Klunk ‘n’ Float 2023: Lords of Klunk Town

Words by Miles Arbour, photos by Miles and Nathan Reimer

Born last year, Klunk ‘n’ Float first existed as a way to connect some remote gravel roads with an interesting lake on an island, but it soon evolved into a packraft-equipped vintage mountain bike shitshow with friends. As Bikepacking Collective members would have read about in the ninth issue of The Bikepacking Journal (which new members can now read online here), that trip was historic for our small group—it gave us a chance to reconnect with our fleeting youthful selves, spend some quality type II fun with good people, and reminded us that 80s and 90s mountain bikes are impossibly durable. It was also unanimously decided that this was one of our hardest trips to date.

After last year’s trip, we all agreed that this year should be easier. We discovered the hard way that open-water paddling in packrafts is slow and tedious. We were pretty set on finding a river or simply limiting the amount of time paddling next time. Beyond ensuring that there would be a Klunk ‘n’ Float in 2023, we didn’t really have any concrete ideas on where we would end up. There was talk of heading down the Sunshine Coast toward Vancouver in search of rapids, and we looked into options on Vancouver Island, which included lakes, lesser-known rivers, and heavenly BC gravel. But, deep down, I think we all wanted to stick to our backyard in the qathet Regional District, even if we didn’t voice it. The ease of leaving from home, especially faced with the prospect of navigating BC Ferries on a summer weekend, far outweighed the excitement of traveling further afield.

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Last year, our group spent a lot of time together. We got out on several last-minute campouts, including a winter snowshoe-packing trip to a backcountry hut and a near-hypothermic overnighter to the infamous Dick Lodge. I think I speak for all of us when I say how much we appreciated these short getaways together, even if they’re sometimes uncomfortable. For whatever the reason, we shared far fewer bike rides and campouts this year. Life got busy, and we weren’t able to spend as much time together. Thankfully, Klunk ‘n’ Float was on our calendars, and although I wasn’t confident on what it might look like, there was no backing out in my mind. Thankfully, Justin and Nathan were on the same page.

The inaugural Klunk ‘n’ Float came together at the last minute, and this year’s came down to the last second. We had our first official group meeting two days before our planned departure, and at that point, we still didn’t have a route locked in. I hadn’t even taken my trusty Kuwahara Cascade out of the shed since the last trip a year earlier. If there’s one thing we took away from our first trip, it was that our vintage steel mountain bikes were bombproof beyond tightening a few rack bolts now and again. They were good to go. My bike somehow lost a few more cassette teeth over the winter, Nathan’s Stumpjumper was blessed with new rubber, and Justin was riding a newly acquired GT Karakoram with a perfectly fitting Porcelain Rocket 52hz frame bag.

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With Kristjan unable to attend this year, we were one klunker down, and the vibe was different heading into the weekend. Maybe it was because of how little we had spent together leading up to it or the simple fact that competing with the inaugural Klunk ‘n’ Float seemed like an impossible task. Whatever the reason, as soon as we arrived at our starting point, took off down a forest service road, and were quickly stopped to adjust bags and floppy packraft setups, all of that was behind us.

Justin pitched the idea of connecting two high-elevation lakes. There was a gravel road on either side of the lakes to create a loop, the possibility of a trail leading up to the first lake, no hope of a trail connecting the two, and a good chance that the local ATV group had been working on a trail to get down from the second lake. There were unknowns, there was hope, and we had heavy steel bikes and packrafts. The second annual Klunk ‘n’ Float was underway.

We spent the first few hours pedaling along relatively smooth gravel roads toward a trail that would bring us to McVey Lake. Our bikes were running relatively well, all things considered, and the weather was perfect aside from the forest fire smoke lingering in from the east. The group had high hopes. We took breaks to shoot rocks and signs with our slingshots, and everyone was in good spirits.

That didn’t last long. Our first hurdle was that the trail that was supposed to connect the gravel to our first lake was non-existent beyond a few barely visible marking ribbons scattered in the trees. The ensuing hike-a-bike was some of the most tortuous any of us have ever experienced. Constant overgrown bushwhacking, waterfall scrambling, and 60-pound mountain bikes slowed our progress drastically. The next three hours of our lives were wasted—I mean spent—traveling less than a kilometer to the lake. Impressive in some ways, I suppose.

