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Sparwood, criss-crossed by railroads and strewn with workshops, revealed just how much the town, like Elkford, owed to its proximity to major coal mines. It was bigger and busier, however. It also had a certain sense of civic pride, made evident by the prominence afforded on the way into town to one of its most famous inhabitants. The mustard-coloured ‘Titan’, or to be more accurate a Terex Titan 38-19, was, at the time of its construction in 1974, the world’s biggest dump truck, capable of hauling 317 tons of coal or earth in one load. The display signs nearby proudly boasted of its 236 ton net weight, 66 foot length and 23 foot height (56 foot when the tipper body was raised – higher than a Brachiosaurus). Modern designs and more efficient hauling techniques had rendered the Titan redundant, however, even if it still found a useful role in its enforced retirement as a draw for tourists. I wondered if Sparwood and Elkford would be able to say the same when the coal supplies had been exhausted.
    I drew inquisitive glances from local residents as I hosed down my bike at a car wash and then booked into the town’s second-best motel (out of a choice of two). It had been recommended by ‘BlackBerry Ken’ due to its relative cheapness and the fact that it had a Chinese restaurant next door. I took a bath, simultaneously washing my already filthy cycling kit, and hung out my still damp tent to dry. Cadet and Jeff arrived and we went for dinner. Rick declined to join us, insisting he had to find a pizza restaurant, even if it meant cycling a mile uphill into town, and Martin had already decided he needed the laundry facilities provided at the town’s other motel at triple the cost. He obviously intended to keep his kit as pristine as his panniers.
    Just as we were about to go into the restaurant we saw Deanna cycling past in the wrong direction. Of course, it turned out only to be the wrong direction if you were not stopping for the night as we were.
    â€˜I need to keep going so I can get a bit of a head start for tomorrow,’ she explained.
    Rather sheepishly, I asked where she intended to stop.
    â€˜Oh, I’ll just bed down at the side of the road. It’ll be fine.’
    Our guilt at our apparent indulgence and lack of adventurousness knew no bounds. Deanna was right about the difficulties of what lay ahead. The new route through the Upper Flathead valley consisted of 105 miles of rough going, with a complete absence of services or any other form of civilisation. I told myself that a good night’s sleep and a big meal would be more beneficial than a head start, but it seemed like hollow consolation.
    Peculiarly, the sense of guilt lasted only as long as it took to inhale the appetising aromas from inside the restaurant. As we tucked in to chicken chow mein, sweet and sour chicken and stir-fried vegetables, my stomach having temporarily decided that a full repast was the only antidote to its ongoing tribulations and my mental unease, we were joined once again by BlackBerry Ken.
    â€˜After you left, eh, I just got to thinking about having a Chinese meal, eh, and then I couldn’t stop, eh, so I decided to see if you guys had made it here, eh, and wish you good luck for the rest of the ride.’

CHAPTER 6

    WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE
    DAY 3
    T he phoney war had ended. Partly through choice, but mainly through necessity, the first two days had been something of a gentle introduction to the rigours of the Rockies. The previous day’s Upper Elk valley may have seemed remote, but it was only the uppermost 40 miles that had been left undisturbed by main roads and the Trans-Canadian railway. Even then, mining and logging activity had penetrated another 25 miles up the valley from Elkford.
    The Upper Flathead valley, by contrast, is unique in southern Canada in its isolation. It is the only low-altitude valley to have resisted permanent human settlement or opening up to