I have been tarrying the last few days, in Stewart and here in the Nisga’a valley, and I feel the need, now, to cover some miles. I cycle back through the Lava Bed Valley to the road towards Terrace watching a storm running up the valley before me. A rainbow arches over the road.

Rainbow over the road.

I notice now that almost all the road signs in the valley have been altered, the English text carefully edited out. I am impressed by the skill, dedication and thoroughness with which this task has been completed and I wonder if the original signs had stated the local names first, with the English names subaltern and parenthesised, the same person or persons would have bothered with it. I suddenly recall Fred mentioning that road signage was a contentious issue in local politics.

After the turn off to Terrace, the road runs along another pretty valley with numerous pools and streams of  milky aqua water to both sides. The quantity of water means the valley doesn’t offer a wide choice of camp sites and I ride until I arrive at Lava Lake where I decide to stop at the picnic ground despite prominent signs prohibiting camping. It is dusk and still quite wet so I figure no-one will come to bother me.

Water on both sides of the road makes camping a bit tricky.

I am unpacking my food pannier, deciding which of my three staple options – pasta, cous-cous or lentils – I will cook tonight, when a car pulls up and a group of youths tumble out, shouting and laughing. The picnic tables are amongst trees and screened by bushes and as one guy starts up the path towards me he is clearly startled by my presence which wasn’t betrayed by a car in the parking area.

“Bikers?” he says. It is a query, I think. I am grateful for the assumed plural even though there is no evidence of my phantom companions. “Yes,” I reply, firmly and calmly. He backs away and returns to his friends. “Bikers,” he repeats and manages to make the word carry the same impact as if he had said “Vipers!” his voice laden with a wary distaste.

The kids laugh and shout raucously for while around their car but nobody approaches me again. I set about cooking my dinner mentally preparing a story about my friends who will appear now any second having finally repaired their flat tire. My bear spray is to hand. However, the kids soon jump back in their car and leave.

The traffic along the road is quite heavy and cars continue to pass regularly. The local communities seem very well resourced with cars – favouring sporty numbers in red or white. The vehicle’s sinuous interlocking curves and sleek angles are strangely reminiscent, it seems to me, of the various creatures represented in the carved totem poles.

Totem poles on a bridge.

I eat dinner and put up my tent and then light a fire as an alternative to an early night. I’m still slightly anxious about my exposed campsite but there is not much to be done about it at this stage. It starts to drizzle again and I go to bed. Sporadically cars pull into the car park – to use the outhouse, I presume – and each time I wake, wary and tense. It is Friday night, I realise.

The following morning I set off and it starts to rain again. I arrive in Terrace early in the afternoon soggy and cold and stop at a bike shop to replace my break pads. The ones I put in at Bell II, on the front, have not lasted well and back ones also need attention. Bike tended to, I then retire to the internet café to see if I can organise some accommodation, hopefully in Terrace, but also in Prince Rupert, tomorrow’s destination, and on Vancouver Island.

Fred is standing next to the Visitor Centre, which is constructed to resemble a traditional longhouse, talking to the man who runs it. They both greet me. “It rained a bit last night, didn’t it?,” Fred says,  “I was just coming to check on you and see how you were.” I agree that it did, indeed, rain a bit last night and we discuss the water resistant capabilities of my tent.

“Would you like some coffee?” he asks, “I have a thermos in my truck.” The warmth of the gesture rather than the coffee attracts me. I am surprisingly deeply touched. Fred goes to his truck. I pay Verne the campsite fee and then join Fred inside the pick-up. He hands me a cup of sweetened coffee and apologises for the lack of milk.

Over coffee, Fred tells me news from his village – sadly, a respected chief has died of a massive heart attack yesterday. He elaborates on the impact of this death on the village and then the health issues – obesity, heart problems, diabetes – that affect the community as a whole. These issues recur, world-wide, across communities living in poverty and, particularly, in indigenous communities. We discuss the similarities between the First Nations communities in Canada and what I know of Aboriginal communities in Australia.

He tells me his father also died of a heart-attack some time ago and that education is needed to improve people’s diet and health awareness. I suggest that the disruption of the traditional diet is a major factor in poor health and, perhaps gently chiding me for my assumptions, he lets me know that his father was particularly fond of bottled sea-lion flipper.

I tell him a little of yesterday’s misadventures in the car and he asks me about my plans for the day. Today’s mission is finding the hot springs. As we part, Fred extends heart-felt good wishes. “I hope it doesn’t rain for the rest of your trip!” he says. I laugh and feel compelled to point out that it really has to rain sometime.

I set off through the lava valley marvelling again at the surreal landscape of chaotic rock forms covered by a dense layers of moss and lichen. Diminutive versions of various tree species have found gaps and crevices in which to send down their roots. The mountains around the valley are still swathed with strips of cloud but the rain has ceased. Exiting the valley, I am suddenly surrounded by a lush green rainforest of massive trees.

