1.
The truck is setting land speed records on the sea to sky highway, passing commuters and abandoned road construction projects like insignificant blurs. Its Friday night and we’re both primed for some time in the mountains away from work: ready to stand on a ridge with aches in our quads, ready to scramble up sharp slick rock slides, ready to stare over peaks and feel like tiny specks. With hard-pounding techno blasting from all speakers we drive the four hours before turning onto decommissioned logging roads outside Pemberton. Under an all-you-can-eat buffet of stars we bounce over rocks, troughs, boulders and waterbars blasting forward like Jake and Elwood; men on a mission from god.
That’s when the bad sound started and brakes were applied music was turned off and frightened looks were exchanged.
“Uh, oh.”
"SHIT SHIT SHIT!" I hear Michael says from outside the truck.
"What? What? What?" I get out, the cold hitting me.
"We got a flat."
The tire was more than flat, it was beaten: a flaccid and worn wad of depressed rubber. The absolute silence of the mountains sent a shill up my spine and I dove in the truck for another jacket. Here we are 46km up this logging road, its midnight and approaching zero. No problem. People buy X-Terras for a reason and so within minutes we've got our headlamps and toques employed and I'm on my back sucking gravel dust hauling out the extra tire.
"SHIT! SHIT SHIT." Michael says squatting by the tire.
"What?" I say, my headlamp illuminating wafts of dust.
"This one's bad."
"What!"
A pregnant pause.
"I don't have the key."
"What key?"
This would prove to be the question of the weekend.
The key in question is a special adaptor lugnut with a complicated design on the top. It is installed on 2005 and newer model Nissan trucks to prevent the theft of wheels. I try getting it off with a leatherman and with pliers, but nothing budges it. The entire contents of the truck, gear, food, manuals, floor mats are tossed onto the road in a desperate search for the key. Nothing.
"It got thrown in with my stuff from Shambhala when we were smuggling that beer!" he says pacing around, nervous. “Damnit I know exactly where it is too.”
We throw it all in the truck, pitch tents and decide to make it tomorrow’s problem.
2.
The tent is ice cold when I wake up. I shove my hands between my legs to thaw them. I hear Michael rummaging about outside.
"Does the truck still have a flat tire?" I ask.
"Uhhhhhhhh. Yes. Yes it does."
"Shit." I unzip the tent sending bits of ice down the back of my neck.
We sit on the unlevelled bumper hiding deep in our jackets. The sun spills over peaks into the valley while we cling to the warmth of bad coffee. Our brains scramble to come up with the/some/any solution when an old Ford bounces its way up the road followed by a short old man decked in army camo.
"You stuck eh? Fuck," he says waddling around the truck, scratching his chin, sizing us up. He pokes the tire with his hard stubby hands.
"Yeah, and we need this special key."
"Damn. Fuck. Yeah. You make pump up? Oh fuck."
Yan is his name and he is a short Polish gentleman up hunting young bears and moose for a few weeks. He lives with his wife live in a bungalow by Loughheed mall.
The freezing oppression of the morning is soon overthrown by sweat as I manually fill the tire with Yan's soviet-issue pump.
“You are here hunting?” I ask between laboured breaths.
“Yes of course. You not make hunt?”
“No.”
“You not have gun?”
“No we’re climbing.” I say taking a break, my arms filling with lactic acid.
“Pump! Fuck. Not stopping!” I keep pumping, not wanting to piss him off.
“So you go into the woods and track the bears?”
“Yes, I go in woods. I sit. I stalk the bear. I make wait for bear. When I see the bear if is black, I shoot. If is Grizzly I run.”
It soon became obvious that the tire could hold no air.
"Come. “ He says. “We make a drive up the road. Friends there.” He stops suddenly in the road. “You,” he says pointing at me. “You have small body. You sit middle.”
With some reservations we get into his Ford, straddling rifles and four-wheel drive gearshifts as we make out way further up the road.
“If you fucked, I make drive to town.”
“Great,” I say. “We’ll buy some beer for you.”
"You no touching the scope," he says eyeing us.
Michael and I look at each other.
"OK."
