a rodeo and paddled the waters
of the great Bloodvein River. I knew we really had got under the skin of the place.

As Don had suggested, we pulled into the parking lot of a café at Coombs Market for a break, about halfway into our ride.
Bike after bike after bike flooded in after us: men and women, young and old, from all walks of life – there must have been
300 in total, and I was so grateful to them for taking the time to come out with us. I made sure I had pictures taken with
as many people as possible, and then we were off again. This really was the last leg now.

It’s funny, you start out with a mammoth expedition in front of you, and when it comes down to those last few minutes, you
can’t believe it’s over. It’s a bit like the summer holidays when you were a child. Did you ever feel like that? When school
finished, the summer would yawn ahead, then get chipped away and chipped away until you were struck by the thought that this
time next week, this time tomorrow, you would be back at school.

I was looking forward to seeing my family. I haven’t mentioned them much in this book, but it’s not because they weren’t on
my mind; they always are. We had just been so busy,
and there hadn’t been as much riding time as there had been on previous expeditions, hours when I could sit back and let my
mind wander. Now I knew I would see them again soon, and I was really excited. Family is everything to me. I’m blessed in
having the love of my life as my wife and two marvellous daughters who I dote on.

We were on perfect roads, delicious tarmac, with the kind of mountains you only find in Canada all around us. This country
has everything: sea, snow, mountains, ice roads and waterways, as well as mile after mile of rolling prairie. As we got closer
to Tofino, the road edged up against the most beautiful lake, and beyond the trees lay the Pacific Ocean. I could smell it;
we were here. From Cape Spear to Vancouver, we had crossed a continent.

Just a few minutes left now, but enough time for some seat-standing, some side saddle, some Boorman posing on the bike and
a second-gear wheelie that I confess I almost got wrong because I drifted a little too close to the gravel. That could’ve
been a disastrous ending to a staggeringly beautiful journey. The words ‘don’t try this at home’ came to mind, and thinking
of my daughters, I rode the final thirty-one kilometres with both wheels firmly on the tarmac.

Someone must have told the Mounties we were coming, because just as we got to our destination, our final frontier, an RCMP
pickup came winging by with sirens going and lights flashing to lead us through town. That was really cool, and we followed
the truck the last few kilometres through the trees and into Tofino.

Suddenly there it was: a bay of islands thick with trees. People were on the street as the policemen went ahead, with us following
like some elongated centipede. I was ecstatic, swept
up with the euphoria of the moment. With the bikes parked in one massive line, I walked the length of it thanking each and
every one of the people who had turned out to ride with us. It was the perfect way to end an expedition; when you’ve been
travelling for so long with just four of you, roughing it, living on top of each other, to have a group the size of this on
the last leg is such a fantastic contrast, you cannot get the smile off your face.

Right at the back was Russ, wearing an
Extreme Frontiers
T-shirt with an
Extreme Frontiers
sticker on his bike, sitting there grinning like a Cheshire cat. That moment summed up the expedition. Gripping his hand,
I hugged him. ‘Well done, mate,’ I said. ‘You’ve done a fantastic job.’

We rode the very last lap down to the water, a little pier where floatplanes were moored alongside the fishing boats. There
it was, finally, the Pacific Ocean under a blazing sun and the bluest of blue skies.

For a moment, with all the emotion that had caught up with me, I gazed across the sea into the distance, and shed a few tears.
Then Russ was alongside me, with Mungo and Nat, who had put away the cameras.

‘We did it, boys,’ I said softly. ‘Here we are, the four of us. We made it.’

‘Yes, we did,’ Russ echoed, and for a moment we all just stood there in silence. ‘Listen, though,’ he added, ‘about—’

I held up a hand. ‘Russ,’ I said. ‘No more, please. Not yet. Just let me have a rest first, will you?’