The Shakedown: A Vancouver Island Overnighter

Photos by Tom Norman and Tyler Dawson

Bikepacking, while simple as a concept, can be an extremely meticulous activity. The simplicity of riding a bicycle with everything you need to survive may sound relatively easy, but there are countless variables to consider, and with such a small capacity for carrying these essential items, there’s also a high likelihood of leaving things out. We all have our methods for creating systems for sleeping, eating, dressing, navigating, and powering our essential devices, and one missing link in this system can bring a whole trip to a standstill.

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Having spent the past couple of years dreaming of riding the Great Peru Divide, a bikepacking trip more remote and further from the safety of civilization than any previous journey I’ve undertaken, I knew it was really time to start testing all of these systems now that I’m preparing to head that way. I won’t have the luxury of purchasing forgotten items on this route, so everything will need to be tried and tested. And with mountain passes reaching 4,800 meters, this expedition will necessitate many warm layers.

While there’s nothing like being on the real trip, Vancouver Island is my home, and it offers enough variety in terms of terrain and temperature to allow a decent shakedown of the gear that I’ll be depending on over the next six weeks while on this Andean odyssey. If you’ve ridden on Vancouver Island, you’ll have most certainly experienced the active logging roads that connect remote and wild areas, with gravel roads ranging from small luxury grade all the way through to sharp, chunky, pot-holed surfaces more akin to a quarry bed.

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With teammates Tom and Tyler, I planned a route that would allow a fun night’s camping followed by a fairly big day of climbing, albeit with a similar incline to that of the Peruvian mining roads. Tom will also be riding Peru, allowing us to compare setups, and Tyler joined the shakedown ride to add to my birthday party vibes, which happened to fall on that same weekend. At least for now, we would have the backup of civilization and the luxury of leaving from my front door in Cumberland, British Columbia.

Notes on Gear

With over 38,000 meters of total elevation in my future, I’m glad to be riding a lightweight titanium frame. I’ve been riding this Singular Gryphon for over a year in preparation, and the reduced weight will hopefully help me on the endless days of climbing. Tom, however, will be riding his steel Mone el Continente, a beautiful steel bike. Photography plays a key role in the process of traveling for both of us, and Tom and I wanted a chance to test our planned shooting systems, too. With aspirations of documenting this trip with video, I wanted to gauge if it would be realistic in terms of both execution and enjoyment. Would moving images be too much to handle? Would the extra strain on battery life, data storage, and direction become too much of a chore to make this dream trip a nightmare?

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Tom had also opted for a completely new sleeping system: an ultralight, single-pole tent that was well-tested by the windy island conditions. My whole carrying system was new and was my main focus, with particular attention to capacity and how it would feel on such a light bike. Gear aside, the shakedown was also our last opportunity to put in a decent ride while fully loaded. We’ve trained a good amount for the trip, but there’s a big difference in terms of handling and effort needed on a ride when the bike has many extra pounds of gear strapped to it.

Setting Off

With our bicycles loaded with all the essentials for Peru—and a last-minute stop at the bottle shop to fill up with birthday camping beers to add to the load—we rolled out of town in the first of the springtime sun. Vancouver Island is an incredibly rainy place to live, and when the sun finally comes out, the whole place changes. Feeling the warmth on our skin really made us question leaving one of the most beautiful seasons to head straight into autumn in Peru. The anticipation was high, though, and the first look at our adventure machines, loaded and shiny, finally made our upcoming trip feel like a reality.

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The town of Cumberland has a history in mining and forestry, so it’s no surprise that most access in the area is along FSRs (forest service roads). We’d found some heat maps that would suggest there was a route that could be ridden up to around 1,000 meters behind the town and lead us back through the community forest mountain bike trails, something I’d been looking at for a while but didn’t want to take on without some company. I’m happy enough alone, but the density of the cougars and bears on the island is high, and my experience with deadly animals is low.

The first day, however, was birthday time, and springtime energy, empty gravel roads, and a bag full of Lucky Lagers overshadowed thoughts of the following day’s climb. The FSRs started from the moment we left town, and it wasn’t long before we were hauling our loaded rigs through ditches and rivers, savoring the sun-drenched adventure that stood in front of us. Spirits were high, and the anticipation of summer adventures was on our minds even more so than our looming trip.

Denman Island Camping

Our plan was to catch a Ferry to a small island called Denman, spend the night camping there, and ride back to Cumberland via the FSR climb. We arrived at the ferry just in time for some last-minute supplies before heading across the water and the final leg of our first day. There was no rush in our pace, and the people we encountered were surprised by how short a distance we’d traveled, not knowing the janky route we’d traversed or the amount of beverages we’d carried. This trip was a reverse mullet: party at the front with business at the back.

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The islands off Vancouver Island each have their own unique qualities and personalities, and Denman was no different with its small holdings and lifestyle blocks, earth ships, and food trucks that resemble western chuckwagons. It felt special, and so did the people. We had been perusing the hand-painted island map, deciding where to pitch our shelters for the night, when a car pulled up, and we heard someone shouting from their car.

“You boys wanna buy some chicken!?” A Denman local, who’d been watching us from his car, sauntered over with a chicken breast in a plastic bag, a greasy smile, and a slippery handshake. Dave introduced himself as the Head of Commerce for the island—a title I’m still not sure was real. His advice on camping spots was almost as good as his banter, and he directed us to a spot that would suit all of our overnight celebration needs. If everyone on the island is as cool as Dave, Denman is a place I want to live. We left him at the map, embarking on the notorious Denam hill climb, as he yelled “more beers, higher gears!” at us.

