Don't Delay Play. Do Hard Things.
Three days in the South Chilcotins with Tyax Adventures
Some mountain bike trips work their way onto your bucket list over the years.
They're the ones that friends mention after rides or around the dinner table, always followed by the same sentiment: "we just have to go." For me, the South Chilcotins with Tyax Adventures had become one of those places. My friend Tracey and I had heard stories for years about endless alpine meadows, extremely remote trails, and the kind of scenery that photos never quite seem to fully capture.
Every person who had been was saying the same thing: "It's unlike anywhere else."
So this summer, we finally stopped talking about it and made it happen.
Our crew consisted of four friends. Nicole and I would be riding mountain bikes while my other pals Tracey (from Revelstoke) and Maddie (from Golden) would be tackling the route on foot as a fast-packing adventure. After a full day of driving, followed by what felt like an endless journey down dusty logging roads, we finally arrived at Tyax Lodge on the shores of Tyaughton Lake.
The evening before the trip was wonderfully quiet.
We pitched our tents, watched the sun disappear behind the mountains, soaked in the luxury of the hotel hot tub, and listened to loons calling across the lake. We packed our snacks, filled our water bottles, downloaded offline maps, double-checked our bear spray, and organized our gear one last time before climbing into our sleeping bags.
We really had no idea what the next three days would hold.
The following morning (after waking up WAY too early) we met our pilot, Leon.
Within moments our bikes and packs were loaded into the float plane and we were skimming across Tyaughton Lake before lifting off into the mountains. The flight alone was unforgettable.
At one point Leon looked at us and described the landscape below with one simple word: "Complex."
I’ve thought about that word a lot since. The mountains weren't dramatic because they were impossibly tall or jagged. They folded endlessly into each other in unique colours and patterns. Wide alpine valleys stretched farther than I thought possible, rivers carved through green meadows, and ribbons of trail disappeared over ridges before reappearing somewhere completely unexpected.
25 minutes later we landed on the crystal-clear alpine waters of Lorna Lake. Leon unloaded our bikes onto the shore, wished us luck, climbed back into the float plane, and flew away. It was one of the wildest feelings I've ever experienced. Just like that, it was all up to us.
There wasn't another group waiting behind us. There wasn't a shuttle picking us up at the end of the day. We had everything we needed strapped to our bikes and backs, a route loaded onto our phones, and one job: get ourselves to a new camp each day.
Day One: This hardly felt like mountain biking
I'll admit, I expected to spend a good chunk of this trip riding my bike. Instead, we spent a surprising amount of time pushing (and carrying) them.
Within the first few kilometres we had already crossed streams, carried bikes over fallen trees, picked our way through muddy bogs, and wondered more than once if this was actually the trail. Every time we hopped off our bikes to cross another river we would laugh and tell ourselves, "Well... hopefully that's the last one."
It somehow was never the last one though!?
Somewhere along the way we stopped caring about keeping our feet dry and simply embraced the experience and the wetness. We would splash straight through creeks, stroll our bikes through marshes, and lift them over obstacles that would've been laughable anywhere else.
Then, without warning, the landscape would completely change.
The trees would disappear and we would emerge into alpine meadows unlike anything I'd ever seen before. The wildflowers seemed endless. Green hills rolled toward mountains layered one behind another, and you could see for kilometres in every direction without another human in sight.
We stopped constantly. Sometimes for snacks. Sometimes for photos. Mostly because we just couldn't stop looking around. I'd never ridden anywhere that made me feel quite so small.
By late afternoon we had reached the biggest climb of the day.
The trail disappeared into lingering snowfields and the riding quickly turned into pushing (and occasionally carrying) our bikes over the pass. It was steep, exhausting work, and by that point we'd already spent hours moving through terrain that was unlike anything we had experienced before.
Then we reached the top and could look down into the next valley to see singletrack winding its way toward Bear Paw Camp.
That descent felt so earned and made us forget about our tired legs and sore shoulders.
By the time we rolled into camp, Tracy and Maddie were already there cheering us in and then the good stuff started rolling in.
A hot shower. Cold lemonade. And the greatest plate of nachos I have ever eaten.
This is a story about our mountain biking adventure not a food blog, but I truly don't think I've ever appreciated a plate of food more. After a full day in the backcountry, sitting barefoot in camp with cheesy nachos and guacamole felt like absolute luxury.