Diminutive tree clinging to the volcanic rock amidst moss and lichen.

Finding a place to send down roots.

Mist over the mountains.

Mist over the mountains.

Approaching a bridge, I am surprised by a small black bear which suddenly appears on top of the concrete barrier to the side of the road. She looks equally startled and starts to cross the bridge, heading away from me, as two little cubs also jump up onto the block of concrete on the side of the road and hover there uncertainly. A car approaches from the opposite direction and I wonder if I now have a bear crisis on my hands – a mother bear, with two cubs, trapped on a bridge between me and a car. However, the situation resolves without itself any drama with mama bear changing her mind about which direction she will go. All three bears jump neatly over the concrete barrier on the other side of the road and disappear.

I reach the road sign that Fred mentioned. Looking at it closely, I can see that the sign originally stated the place name in English with the local name underneath in brackets. Someone has painted out the English text and the brackets, carefully matching the colour of the sign, leaving only the indigenous place name visible.

After bumbling around for a while, uncertainly, I find a trail leading up a hill through old forest. Massive trees rise above me, draped in emerald green moss. The path is muddy, wet and slippery and where the trail descends into a gully I have to walk ankle deep in murky water. Wooden boards floating in the puddles clearly exist to avert wet feet but the recent weather has overcome their efficacy.

Rainforest.

Giant rainforest trees.

Amazing lichen!

I walk for only ten minutes before descending again to a small clearing in another gully. Pipes lead to a tiny gravel-bottomed pool emit steaming water. A stream runs to one side. Sulphur hangs in the air. I have arrived.

The place is clearly dearly loved. Rickety wooden structures provide places to sit, change and store belongings. Wind chimes hang in the trees and small statues adorn rocks in the pool and the sides of the gully. Pipes guide the water from three springs of varying temperature to the central pool and two other pipes provide drainage so the water constantly changes. The water coming from the main pipe is hot, another pipe provides luke-warm water and a trickle emerging straight from the ground is scalding. The stream running alongside is cold.

I try to work out how the system works. I pour hot water over myself but I would dearly love to sit and soak. Eventually I settle on a plan. There are plastic containers on the wooden platform which fit neatly into the drainage pipes forming an efficient plug. I place them in the pipes and sit in the pool as the water level rises. From time to time I go to the cold stream and refresh myself with cold water.

Steaming water bubbling up from the ground.

The pool.

A very happy afternoon passes in this magical place.

Riding into the Nisga'a Lava Bed Memorial Park.

At the Nisga’a Campground I circle the campsites which are set in a thicket of tall rainforest trees. As usual, the sites are designed with the needs of RVs, rather than tents, in mind and the hard gravel patches are swimming in water. Setting up my tent or trying to cook something to supplement the slice of pizza I consumed at New Aiyansh in this environment is an unattractive prospect.

I return to the entrance and take shelter underneath the information board outside the Visitor Centre and start to cook some ramen noodles. People wander past  from the car park opposite and  give the information above my head a cursory perusal.

A woman approaches to ask if I would like to accompany her and her daughter for a drive in their car. The only real alternative, in the current conditions, is to continue sitting under the information board and so I agree on the proviso that she doesn’t mind waiting until I finish cooking and eating my noodles.

Those tasks completed I lock my bike and go to the woman’s car – a large white four-door pickup truck. Laura, her daughter, is about 14, a pretty blonde girl, sitting in the front of the vehicle. She gets out to let me into the rear of the cabin and I peel off my dripping wet-weather gear before climbing in. Sharon and Laura are from Alberta and spend their holidays each year exploring different parts of Canada and Alaska.

We set off on the road that goes to the coast sixty kilometres away, passing through a number of First Nation communities on the way. As we drive around the villages, Sharon comments disparagingly about the state of the houses and I find myself wishing that I was still alone on my bike in the rain. She has an anecdote to share on everything that we see which she uses to illustrates her poor opinion of First Nations people, none of which I can match with my own experiences and conversations with the local people.

I return to my bike somewhat dispirited by my afternoon with Sharon and Laura. Sharon’s ignorant bigotry left a very sour taste in my mouth. I try hard to reconcile her blatant racism with her obvious kindness to me but I fail to find the connection. The rain holds off for long enough for me to put up my tent and cook in relative comfort and I crawl into my tent. The rain pours down again relentlessly all night.

As the shadows lengthen, a sign indicating the Dragonfly Provincial Campground opportunely appears and I find myself on the shore of a narrow lake. Low mountains lie opposite, higher snow-covered mountains to one end of the lake and open sky to the other.

The surface of the water is undisturbed and the setting sun illuminates the tree-covered hills. I leave the bike at the site closest to the water and walk towards the open end of the lake. A melancholy cry echoes over the water – a rising and falling wail interspersed by maniacal cackles. Loons – a woman, walking with a russet coloured retriever to fetch her canoe, informs me. I am amazed and stand for a long time at the water’s edge listening to the birds call to each other across the lake, a beautiful and crazed chorus.