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It was late afternoon by the time we arrived at McVey Lake. Exhausted, we quickly inflated our packrafts and lashed our bikes on top, hoping to get a good look at the other side of the lake before dark. The afternoon sun was glowing against the massive rock cliffs that dove deep into the lake. The area is rarely visited and not easily accessible—a subtle reminder that despite the painful hike in, moments like these are worth it. As we paddled closer to the far end of the lake, a wall of boulders and scree towered above us in the direction we were planning to go in the morning. I remember telling Justin and Nathan (but probably more so myself) that it looked doable. We set up camp and tried our best to catch some sleep.

Thinking back on all my bikepacking trips, I can only recall two times when I was stopped in my tracks and turned around for home. The first was back in eastern Ontario with a couple of friends in the guide training program I took after university. We were preparing for our “final project,” a self-supported bikepacking trip on the Kokopelli Trail in Utah, so we figured we should load some bikes up with gear and go camp somewhere. I remember zip-tying dry bags onto the cyclocross bike I owned at the time and riding down a quiet paved road toward a winter emergency shelter. It was lightly raining, we were cold, and sitting in a damp shelter all night didn’t seem like much fun. We called a friend to pick us up.

The second time was a few years ago during what was supposed to be a weekend bikepacking trip in Montana with Emily. We got to our first camp late and set up our tent (which had no floor and not nearly enough room for two people, I might add), and as we were trying to sleep, a screech that sounded oddly like a mountain lion pierced the silence around us. Emily and I were on edge, wide awake, and eventually made the decision to abandon our spot, ride out of the forest, and camp in a ditch by a farmer’s property. I like to think I’ve grown as a person and a bikepacker since those experiences, but Klunk ‘n’ Float generally has a way of testing us in unexpected ways.

I don’t like giving up, and unless things start to get really hairy, I prefer to push on no matter how uncomfortable it gets. We had hardly put a dent in the boulder field up from the lake before we all understood we weren’t going to make it. I mean, maybe we could have reached our intended destination without bikes and packrafts, but there was still a stretch of unknown terrain beyond the climb up, not to mention the steep descent down to Walt Lake.

We sat on the truck-sized boulders and discussed our options. The best possible outcome was that we somehow made it up and over before dark, but that seemed unlikely. The worst case scenario was that someone took a tumble on the loose rocks and broke a bone, which seemed much more probable. The lords of klunk town were heading home. It’s too bad home meant returning to the heinous bushwack and the bowels of hell from which we’d emerged.

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This year’s Klunk ‘n’ Float wasn’t the carefree adventure we’d envisioned, but it came at a perfect time and was the trip we all needed as individuals and as friends. We kept our bolts tight, threw our bikes and bodies through prickly brambles and bushes on the hunt for non-existent trails, and learned more about our limits in the process. Turning around, however, was a difficult thing for me. I remember sitting on the boulder field explaining that I’d be more than okay to leave my bike lying there on the rocks and carrying on by foot if only I had a backpack to haul my gear. I considered ways to lash my drybags to my back like a human pack-mule and took a mental inventory of the items I could carry on without. Anything to stop dragging that heavy bike around and move forward. Anything to avoid turning around. Despite these thoughts, I knew what our next move would be. I accepted it, eventually

In some ways, not completing the route we set out to ride was even more rewarding than the alternative. I wouldn’t recommend trying to recreate our route, and you can bet none of us will be giving it a shot any time soon. Maybe the connection between McVey and Walt is best left untouched. It’s comical to think that, at the end of this trip, we once again agreed that next year’s trip must be easier. A leisurely river float sounds nice, but that doesn’t exist if we’re hoping to stay close to home. Riding anything but heavy vintage mountain bikes would make it easier, but that would take the klunk out of Klunk ‘n’ Float, which would probably curse us in some new and exciting way.

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All I can say to anyone thinking about loading up an old bike with packrafting and camping gear is that you’ll want to pack things tight, not light, and check your rack bolts often. Don’t overthink it, and don’t underestimate the capabilities of vintage mountain bikes. The number of somersaults our bikes have perfectly executed through the bush and chainrings smashed against rocks is almost unbelievable. These things are made to last and can probably handle way more than any of us. That was especially true during this year’s Klunk ‘n’ Float.

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