It was a perfectly empty campground right on the beach, and as the first overnighter of the season, it stoked the fire for many more to come. Having not used my shelter for six months, the first lesson learned from this shakedown was to pack tent pegs—something so obvious and vital that really could make my time in Peru difficult. Fortunately, Tom had packed double, and I could make do with using just two, so it was easily overcome.

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The beach offered us as much firewood as we could shake a stick at, so it wasn’t long before we had warmth and tested our cooking systems while watching the last of the evening light. The fire acted like a warm bubble we could duck in and out of, testing our layering systems to see if we had enough to withstand the high elevations and the likely sub-zero temperatures of Peru.

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Sleeping felt cold, even at five degrees Celsius, which is one of my main concerns. Tom and I, both plant-based humans with very little body fat, struggle to keep ourselves comfortable, so my layering and sleeping systems will certainly increase slightly. A sleeping bag liner and a few extra base layers are in my immediate future. The temperatures had another overlooked effect that’s very useful to note. All of Tom’s drone batteries were completely flat, and sleeping with them in our bags will hopefully solve this. We both have a lot of battery-powered devices, and losing power on these would be a shame.

After several morning beach coffees and running into Dave again at the local store, it was time to catch our ferry back to the main island and bid farewell to Tyler. It was business time for the Toms, and we started ascending almost as soon as we left the ferry port. Heads down and sugar levels up, we started the grind, passing only a couple of logging trucks before the views opened up, and we could see the valley behind us. Forestry blocks and mountaintops lay ahead of us, with nothing to do but get our loaded bicycles up the hill. It was good training, but won’t prepare us for the altitude we’ll be facing and the extra effort it’ll require from our lungs.

The Loaded Climb

The temperatures dropped significantly, and even resting meant adding down to my layering system. The cold, wet merino quickly cooled off, so stopping for long wasn’t an option, and the silence inspired thoughts of what might be watching us from the dense forests. The gravel eventually became snow-covered, and hike-a-bike was the only form of travel possible. Not the worst, except for the huge bear paw prints we were now following. They looked a day or two old, but my bear spray and horn were close to hand, and we spoke with amplified voices. Thankfully, I won’t need them in Peru.

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The route became impassable at around 1,000 meters, and with another 15 kilometers still to go, we made the decision to turn back and ride an exit we’d seen at around 750 meters that would lead us back through logging roads to the Cumberland Forest trail network. It was here, after descending a couple of hundred meters and after stopping for one last drone shakedown, that we noticed a bear on the side of the road in front of us. The black object Tom had just mistaken for a pile of tires was moving slowly, but after shouting the customary “Hey Bear!” call and waving our arms, it bashfully looked at us, turned, and wandered back into the forest. It was my first bear encounter on a bike trip and one I’ve been anxious about since moving to Canada a couple of years ago—a shakedown of a different kind that will fill me with confidence on my future Canadian rides.

Tying it all Together

The ride into town through the trails, over skinnies, and down small slabs was over quickly, and our complete setups seemed to handle even this without too much complaint. It had been a shaky day, and we arrived in town feeling tired but confident we were prepared for the South American trip ahead. When you’ve spent any significant time living on your bike, you become finely tuned into how to live with what you have. Everything has a place and a use (or two or three). You become acutely aware of this ability, and for me and many other bikepackers, it’s part of the appeal. This journey would not quite get us there, but it awakened a sleeping ability paused by a winter of time spent indoors.

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Tom had learned to keep his batteries warm to stop them from dying, Tyler had learned he was strong enough to ride like he did last summer, and I’d learned to pack tent pegs and maybe a sleeping bag liner. But, more importantly, we’d been reminded of how fun bikepacking is. How everything is connected and each and every system is important for success on a big trip. And, most of all, we relearned that having fun with friends is just as important as any 4,800-meter pass.

Epilogue

As I sit here at my laptop the morning before my flight, I find myself immersed in Neil Bechenko’s “14 Mistakes Everybody Makes While Bikepacking,” savoring the last drops of my home-brewed coffee. Adjusting my packing based on that familiar nagging sensation that I’ve overlooked something, I ditched that extra layer, shedding 240 grams, as he meticulously points out. A sense of calm acceptance washes over me as the deadline for errands fades away, leaving me at the mercy of my carefully prepared baggage. With bags packed and bike box filled, the stress of the past few days feels more like a shakedown than a leisurely weekend jaunt.

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A casual afternoon ride meant to be a relaxing farewell city cruise takes a swift turn when my bottom bracket starts emitting ominous rattles. Panic sets in, fueled by cortisol coursing through my muscles. This is certainly not a risk I want to take in Peru. A frantic bike shop crawl through East Vancouver ensues, slowed only by others’ curiosity about my adventure-ready machine.

Despite everyone’s interest, no one seems available to help this week. Every wrench in the city appears too busy, making a flight change seem increasingly likely. Finally, a sympathetic soul comes to the rescue, saving the day just in time. In hindsight, fully loaded trail riding a week before a trip was probably not the wisest choice. But with the part secured and my bike booked for repairs the next day, relief washes over me. Surely, everything is now ready. What else could possibly go wrong?

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As the new component is fitted the following day, marking my last chance before flying, another hurdle emerges. Disassembling and packing the bike reveals a time-consuming issue: blocked valves due to fossilized sealant buildup. With no air escaping, deflating the tubeless wheels becomes an arduous task. My heart sinks as I realize the time ahead spent rectifying this unforeseen problem. Precious time slips away—time I could have spent relaxing or bidding farewell to friends.

But then again, I’ve never left for a bike trip on time and according to plan. Another week would likely find me in the same whirlwind of last-minute preparations. I’ve always said the hardest part about bikepacking is leaving, and this experience certainly feels like a testament to that sentiment.

Further Reading

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