Dragonfly Lake.

Dragonfly Lake.

When I return to set up camp, the woman’s husband appears and gives me a piece of red Chinook salmon – Chinook are the most prized salmon. This couple are the only other people here.

I light a fire to cook this unexpected bounty and then after dinner with the sun already well behind the hills I go for a swim. While I am standing on the shore, about to enter the water, an otter surfaces nearby and glances as me quizzically, an intelligent and curious face, before slipping away, liquid form into liquid. The water is dark, the snowy mountaintop to the east still just illuminated, the sky to the west red, the low hills on the opposite shore already black. I swim out into deep water and float amidst beauty.

Salmon for dinner - a gift from a fellow camper.

A tent with a view.

In the morning the sky, unexpectedly after yesterday’s sunshine, is a sullen grey, hanging heavy over the lake. I rise quite late, cook porridge, do the dishes, filter water, take down the tent, pack the bike and then sit by the water writing.  A noisy pick-up truck pulls up and a man gets out – the park operator. I get up to greet him and he asks me how I like the park. We discuss the animals, the otter, the loons, wolves and bears. He tells me about spirit bears, white ‘black’ bears, that are common in the area.

Fred is from one of the local First Nation communities. He asks me where I have travelled from and I tell him, getting out my map to show how far I have come. He largely ignores the map but listens carefully to what I have to say about the route and the country I have seen, nodding when I talk about the Dalton Highway and the oil pipeline. He tells me that the only reason there is a road here, in the Nass Valley, is because of the logging. He asks if I met many people from native communities in Alaska and I explain that I didn’t because most of the native Alaskan communities lie off the road system.

Fred tells me about some changes that have been taking place for some First Nations communities in Canada. A treaty signed in 2000 gives his people, the Nisga’a, greater control of their land but he is sad about how much has been taken from them already. He says that in the year before the treaty was signed the local logging industry reached a frenzied pitch with trucks leaving with loads of timber twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. He sees some hope for the economic future of the local communities in tourism and he wants the communities to invest in improving the roads and signage but this, he tells me, is a contentious issue.

I ask him about the hot springs that I have heard rumour of and he informs me they are on the road out to Greenville, the village where he lives. I get out my map but he is not very specific, mentioning a signpost on the road – a name in the local language – but he is vague about the spelling. He leaves wishing me well and I return to my writing by the lake until the grey skies break open and it starts to pour.

Rain.

I ride in the rain, water gradually seeping into nooks and crannies, my shoes and socks sodden. After a short distance, I reach paved road and I splash on through the puddles until I reach a sign indicating New Aiyansh, one of the local First Nation communities. The village is set off the highway and I pause surveying the scene. I would like to see a local community but I feel a little intrusive, my motive simple curiosity.

Apparently a significant number of young women from local communities have disappeared without trace. The road is known in the area as the Highway of Tears.

On one side of the access road a large billboard warns of the perils of hitchhiking. “Is it worth the risk?” the sign queries. The image depicts a lone girl attended by two spirit entities – whether protective or threatening I am unsure – as an anonymous car approaches ominously. On the other side of the road, a large handsomely carved wooden sign welcomes me to New Aiyansh but I am uncertain of the sincerity of this greeting from the invisible community. I am, however, somewhat encouraged by warm waves from car drivers entering and leaving the road. I still hesitate and ride a short way down the highway in the continuing rain before, impulsively, retracing my steps and taking the turn off.

All I need is a reason to be there, I decide, and make finding a local map my mission. I cycle down a short steep hill and up a longer incline and come into the village just over the crest. There is a garage workshop on the left, as I enter the village, and the mechanic in khaki overalls returns my nodded greeting as I cycle past towards a community building watched over by large carved totem poles. The only other public building is the general store behind me and I hook back towards it, pulling into the expansive car park at the same time as the mechanic who waves at me with such enthusiasm I mistake him at first for Fred, of this morning’s conversation, the only person I can conceivably consider myself to know in this place.

Signs instruct me not to leave my bike parked near the entrance of the store but the mechanic tells me to ignore them. I enter the store self-consciously, aware that everyone else in the place is greeting one another by name. I realise I have to modify my mission as everyone else knows exactly where they are and has no need of a map. A lonely slice of pizza rotating in a food warmer is the most attractive of the fast food on offer and I purchase it.

I find myself outside again and the mechanic initiates a conversation which follows the standard trajectory – where I am from, where am I going, what do I do… Eventually, I ask him about the hot springs, still uncertain if the information I already have is sufficient to find them. Without telling me anything about how to get there, the man describes the pullout on the road where the access track starts. It is possible that all these snippets will fit together well enough to get me there in the end.

Fred walks by with a smile and a wave as I finish my pizza and cycle off into the rain to the Nisga’a Lava Bed Memorial Park.