British Columbia's provincial parks are properly the envy of the world—cheap, hospitable and thick on the ground—and Mt. Robson is their crown jewel.
Money or not, it was Smalldaughter’s turn for an adventure. Wordlessly, Pretty Wife threw down the gauntlet.
It looked suspiciously like a Coleman tent.
Two days later we were idling on our bikes, lined up for the Lynden border crossing. At Vancouver BMW-Ducati, the estimable Kelly Anderson swapped in my dirty black Beemer for a starched-white Ducati Multistrada with pre-scuffed panniers. We trimmed it like a Christmas tree with pots, pans and Therm-A-Rest pads. Across the two Givi steamer crates on her Tweety-yellow BMW F650GS, Pretty Wife carried surplus army luggage holding one entire campsite.
“That’s a fat old bag you got there,” Kelly observed.
Pretty Wife patted the L-E-W-I-S stencil on her badonka duffel: “Had his brand on it for years.”