Sometime between the pizza Margarita and the Caesar salad, and possibly influenced by the glasses of chilled Pinot Gris, we decide to cycle the old railway trails through the Okanagan. Which, for most people, would be a side note in a week long journey through B.C.’s renowned, stunning valley. For Maria and I, it would prove to be more like the lead story.

We’ve only just arrived, and the anticipation of the Okanagan’s countless wineries, endless open roads, and spectacular panoramas lay before us. Our first stop is lunch, al fresco, under a crystal sky at Frind Winery’s lakefront patio.

Maria and I have been friends for four decades, and over the years we’ve established the tradition of an annual girls’ getaway. We always choose a point on the map with character, a place that one or neither of us has been to before.

This year the point on the map is the Okanagan Valley in B.C.’s interior. The western world is slowly weaning itself out of the pandemic, with its sanitary rituals, mask wearing, gathering restrictions and fear of contact. The journey starts with my first flight in nearly two years. I realize I’ve actually missed the ordeal of flying – the line ups, the annoyance of deconstructing my travel bag to go through security, the waiting, the cardboard meals. It’s all worth it when we start our descent over Kelowna, the plane banks and an incredible vista opens up below.

The Okanagan is one postcard image after another. A patchwork of vineyards and orchards fan out from the shoreline of Lake Okanagan. Forests of conifers rise up from the valley, giving way to Sonoran desert scrub, sagebrush and wild grasses further south – a landscape more suited to Arizona than British Columbia.

Lake Okanagan threads its way 130 kilometres south, from Vernon to Kelowna and onward to Penticton, but barely reaches five kilometres at its widest point. Which makes it an ideal backdrop for long, languid drives along laid back highway 97 as it curves along the shore through the valley. Nameless winding side roads invite exploration and slow adventure.

Home base for the week is the Summerland Waterfront Resort, perched lakeside just outside the quaint, cheery town of namesake Summerland. In the chill early mornings, mugs of hot tea in hand, we plot our day’s adventures sitting on our balcony while blends of orange, pink and yellow hues escort the sun as it rises above the highlands beyond the lake.

Our week is packed with meandering excursions. We stop in at the Crown and Thieves, a funky speakeasy-themed winery. Passing through wrought iron gates, we’re welcomed into the prohibition-era tasting room, where floor to ceiling bookshelves line the walls and featured wines are scrawled in chalk on a blackboard. Gracious servers in costume a la 1920s complete the immersion.

A drive south leads us to charming Osoyoos, very near the end of the road, where Canada ends and the US begins.

Osoyoos is a desert community steeped in indigenous heritage. The name comes from the Syilx word soo-yoos, referring to the narrows that are a featured landmark of the region. There is something humbling about the raw beauty of the desert, where sage, antelope brush and waves of grasses shelter scorpions and rattlesnakes. We stop in at Nk’Mip Cellars, a beautiful indigenous-owned winery nestled under the shadow of the Cascade Mountains that hover over the wild and scrubby remains of the Sonoran desert. We sample a flight of their wines, with names like Dreamcatcher, Talon and Mer’r’iym, that reflect their heritage and the land.

We meet up with Maria’s friend Ellen, an Okanagan resident and the region’s head of tourism, at the lovely, historic Naramata Inn. Over a bottle of Vieux Pins Viognier and plates of crispy pork belly eggs Benedict, Ellen runs through an eclectic list of recommendations.

“Absolutely, have lunch at Phantom Creek,” she insists. “The views are incredible, and the menu is locally sourced, farm to table. It’s probably the best food in the valley.”

She rhymes off at least a dozen wineries that entice with familial, quirky and endemic names: Lang, Dirty Laundry, French Door, Burrowing Owl, Moraine. I realize a week won’t be long enough to visit all of them.

Ellen isn’t finished with her recommendations. “If you’re going back to Osoyoos, drop into the Home Hardware.”

I think I’ve misheard her. “Did you say the Home Hardware?”

“Yes, I did,” she laughs. “Trust me, it’s worth a visit. I actually take media there on my PR jaunts.”

“We’re thinking of cycling some of the trails,” Maria suggests. Ellen approves wholeheartedly. “For sure, you should do that. You can go for the full day, or a half day.”

No one has ever accused either Maria or me of being overly athletic, so the idea of a several hour-long cycle was cause for mild concern. But Ellen convinces us the Kettle Valley Rail Trail, a meandering, multi-spur converted railway trail from Chute Lake would be mostly downhill on a gentle grade.

“We had a family reunion a few months back, and we all cycled the route”, she tells us enthusiastically. “We had a ten year old and a 70 year old in the group, and everyone managed it easily – we all loved it!”

“Well, Maria,” I sigh, “surely we can pull off a feat a child and a septuagenarian can manage.“

As the week slides by, we dutifully tick off Ellen’s checklist.

On every outing, we stop in at a winery or three. We sip our way through silky merlot, bold cabernet, lemony Riesling, honeysuckle pinot gris and peachy Viognier.

The Osoyoos Home Hardware does not disappoint. It’s early October, and Halloween themed decor and ornaments are on full display. A wobbling blow up ghost greets us at the entrance. Dry goods of every description cram the store’s two creaking floors. Requisite hardware, wrenches, hammers and duct tape share shelf space with Tilley hats, packages of freeze dried pasta meals (who can resist?!), toys, kitchenware, home décor, toques and socks. Maria and I both leave with an eclectic assortment of purchases.

We’re equally impressed with Phantom Creek Estates. The entrance alone is noteworthy. We pass two enormous alabaster winged angels, rising up from the long, broad walkway like statuary greeters. It’s a warm, sparkling day, the kind that invites unhurried dining, so we take a patio table with a panoramic view overlooking the desert landscape of Black Sage Bench. We purr over the fresh poached lingcod, beets dusted with goat cheese, and glasses of the estate’s fruity Pinot Gris, and agree that Ellen is so far batting 1000 with her recommendations.

