If you drive through this province in the fall you will experience every season but one in the space of 402 miles/647 kilometres. At the higher elevations it will be snowing and -4 C, then slippery in the shady bits as you round corners on the descent. There might be slushy rain on the windshield.
On the downslope the skies clear, the bighorn sheep appear, grazing in the roadside ditches even though they have an entire mountain range at their disposal, as if they’ve been hired to attract the tourists and must maintain a position within easy camera range.
This in-between mountains and valleys is where the true beauty of the forests emerges, making me appreciate the land itself.
During the summer, the land serves as a backdrop for human activity: inflatables, canoes, and swimmers in the creeks, rivers and lakes, hikers and campers in the forest, but in the fall, the land reclaims its own activity.
The tamarack and larch, who all summer blend in with their evergreen neighbours, suddenly show their true coniferous deciduous colours and step forward in autumn, flaming in gold, doing the dance of the seven veils. They shiver delicately as the autumn wind undresses them, dropping their gold needles to stand proudly naked before the onslaught of winter.
And every year the firs, pines, hemlocks and cedars pretend to be surprised, then shocked at the shameless display. So gawdy, so brave!
Where summer emerges is in the valleys, like the Similkameen and Okanagan, where the very same day the temps hover around 12 C and the sun is fully out. No one is in the water or on the beach, but most people on the street have shed their jackets and turn their faces to the still warm autumn sun.
Rounding out the journey is the ferry home, where the land and water conspire to pull out all the scenic stops, providing a remarkable vista.
Landfall.
It’s not Christmas yet, but this Chris Rea song seems to fit. Thanks to Carlfor putting such a lovely snowy drive to a lovely song.
Stay well; drive safely. Get those winters on.