We come up on 5 pre-fab buildings nestled into a fireweed meadow of clear-cut. We're greeted by a friendly Border Collie and soon meet Reg and Marnie, the owners of a start-up backcountry skiing operation. A backhoe works up the clear-cut and a pair of guys labour on the buildings with drills and skill saws.
They have no tools to help but inform us they’re doing a run to town that afternoon if we’d like the ride. We volunteer to help them labour for the morning.
“You are now okay?” asks Yan.
“Yeah, we’ll ride in with these guys. Thanks for the lift.”
“You watch for Grizzly,” he says.
“Sure thing Yan.”
Saturday morning putters along. We lift boards, haul tools and throw sticks for the dogs as the alpine peaks keep watch and patiently wait.
About an hour later Reg comes up to us, wiping dirt off his hands.
“Man. We’re looking good here. You guys are a big help.”
“Right on man. We figure a ride into town is worth a little sweat from us.”
“What we’re thinking is why don’t you just take our truck and pick up the supplies for us. That way you’ll get the time in the city and we don’t loose the labour.”
“Sounds all right to us.”
We are outfitted with satellite phones, keys, hastily drawn maps on pieces of plywood, instructions on how to change tires and within minutes were back on the road bouncing back to Pemberton.
3.
The plan is to track and attack Nissan owners. There are no Nissan dealerships for hundreds of kilometres and the local garages prove useless. The only hope we have is to find and borrow the part.
Right away we spot a new X-Trail from the highway and descend upon it. Excitement builds as I approach but it is soon replaced with disappoint as I discover it has the wrong pattern. I have an etching of a five sided shape, this one has four.
We split up in town and I stalk parking lots. I wade through row upon row of Honda’s, Ford’s, Volkswagen’s, and Volvo’s but can find no Nissan’s. I can feel the sweat pouring down my back in the 25 degree heat and the long underwear and three layers of jackets so essential this morning become more and more burdensome. I am lost in a sweaty trance when I spot a new Nissan truck pulling out of an intersection down the street.
I sprint after it for two blocks hot on its tail one jackets held in each of my hands and another tied around my waist. After loosing the truck around a corner I catch its trail up the street again. I turn the last corner and find it parked outside a fabric store. I jog up to it trying to cool down. Most important thing is to not panic the owner. I must approach calmly.
I enter the fabric store and spot the woman who was driving it. I explain the situation, trying to breathe as much as possible. She’s a little skittish and sceptical, but the details of my story seem to have her convinced. We go out to the parking lot and she shows me the key.
I am excited to have it in my hand.
“Yeah, by boyfriend just got this truck a day ago.” She says. “I don’t know if he’d lend it out.”
“May I?” I ask indicating the unopened package.
“Sure.”
I open it up but am saddened to discover it too is the wrong pattern. Six sides. Another dud.
We’re at a café drinking beer and wolfing down pub food happy to be still for a few moments. We stink like guys who laboured all morning in long johns and chased cars all afternoon in dead heat. As the food hits my stomach I remember that I haven’t eaten all day. It’s a good and simple pleasure to eat and sit.
“So we’ll fill the tire with the sealant I bought,” Michael says. “Then pump it up and drive as far as we can until the air runs out. Then we’ll pump it again. It’ll take a long time to get down but if we can make it to Whistler there’ll be yuppies driving X-Terra’s all over the place and we can pop the wheel off and get home in time for pancakes.”
“I guess.” I say absently stuffing fries in my mouth while my eyes scan the highway. “But there’s no guarantee it’ll hold at all, that gash is huge!”
Suddenly I see it. The beer hits the table and I’m sprinting out into the middle of the road with my arms flailing. It drives past, oblivious, probably blasting techno with no regard for anything outside the truck. I run after it in vain waving my arms as it speeds off into a small dot and disappears. I stand on the shoulder for a moment as cars continue to whip past.
“Got away from ya did it.” Michael says polishing off his sandwich as I slump back into the seat.
“Yeah. Its gunk and pump time.”
“There goes our summit.”
4.
We head out to pick up Reg’s supplies when I remember that I’ve left my long johns and wool socks at the restaurant. I leave Michael and go pick them up.
