One hesitates to name the place. To do so might make it more popular, thereby making it more busy. Right now it is lightly used and thus one can travel miles without encountering anyone, except maybe another lonely cyclist. I refer to that jewel of North Vancouver, the Lower Seymour Conservation Reserve.
I went riding some four hours there this afternoon, riding through the mud, puddles, and light showers along The Fisherman’s Trail. The sun burst out over the high hills and a distant waterfall as I rode up to the main asphalt road that is reserved for cyclist and walkers.
This is vast, perfect nature. The Seymour River runs fast along the trail that I rode. The water was flowing fast and a solitary fisherman I chatted with told me the salmon were massing in the Inlet waiting to swim up to the hatchery near the dam. Unless he caught it that is. Then I chatted with the fellow lugging his kayak up to the bridge so that he could ride the rapids through the box canyon that is but 12 ft wide.
For the rest, I passed about five other cyclists like myself braving light showers but warm temperatures to pass between the tall trees, the flourishing ferns, and deep vegetation. It was perfect.
And when you get home all is calm. Try it someday if you get a chance. You can walk up the road unhindered by cars, although you may have to dodge a cyclist barreling down in exhaustion from going all the way to the dam. You can roller-blade: I always smile when you see some eager young buck pushing his inexpert girlfriend along and she screams in terror as she wobbles the way. They should stay or go abed rather than try this. Yesterday there was but one runner: a young mother with wild hair who was accompanied by her kid who looked to be no older than four or five as he rode confidently along besides her. At the end of the trail for me, the start for most, there was a fat man huffing along as his son-in-law urged him along with the incorrect statement “Rice Lake is only a few hundred meters along.”
It is worth walking, or huffing-and-puffing to Rice Lake. I think it is the most perfect little lake in all BC. I have not seen them all, but why would I want to when I can be there in fifteen minutes from my back-door. There are always fishermen gathered, and I have seen at least one of them catch a fish.
You do not need to stick to the asphalt road that is used by most cyclists and pedestrians. You can take anyone of myriads of side gravel and dirt trails, as I did along FIsherman’s Trail. Some are fine; but plan and ask, for some can be rough going if you do not have the right bike. I for one avoid the trails that attract the young men on their pukka mountain bikes all decked out in padding.
Go far up to the old growth forest. It is about 11 kilometers of riding or walking, but it is worth every bit of effort. There is no similarity between the forest we see daily, the ones that are but a hundred years old. These old growth forests are three hundred and more. They are softer, more rounded, more varied vegetation. Not being a naturalist I cannot pinpoint the species, but here time has a different meaning and you feel the world is different; close in and intimate; softer like a picture of a fairy’s glen from some child’s book. And then you come to the salmon hatchery and the dam. You can wander through the hatchery which is not set up for anything but the most occasional visitor, and gaze from there on the dam. Sadly you cannot approach the dam or peer over the wall, but who cares, we are privileged to be able to come so far.
A word of caution. Be fit if you plan to ride or walk far. The road and the trails go up and down; there is no avoiding uphill, and there is lots of fast downhill when you reach the top. I have ridden about half way up the main road with a rather plump lady, but she was exhausted at that point and we had to sit for an hour before she had wind to return downhill. This is not a grand adventure place unless you wonder off onto the trails; but it is not for the casual walker more suited to an amble around the Sea Wall of Stanley Park. I have chatted to old kids who have cycled most of the way up with their parents, and every ride I see kids as young as five pushing up. I am constantly amazed, but their parents are either running, or lean and mean on their own bike. I like it that way. There is plenty of accessible variety within a short huff-and-puff of the parking area for those of lesser ambulatory ability. There is one water fountain at the parking area. Thereafter you are on your own, so carry what you will need. But do it. This is beautiful BC.
PS. Written a week later on 25 September 2010, a sunny day.
I took another ride along Fisherman’s Trail this afternoon. Parked the car at the water treatment plant, and rode up the asphalt trail to the turnoff to the Butterfly Garden. Then down a steep, gravel path, wending my way around the speed-gates installed to prevent fools like me going too fast and falling. As I descended to the river, I turned a corner to stare but ten feet away into the curious eyes of a deer. She looked at me with a haughty glare, and then slowly and gracefully traipsed on down the bike path. Her young one skipped out of the woods to join her, and they both ambled down the path, stopping all the while to graze on the soft leaves that line the way. I stood with my bike and watched for a long time. Other cyclists at the base of the path stopped too and we all reveled in this small scene of mother and young. Finally, they grew bored or maybe they espied better vegetation and they hopped over a log and were gone.
I continued the downslope of the trail, enjoying bumping and bouncing over dry cobbles, through soft mud-patches, and the slippery fall leaves of gold and brown. There just ahead was a truck and a small all-terrain vehicle. Rangers were helping a wounded cyclist into the truck. I slowed and asked if I could help, but these young fellows obviously had the situation under control. Further along were two more rangers, one riding the bicycle back; it looked unharmed. I wondered just what had happened, and decided next time to take my cell phone; just in case; although there were others out walking, jogging, and cycling along the path; let us estimate with about five minutes between each encounter.
The river was running full and fast. Water spreading from bank to bank, covering the sandy beaches where before I have sat just to absorb the surroundings. I contemplated car-sized boulders worn smooth by eons of water. Were they deposited here as a glacier advanced or retreated? Did they tumble down in a big earthquake? I read somewhere the last one big enough was in the sixteen hundreds.
And thus back up the steep path to the parking lot. Rode in first gear most of the way up; but twice I had to dismount and walk the steep incline and envy those barrelling down in the opposite direction. Hence back home to a cup of tea.