Early one morning we retrace our steps down the coast road, back to Penticton, where an outfitter sets us up with big, cushy, broad seated bikes. A driver takes us up the mountain road to Chute Lake, where he unloads the bikes, points us southward, and climbs back in the van. With a wave and a ‘have a great ride!’, he’s gone.

The packed gravel trail is wide enough for two bikes to pass, flanked by towering pines and firs climbing further up the mountain, and on the other, a steady drop off opening up to stunning vistas of Lake Okanagan and the highlands beyond. We ease the bikes onto the trail and down the gentle descent. Within a few hundred metres, I shift gears, but nothing happens. There’s no resistance when I pedal and I realize the chain has come off the gear. I dismount and do my best to reattach it, but every time I start peddling again, the chain comes off. A passing cyclist stops and tries to help, but he only succeeds in covering his hands in black grease. He leaves us with the comforting reminder that the trek is mostly flat or downhill. But riding 20 kilometres literally spinning my wheels is worrisome and the precipitous curves we’ll need to negotiate are even more concerning.

Hands gripping the brake, I ride on, and get distracted from my mini-drama by the beauty around me. The air is still and fresh, infused with scents of pine and wild sage. Only the soft shush of tires on gravel and birdsong disturbs the quiet. The sun dapples the trail through the trees and we catch glimpses of the lake below when the view opens up. It’s a photographer’s dream.

Eventually, we come across a group of fit, energetic senior cyclists who have stopped for a lunch break. They have two little dogs with them, one in a backpack, the other in a basket. I ask if anyone has bike tools and the woman with the basket of dog cheerfully offers up the services of the two men in the group. In minutes my saviours are industriously working on the problem. The tools are a godsend, and soon I have working gears again.

Maria and I set off again, thinking our troubles are over.

We approach a curve, and a picture perfect vista opens up. I slow down and pull over to take a photo. Maria does the same, but her tires get caught in the soft shoulder and she tips over. It’s a slow fall, and she isn’t badly hurt apart from a bruised ego. Within a few minutes, we’re back on the trail. The next time it happens is more serious. Without warning, a spandex cyclist passes at breakneck speed, startling Maria. Instinctively she swerves onto the shoulder to avoid the offending bike, but loses control and tumbles hard to the ground. The fall has knocked the wind out of her, and she’s slow to get up.

At this moment, who should appear but our rescuers with the bike tools and their canine passengers. (Later, over a glass of wine, Maria and I joke that these folks must have been wondering how we were allowed to rent bikes in the first place.) They graciously stop, visibly concerned, and prop Maria and her bike upright. Even the dogs look worried (or skeptical). The helpful troupe hovers over her, but Maria waves them away saying she just needs a minute to shake off the shock. Reluctantly they peddle on, and after a brief rest and an inspection of her injuries – two scraped knees and assorted bruises – we’re off again. But the bike has also suffered – the bolt connecting the handlebars has loosened and as she rides on, the bars steadily descend.

Maria stops every few minutes to push the handles up, but gravity is winning this game. Luckily we’re almost at the valley floor by now, and tidy rows of vines emerge on either side of the trail. We pass the entrance to Poplar Grove Winery.

“Let’s dump these bikes off and come back for a glass of wine,” Maria suggests. The thought gives us both a burst of energy, but it’s only temporary.

A few minutes later, at a crossroads, hunched over her drooping handlebars, she stops her bike, and firmly announces, “Barbara, I’m done. I have to get off this bike.”

We’re contemplating our options, wondering if we can get the outfitter to come and get us, since we are so close now to Penticton, when another pair of cyclists stops and asks if we need help.

“Only if you have pliers to tighten up my handlebars,” Maria says.

“Sure, I have some tools with me,” he answers, and just like that, we are rescued once again by ridiculously helpful and friendly British Columbians.

After limping our injury-riddled bikes back to the outfitters, we make our way to our trusty four-wheel transport and drive back to Poplar Grove. Taking a seat out on the patio overlooking the lakefront vineyard, well-deserved glasses of wine in hand, we reminisce about our afternoon. The late day sun is shimmering across the lake, and the wine tastes spectacular.

“You know,” Maria sighs, “it’s a weird thing to say, but I loved that ride.”

I laugh. “Despite the injuries? And the faulty handlebars?”

“Yep,” she replies. “In between all that, it was an amazing afternoon. I loved the trail, the views were amazing, and really, apart from my skinned knees, no real harm done. And we met some lovely people. I think today will be a favourite memory.”

“Agreed,” I reply. “I’d do it again tomorrow. “Except with different bikes.”

 

…………………

Tucked away in one of my old photo boxes, there’s a snapshot of 20-something year old Barb and Maria. We’re at the entrance of a ranch somewhere in Arizona, framed by a wooden sign with ‘Fort Kachina’ etched overhead. We are both helmetless, straddling pedal bikes, sporting pink cotton shorts and tee shirts, beaming smiles frozen in time. The lines of what lies ahead in life are still veiled beneath taut, youthful complexions.

The more recent photo shows the same two friends, after four decades have slipped by. We’re side by side, straddling our bikes, with a stunning view of Lake Okanagan stretching out below us. Neither of us wears shorts, pink or otherwise, in public anymore; instead we sport functional hiking pants. Our complexions show evidence of years of laughter, tears, sleepless nights and lives well lived. But we’re looking into the camera lens with the same delight as all those years ago. Celebrating friendship and the points on the map that still lay ahead.