unat '04--Day Ten

unfocused north american tour '04 Day Ten: Dawson Creek to Cache Creek
Today's Mileage: 527 mi.Total Mileage: 5,860 mi.
TT: 10 hrs. TTT: 72 hrs.
Quote of the Day: "VanderBeek's after me!"—A. Nichols (see previous entry)
News of Note: "Malaysian Woman Sets Record for Living with Scorpions"— The Sunday Province(apparently, Canadians are interested in the Martha Stewart case, as well)

The day begins as all the others in the Great White North have begun—with the perpetual sensation of going downhill. Despite a mysterious insect bite on his arm from the stay on Mount WalMart, Andy sleeps a spell while I slurp down McDonald's coffee. We'll be covering the northern half of the Cariboo [sic] Range on this leg, hoping make Cache Creek after nightfall. It's been four days since our last shower. Our stench (since there's really nothing else to call it) is a mixture of Liard Hotsprings sulfur and trapper sweat with a sprinkle of campground. The nature of today's drive is identical to the last five—a combination of breathtaking beauty, polite people, exasperation with the endless highway construction and sheer terror at the Runaway Mine Train character of many of these two-lane highways.

A new wrinkle as night falls on the Cariboo Highway. Somewhere past Williams Lake, we're pulled over by a Sheriff's Deputy. It's obvious that we're his first Texan pullover when he asks for our registration (with no interest in that proof of insurance card) and we have to inform him that it is on that sticker in the window. As he runs Andy through the computer, we rehearse an elaborate fictional response to the obvious reason for the stop— we've known that one of our headlights is out for a day. On his return, we go through the steps of our little comedia del arte—1)register surprise, "oh, our headlight's out? Which one?"(thank goodness it's twilight); 2)portray ourselves as men of action, "Pop the hood," I tell Andy, and make a grand production of banging on the lens, checking the connection, etc. and 3)show our appreciation for his discovery of the unbeknownst defect. Nice cops in B.C. The sun finally sets as we pass cattle or llama ranches and ginseng farms.

It is after eight-thirtyish when we are being welcomed by the very nice lady (and her Llasa Apso) at the Brookside campsite in Cache Creek. After taking her $15, she tells us up front (but politely) that the showers are in the center of the campground. Any illusion that we don't smell is shattered. Internet access is available in the office (which I won't use) and our campsite butts up against a sandy bluff under an elm. With patience for camp food exhausted, we drive into Cache Creek (guided by our newly broken headlights) to look for something to eat. The options are limited (Traveler's Note: Most restaurants in Cache Creek, B.C. apparently close after eight in the off-season) but we finally amble into the Wander Inn, a Chinese place (after all, we're in British Columbia. Isn't that where you'd want to go for Chinese food?). At first I think this is a family place, as the presumed owner that greets us at the door is Asian. Then he says, "Looks like it's been a long trip, eh?" and the waitresses probably aren't blood relatives. In spite of the fact that my palate may have been hampered by the endless assault of Clif Bars for the last five days, I'll report that the food was pretty good (and there was a great deal of it). Andy watches billiards on the Canuck equivalent of ESPN and I vainly attempt to use the payphone tastefully ensconced inside a clamshell. In the parking lot, I trade pleasantries with a trio of professional archeologists from Vancouver. They're here to examine a construction site.

We make our way down the block to a bar, still stinking, mind you. At first glance, the crowd seems a little rough, but I don't intend to interact with anyone in my current state.

But within five minutes, we're racking up a game of eight ball with a young man named Steve. In his early twenties, Steve, is by trade, an apple picker (paid eighteen dollars per bin picked per day) but on hiatus as he currently hitches through B.C. to visit friends and see the sights. Originally from Alberta (much of which resembles the drab scenery of West Texas), he's trying to see his part of the world. We have a couple of beers (Steve's come from his backpack—they're cheaper) and, like so many other strangers in so many other bars, discuss worldviews. Andy tells an amusing bear story or two. Steve notes that the time to "grow up" is bearing down on him and this kind of trek won't be open to him much longer, so he took it. I say nothing much, realizing that despite the eighteen years I have on this kid, I'm in the same boat.

Steve is also staying in our campground, but we leave him behind to try his hand with one of the local girls still in the bar. At Brookside, we bolt for the blessed showers. Here I discover that the repetition of elevation change has destroyed my can of shaving cream. (Traveler's note: ALWAYS keep the shaving cream in a plastic bag. It works.) There's enough of it in the can to use as shampoo (which I left behind in North Austin) and get a blessed shave. Impressed by the site, Andy chooses to pitch a tent as well. With the shortwave droning in the background about Tech's defeat of Kansas, we are out quickly.