The plans for the camping excursion to Chilliwack were finalized on top of a parkade overlooking the Gastown Grand Prix bicycle race. The grand prix itself is a small loop around the Gastown area of Vancouver. The entire course couldn’t be more than a kilometer in length, and the race itself is carnage. Crashes and road rash are the norm for the riders. This carnage was appropriate foreshadowing for the weekend to come. As we finished up our drinks we all agreed that the trip was a go for the coming weekend.
The bulk of the crew left on the Friday in a couple of cars. By the sounds of it they had a lovely time but unfortunately my presence was required at work on Saturday so that’s where this account of the weekend will begin. Naturally, due to the liquor-filled nature of all of our trips, I can’t guarantee any of the finer details from the depths of that Saturday night.
Chilliwack is a flat stretch of land roughly 100km outside of Vancouver. Most people bypass it on their way to better things but for us it was the prefect stage to get haggard. Its flat scenery and cow shit stench were a perfect setting for our weekend.
I got on the motorcycle at 7pm on Saturday night to begin the journey out. My bike was broken as usual so I was fortunate enough to have access to a motorcycle belonging to Zoots. By the time I rolled into the campsite all the bean-heads were drinking beers and throwing hot dogs into the fire. I parked the bike and was instantly approached by the camp nazi working the front gate who had ordered the group to change camp sites earlier that day, which they did by putting a pitched tent on the roof of a car and driving the new site. She informed me that I would have to pay for an extra vehicle in the site even though the bike was small enough to fit in a tent… pure cock-smithery. Not wanting the sir the shit, I obliged and dove into the liquor abyss directly after.
The beginning of the evening was typical. We drank beer and talked non-sense between chain smoking Du Mauriers and pissing closer and closer to the tents. It was roughly around midnight when we decided we needed to head to nearby Cultus Lake for a skinny dip. The girls (Sara and Lindsay) piled into the front of the car, followed by the bean heads in the back (Sir Digby, Zoots, and Lord Vatarro), while me and Jimbo, the ambassador of Jimbabwe, and a fresh bottle of Forty Creek rye, got into the trunk area of the mid 90’s station wagon. If you haven’t heard of Jimbabwe you’re an idiot.
While sitting comfortably in the back, Jimbo and I took turns guzzling the bottle. It could have been a figment of my liquor imagination, but all of a sudden some dude jumped out in front of the car from the shadows. The guy seemed fucking suicidal. Naturally alarmed, I hollered out of the open back “you wanna die tonight!?” Although he seemed to have suicidal tendencies, he could have just have easily been a pedestrian minding his own business. That was probably the case. Regardless of his intentions, we did not hit him.
We pulled up to the lake unharmed and probably more intoxicated. The plan was to go skinny-dipping, but after all the gents got into their birthday suits, the ladies changed their minds. Textbook unfortunism. Much to our dismay the lake security guard decided to grace us with his presence. I didn’t know a goddamn lake needed a security guard but apparently this one did. He told us that we couldn’t swim at such an hour, which we were none-too-pleased with, however, he slightly redeemed himself when he reminded us to not forget our Forty Creek as we were leaving. It’s amazing that while liquored you can still manage to forget the liquor itself.
The night back at the campsite went downhill from there. Clearly more liquor was consumed and shit got weird. Real weird. I unfortunately passed out prematurely by the campfire, and subsequently have little memory of what went down, which is good considering I got the blunt end of much of it.
I woke up in the morning with a mammoth headache to the smell of old beer and cigarettes. To my surprise, as I emerged from the tent I found out that Lindsay had spent the night in the company of Zoots. Assuming they had done the dirty, I asked Zoots how it went. He said it hadn’t gone as planned. I noticed a curious odor coming from the tent and immediately blamed his lack of success on him laying a brown egg. In other words, he shat mid hook up which obviously turned off his female companion for the evening, and ended their hookup. Regardless of the validity of this, the accusation continued through our breakfast after we left the campsite, which took place at a mom and pop diner near the campsite. The staff were not impressed. Make out make out make out brown.
We decided to hit the Chilliwack waterslides in the rain after breakfast to help rid us of the beast of a hangover we were experiencing. When I took my jeans off to put on some shorts, I noticed a quarter sized puss lump on my ankle. I asked all the bean-heads what happened and my answer was just laughter. Apparently one of them decided to take a stick out of the fire and brand me while I was passed out the night before. The answer to who specifically did the deed is still unanswered, but I have narrowed it down to two suspects: Lord Vatarro and Sir Digby. Later that day Lord Vatarro would grab my ankle while we were going down a slide and it burst on his hand. I didn’t give a shit, at the very least I was happy to get puss on his hand as payback (if he did it that is). Towards the end of the day Jimbo took a running head start at the dropslide, went airborne and almost ended himself by falling 15m onto concrete. Luckily he didn’t and is still with is still with us today thanks to the 6 inch rails on either side of the slide.
By 2:30 our hangovers had gotten the best of us, and we made our way through the sea of Chinese children and disapproving parents back to the vehicles. It was only as we were leaving did we notice the judging eyes on us. Our beer bellies, tattoos, and overall rotten-ness must have rubbed all the parents the wrong way. We ended the trip by going for pie or some shit at the Chilliwack airport, where a few of us took turns punishing the porcelain in the bathroom between bites of pie. A haggard end to a haggard trip.
That's it.