In the blink of an eye, we found ourselves convoying through the Fraser Canyon, en route to Spence’s Bridge, B.C. Only hours earlier the idea had materialized; it had all happened so quickly.

On the first Friday afternoon of November, we ran into each other on campus and decided in a matter of minutes that this would be the only weekend to go ride some big boy lines on our big boy bikes. Thanks to our combined 30 years’ experience with last-minute efficiency after extensive procrastination, it took us less than two hours to gather the essential gear. Some of our most important pieces of equipment were a long expired U.S. Military ration, our trusty mechanical steeds, and a park rat filmer who had no idea what we were dragging him into.

The dirt road to our campsite ran adjacent to a major BC railway, which made for loud nights.

After our long drive late into the night, we arrived in the small boondocks of Spence’s Bridge. First stopping at the Log Cabin pub, we stocked up on one last necessity: some frosty brews. We continued onward to our campsite for the weekend, taking Max’s Pontiac where no Pontiac has been before.

Our campsite, across Mud Lake from some gnarly mountains.

Plowing through landslides and potholes, we arrived at destination Mud Lake. Soon enough Dory’s large, hard stick of flint had ejaculated sparks into a bed of grass. Now sitting fireside was the team, beers in hand listening to a wild Wojnar majestically strumming his guitar, bellowing into the night.

The big line.

Waking up in the morning was a sight of its own. Our youthful spunk got the best of us and we were up early, ready to shred. We eventually made our way around Mud Lake to hike, scout, and dig a particularly large line. The behemoth before us even made Owen’s planet-sized ego look small. It felt like we were beginning a quest as we stepped foot onto the vertical wall. Before we knew it, all the rocks were cleared and we stood atop, looking down what we would soon be shredding. However, like any man knows, it is in poor taste to go cold turkey into a perfect 10. Instead, we made our way around the corner to a zone that was just begging for a quick and easy ride.

Derek shredding one of the ridges.

Somehow, we managed to convince Liam, the filmer, to carry our helmets for us.

The warm up zone had plenty of potential; Max took one ridge while Dory and Derek took another. As quickly as the lines appeared out of the shadows, we found ourselves throwing our goggles on, waiting for the call to drop into the fresh dirt that none of us had ever dug tire into.

Tearing up the face.

Like lemmings, one by one we were pushed over ridge, carving our signatures into the face. We each rode a few laps before the sky clouded up. Rain began to fall like our GPA’s during the shred season.

The short drive back to camp was as loose as our riding, and fit well into everything that had happened so far. The Subi was gettin sideways, and it’s safe to say we all hoped that the car wouldn’t get high centered on the train tracks and flattened like the pennies, loonies, and beer cans we had put down earlier that day.  We huddled in the safety of the subaru, while the rain came down, hoping it wouldn’t last long.

On Sunday, our last morning, the soil was still greasy from the night’s rain, and it looked like the Mud Lake chute might be out of reach. We decided to give it some time, and went back to a zone we had previously checked out. Though we had originally thought the sharp turn at the bottom of the line would make it impossible to ride, Max, Derek, and Dory began the hike fearing that their manhood might come into question if they backed down.

Max, Derek, and Dory hiking up to the top of their first line on Sunday.

Naturally a fearless Liam and Wojnar had already perched themselves on an adjacent razor-sharp ridge, patiently waiting for us to clamber up to the mountain’s top.  There was skepticism in the air standing at the peak, but Max was more eager than your average neighborhood beaver to charge the line.

Max schralping the first line of the day.

With the wave of his arms, Max dropped into the line, cleaning the face smoother than a stick of butter. The dirt spitting from his bike was enough to turn what doubts Derek and Dory had, into pure unadulterated stoke. Derek was next, snaking what Dory thought was his, leaving him alone, hot ‘n bothered, and last to drop. With more brown pow on the slope than a 2012 Whistler opening weekend, we pushed through our exhaustion and hiked up once more. The dirt surpassed expectation despite the rain, and the prospect of that one final line was looking better and better as the day wore on.

Derek making turns in the chute.

Dory straightlining into the turn at the bottom of the line.

It was now or never, either pack up, or send the chute. A smirk was painted across our faces and we knew what was going to happen. Unfortunately, Derek had a rock smoke his rotor, which resulted in it folding over like a fresh taco, totaling his bike.

While the others began to pack up, Dory and Max started their way to the top. The fear was pounding in their hearts as they stared into the belly of the beast. The start of the chute looked as if it was waiting to ingest them and then spit them out a filthy, shattered mess. It was decided that nobody wanted drop last, so a monumental game of rock-paper-scissors ensued. Max was declared the winner. Dory cursed out loud, and the whole valley echoed his profanities right back at him.

With one pedal stroke pure happiness engulfs your mind like a young Essex Prescott would have engulfed an enormous, triple-decker-double-chocolate wedding cake. Dory watched on as Max rode the line, narrowly avoiding calamity. As Dory watched him go, he could only hope for the best, the last thing he saw was Max skittering out, wheels sliding from underneath, and disappearing behind the steep corner of the chasm. Seconds later Max was down on the lake shore, riding away safely.

Tunnel vision.

It was Dorian’s turn. The signal was GO, drop in. With his helmet on tight, forefingers just hovering over the brakes, he dropped in knowing that if he was in short supply of confidence, things would end badly. The steepness and hardpack of the chute were the least of his worries; the snake-turn at the bottom is where it got tough. With some skill and a lot of luck on his side, Dorian managed to ride it out like a PRO, keeping a solid grip on both pedals, unlike Max.

Getting spit right out.

Hugs all around at the bottom. Our last-minute plans to explore Spence’s Bridge came to fruition and couldn’t have gone any better. We celebrated with a Military Meal consisting of chemically heated spaghetti, apple sauce and a chocolate shake. The only thing that could have made it better would have been a champagne shower.

Military meal and packing up camp. Don’t join the army, the food sucks.

With our stomachs not all that full (seriously, that sh*t was gross), we tossed our mud ridden gear into the cars and set off down the dirt road with smiles on our faces. We left Spence’s Bridge gazing out into the mountains, searching for new lines for our next time back.