As I’m walking back I start thinking about the small knowledge I have about hunting. A true hunter must stalk his prey, must become part of the environment. He must be able to read the wind and the clues left in the forest. A hunter must be patient, wait and strike only when a kill is guaranteed.
I’m about to enter the hardware store, but instead I stop and walk to the main intersection of town. I stand a few meters back from the corner and squat in the shade. The intersection has light traffic flow, but ever few seconds a different vehicle arrives. I wait as Civics, and Jettas make anxious lefts. I tell my body to be patient as Rangers and Corollas make rights. I breathe and feel a cool breeze on my face as a Hummer bombs through.
For some reason I feel the impulse to stand up and walk a few paces away from the intersection. I look at the parking lot I’ve been through 3 times already. It’s full of minivans and motorcycles. Something takes me another step forward when suddenly at the back of the lot a familiar shape reveals itself: the roof rack, the profile tires, and most importantly that brand new 2006 shine tells me one thing. I’ve found an X-Terra.
As I start walking towards the prized beast I feel my throat go parched. My eyes are glued on the wheels then the hubs then the lug nuts themselves and I carefully squat beside the rear tire to examine its locking lug nut. It has five points.
Exhilaration pulses through my body with my good fortune. I tell myself to be patient again, and I breathe, sitting in front of the truck, waiting, waiting for that moment when the owners arrive. I run dialogue over and over in my head.
What to say…
How to say it…
This cannot be screwed up. It’s got to be like DeNiro in Deer Hunter.
One shot. One kill
I stand as they approach. It’s a balding man in his late thirties, his wife and their daughter coming out of the barber shop.
“Excuse me.” I say. “Is this your Nissan?”
The man is taken aback. His face asking questions: What’s he selling? Does he want money? What can this strange guy with a pair of long johns and wool socks in his hands want from me?
“Yeah. It’s mine.” He says suspiciously.
“Sir. You hold the key to a successful weekend and my short term happiness.” I manage to deliver.
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” and I explain the situation with passion and gusto.
“Wow. Okay, no problem,” he says.
I give him my driver’s licence, he pops the key in my hand, I take down his address with a promise late tomorrow, and I’m off feeling somewhere near 120 pounds lighter.
5.
“Jesus. Where the hell have you been?” asks Michael as he straps the last piece of plastic pipe into the back of the Ford.
“Uhhhh.” I say. “I got talking to this girl at the cafe.”
“Who? The server?”
“No that brunette that was sitting by the bar.”
“Oh yeah and what did you guys make plans or something?”
“No, no nothing like that, she’s cool, she’s here researching. Whatever. You need help?”
“No it’s all done.” He says tightening the ratchet.
As we pull onto the highway I can barely hold the secret in, my leg it tapping nervously. I must have a stupid grin on my face.
“Just keep your eyes out for an X-Terra because if this gunk doesn’t work we could still be screwed.”
“Yeah, of course man I’ll keep an eye out.”
“What a day. My god I need another beer,” he says.
We’re coming up on the head of the logging road when I can’t take it anymore.
“Yeah well, I got something better than a beer.”
“You got some chick’s number?”
“Nope. Even better.”
“What? What could you possibly have?”
I dig into my pocket and present the tiny speciality Nissan lug nut key with its five distinct points. He stares at my hand for a long time then looks back to the road. Then he’s looking at my hand again.
“Is that? Where the fuck did you get it?”
Michael almost drives off the road spraying gravel in a wave behind the truck. He recovers and manages to get to truck back in gear.
“I found an X-Terra in the parking lot! After all that crap the goddam thing came to me!”
We hoot and holler, wild-eyed and inspired by our victory.
At the truck the tire pops off with ease and we make the last leg of the road in a few minutes, driving carefully and with great intention.
“That’s so crazy! It took us 4 hours to go 46 km and 18 hours to go another 1km.”
“Yeah that was a hell of a waterbar.”
We come to a stop at the trailhead and pitch the tents as rain and darkness eclipse the camp.
We would summit Canine peak the next day -- and it would feel good to stand on a mountain -- but greater than the ache in the quads and feeling of being tiny specs was the knowledge that we had somehow achived what we had set out to accomplish that weekend.
The mountains had tested us and we had passed.
