Neil Meier
In the amber glow of a summer evening, the tribe gathers beneath the neon mark of the Fas Gas. Big, knobby rubber is inflated, hefty chains lubed and body armour double-checked. Easygoing laughter punctuates humorous trash talk. Times have grown more comfortable in these past few years, the result of a growing number of the tribe’s kind. However, a few can still recall an era when deemed enemies dominated this mountain valley, cloaked in Lycra and little else, patrolling the trail network with an anodized-aluminum-clad fist of fundamentalism.
For years, the new tribe was misunderstood, held in contempt by the valley’s off-road elders. Under the mottled light of the forest canopy, a silent war raged on rugged trails named Oh Deer, Big Trouble in Little Chainring and Ich Bin Sofa. A complex patchwork of structures was built in the dense underbrush, supporting the doublewide rims of a new breed of mountain riders slowly trickling in from the outside world. Wooden ramps and bridges were an affront to the lithe and graceful steeds of the old guard. Confronted with these structures and without the supple suspension of modern bikes, these regal warriors had to learn the art of the wheelie drop or otherwise unclip from their death pedals, forced to walk long sections of singletrack.
Soon covert attacks were planned. Stunts were dismantled almost as soon as they were erected. An embittered battle had been born in the Valley of the Elk, and many moons would pass before the bloodshed would end.
Outnumbered by the old guard, the so-called “freeriders” rallied against the rigid ways of their cross-country predecessors. They fought to keep access gates open for shuttling. The protagonists protested trail erosion and the interruption of ladder bridges and jumps beyond their want or ability. Shuttle services started and failed. Finally, lured by the prospect of summer dollars, the ski hill offered peace—a chairlift and a few freeride trails. Both tribes rejoiced.
Over the following years the tribal wars in Fernie subsided, just as they did in many BC towns. The Lycra-warriors, confident on their newly evolved equipment, slowly discovered the joy of finding space between their tires and the dirt below. The freeride tribe honoured agreements to keep coveted ribbons of buff singletrack devoid of two-by-four construction and chicken wire traction. Access roads reopened. New downhill trails with monikers like Porcupine Rim and Three Kings were built, accommodating the gravity-fuelled freeride folk. Under the watch of the valley’s great Ghostrider spirit—a local First Nation’s legend—both tribes were free to enjoy all the land’s singletrack spoils.
Back beneath the Fas Gas neon glow, the Unimog’s engine turns over. Wedged into place among long-travel forks and fat, flat pedals, the tribe cheers and drums on the cab roof. But then the driver brakes. A group of cross-country cyclists ride by, gearing down in preparation to muscle their lightweight bikes up Ridgemont Hill to the epic trail, What’s Up Doc. Long-legged and fit, the uphill riders glance skyward at the giant yellow truck and its payload of shaggy, pad-clad downhillers. Eye contact is exchanged and minds combed for something to say. From the silence, one rider speaks. “Have a good ride guys.” Finally, there is peace in the valley. — Mike Berard
Originally published in Kootenay Mountain Culture magazine.