That evening we shared a home-cooked meal with the other guests staying at camp before crawling into our canvas tent, listening to the wind move through the meadow outside, and wondering what Day Two would bring.
Day Two: The hard one
If Day One introduced us to the South Chilcotins, Day Two asked whether we were sure we wanted to be there.
Our route climbed over Deer Pass, and although we certainly rode parts of it, this day was defined by pushing, carrying, and slowly working our way higher into the alpine.
Snow still covered very large sections of the trail, the wind picked up and the terrain became more exposed.
There were many moments when Nicole and I questioned whether this even counted as mountain biking anymore (I fondly remember the moment of Nicole saying “I should have set my Garmin to hike instead of Bike”…)
Fortunately, every time those thoughts crept in, I remembered to look up. The views across the mountain range were nearly impossible to process and gave my brain the reset it needed to keep pushing.
Wide valleys stretched endlessly beneath us while ridgelines disappeared toward the horizon. Everything felt bigger and more vast than I imagined. Nicole and I spent most of that day together. Apart, on our own journey. But together!
Sometimes we would chat, but often we would walk in complete silence. Sometimes we would simply laugh (or cry) at how ridiculous the whole situation had become.
It's incredibly special doing hard things alongside someone you trust. You know they're working through the exact same challenges you're facing, and somehow that makes carrying a bike over snow (and a whole damn mountain pass) just a little bit easier.
Eventually, we crested Deer Pass.
The descent that followed felt timely (we needed it), and very earned.
Rolling into Spruce Camp that afternoon felt like crossing a finish line. Once again, our friends were waiting for us, cheering us in before we even reached camp. There is really no topping the support of the friends alongside you.
After another incredible meal, I remembered a guestbook entry I had read at camp the night before that really caught my eye.
"Don't delay play. Do hard things."
We don't know the people who wrote it, but it captured everything we'd experienced so far.
Day Three: The ride home
The funny thing about this adventure is that by the third day, what once felt sort of intimidating started to feel normal.
Wake up. Coffee. A pre-breakfast. Then real breakfast. Pack your gear. Wear a heavy pack. Ride your bike.
Repeat. I could really get used to this…
On the final day we chose a route that we felt would give us more time actually riding, and I'm so glad we did.
We rode through more wildflower meadows, alongside rivers, through recent burn areas that were slowly returning to life, and along some of the most enjoyable singletrack of the entire trip.
I realized at some point that day that Nicole and I had stopped talking about the kilometres and we weren't really thinking about how much farther we had to go. We were just enjoying being there, and maybe we stopped counting because we didn’t want it to end.
The kilometres added up eventually though! The final climb appeared (we won't talk about that one), and before we knew it. We were back to our vehicles at Tyax lodge.
And just like that, the adventure was over.
What I brought home
When people ask about this trip to Chilcotins, they usually ask about the riding.
Was it beautiful? More beautiful than I could have imagined.
Was it hard? Harder than I expected.
Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.
What I’ve thought about most since coming home isn’t even the riding. I’ve thought so much about what happens when you completely immerse yourself in a place like that.
Your world becomes so simple. Wake up. Drink coffee. Ride your bike. Eat good food. Fall asleep listening to the rain droplets on a canvas tent. Repeat.
Moving through an enormous landscape constantly reminds you how small you are, while somehow leaving you feeling more capable than when you arrived.
Sharing those moments with people who are just as willing to embrace the uncertainty, laugh through the hard parts, and celebrate something as simple as a plate of nachos at the end of a long day is a beautiful gift.
I’m so grateful that the Chilcotins gave me the opportunity to shift my perspective a bit. It’s such a valuable life lesson to understand that the best adventures are rarely about reaching the destination, or about the number of KMs, or pitch of the climbs.. They're about trusting yourself enough to begin, and trusting the people beside you to help get you there.
We talk to our GTRC riders a lot about how confidence isn't something you all of a sudden wake up with one morning. It's built one ride at a time and one tiny step outside your comfort zone at a time!
The Chilcotins felt like that for me on a much bigger scale. Even though most of us won't find ourselves pushing bikes through alpine snowfields every weekend, every rider has their own version of a hard thing.
Maybe it's signing up for your first mountain bike clinic. Maybe it's coming to Ride Club without knowing anyone. Maybe it's finally riding that feature you've been avoiding all season. Whatever it is…
Don't delay play. Do hard things.
You never know where they might take you.
