Into the Thick of It 

Words + Photos: Swagman

The ferry pulled away from the mainland. 

And just like that, the trip had started. 

No warm-up. 

No easing in. 

Just bikes. 

Bags. 

A route loaded onto a screen. 

And Vancouver Island waiting on the other side. 

 

There were five riders. 

Dave. 

Monica. 

Kim. 

Jonny. 

And Lisa. 

Five different bikes. 

Five different packing systems. 

Five different ways of pretending they had brought exactly the right amount of gear. 

 

And then there was Brent. 

Lisa’s husband. 

SAG support. 

Driver. 

Logistics manager. 

Morale boost. 

Emergency snack supplier. 

The person everyone suddenly loved a little more when the road got long. 

 

The group was heading to Nanaimo to ride the Alberni Bam Bam. 

A loop that sounded playful by name. 

But looked serious on the map. 

 

Nearly 500 kilometres. 

Mostly gravel. 

Forest service roads. 

Doubletrack. 

Old logging routes. 

Long climbs. 

Longer days. 

 

The kind of ride that makes riders check their bags twice before leaving. 

Then check them again. 

 

Swagman racks carried the bikes to the start. 

Swagman bikepacking bags carried gear once the riding began. 

MSR camping equipment was packed for the nights in between. 

And Brent was never too far away in the support vehicle, helping keep the whole thing moving. 

 

Day One 

Nanaimo to Cowichan Lake 

 

The riders did not start together. 

 

Lisa and Monica rolled out first. 

A head start. 

 

Not because anyone was racing. 

 

Because the day was long. 

Because the pace would stretch. 

Because 90 kilometres with loaded bikes and unknown roads has a way of sorting things out. 

 

Jonny, Kim, and Dave left about half an hour later. 

 

Lisa and Monica caught a ride with Brent to the trailhead on the southwest edge of Nanaimo, while Jonny, Kim, and Dave rode there from town. 

 

That was the plan. 

 

Plans feel very clean before a route begins. 

 

Then the route starts. 

 

The first kilometres were kind. 

Pavement. 

Easy spinning. 

A gentle lie. 

 

Then came tar and gravel. 

Then gravel. 

Then mud. 

Then the kind of surface that makes a loaded bike feel less like transportation and more like a conversation with gravity. 

 

The group reconnected about 20 kilometres in, just as the route began to narrow into its first section of singletrack. 

 

Everyone was still smiling. 

That early-ride kind of smiling. 

The kind that happens before the legs are tired enough to be honest. 

 

The forest was wet. 

The bikes were already dirty. 

The bags were holding. 

The route was delivering exactly what everyone had hoped it would. 

 

Adventure. 

 

And then, 15 kilometres later, the first locked gate appeared.

That changed the mood. 

 

Not panic. 

 

But concern. 

 

Bikes could get through. 

Brent could not. 

 

He was still in town, finishing some last-minute grocery shopping before following the route toward camp. 

Or at least trying to. 

 

There was no cell service. 

 

Just trees. 

Gravel. 

A locked gate. 

And the sudden realization that the support vehicle might not be able to support much of anything if Brent could not be reached. 

 

Then Monica’s phone found a satellite connection. 

 

Thanks, Rogers. 

 

A message got out. 

Brent got the warning. 

And somewhere behind the riders, he started solving a problem that had not been planned for. 

 

That became a theme. 

 

The deeper the group went, the more the day asked from them. 

 

The roads became rougher. 

The forest felt bigger. 

The bear spray became less theoretical. 

 

Each rider kept it close, tucked into Swagman Dusty Feedbags on the handlebars. 

 

Easy to reach. 

Hopefully never needed. 

 

Every sound in the brush earned a glance. 

Every blind corner felt a little sharper. 

 

The island was beautiful. 

It also had everyone’s full attention. 

 

Eventually, the group stopped at an intersection and doubted the map. 

 

That is never a great feeling. 

 

The line said go. 

The trail said, really? 

 

What followed looked less like a bikepacking route and more like a goat trail with ambition.

 

Barely rideable. 

Sometimes not rideable at all. 

 

Even the strongest riders had to pick their way through it. 

 

Push. 

Pedal. 

Dab. 

Laugh. 

Question the choices that brought everyone there. 

Then do it again. 

 

Everyone regrouped at the top. 

 

A little quieter now. 

Still smiling. 

But with more teeth showing. 

 

Then came the descent. 

Technical is one word for it. 

Humbling is another. 

 

Loaded bikes do not float over rough ground the way unloaded bikes do. 

 

They hesitate. 

Buck. 

Remind riders exactly how much they brought. 

 

One line at a time, everyone picked their way down toward Cowichan Lake. 

 

It pushed them. 

All of them. 

To the edge of their abilities. 

And, a few times, just past it. 

 

At the bottom, the route gave them a bridge. 

 

Sort of. 

More missing than present. 

More rotten than reassuring. 

 

The kind of bridge riders cross quietly because saying anything out loud might make it worse. 

 

One by one, they made it over. 

 

Then the rain came. 

 

Or maybe it had been there the whole time and nobody had been able to notice. 

 

The final stretch into Cowichan Lake was flatter. 

Gravel. 

Rain. 

Tired legs. 

That strange end-of-day silence when everyone knows the only thing left to do is finish. 

 

Everyone rolled into camp. 

 

And there was Brent. 

 

Of course there was Brent. 

 

The saviour. 

The support vehicle had found another way. 

Camp was already set. 

 

After 92.5 kilometres and 1,445 metres of climbing, that felt less like help and more like a miracle. 

 

There are few things better at the end of a hard day than not having to decide where the tent goes. 

 

Except maybe a lake. 

 

Cold. 

Very cold. 

But clean enough. 

 

The group walked into Cowichan Lake with tired legs and dusty skin and washed off the first day with soap and laughter. 

 

The swim was chilly. 

The kind that takes your breath away and gives something back at the same time. 

 

Day One had served up pavement, gravel, mud, singletrack, locked gates, satellite messages, bear awareness, a questionable goat trail, a sketchy bridge, rain, and one very welcome camp. 

 

It also gave everyone a clear understanding of the route. 

 

The Alberni Bam Bam might have a playful name. 

 

But it was not playing around. 

 

Day Two 

Cowichan Lake to Port Renfrew 

 

The group rolled out of the tents bright and early to coffee already brewing by Brent. 

 

There are few better sounds at camp. 

 

A zipper opening. 

A stove running. 

Water boiling. 

Someone else already thinking clearly enough to make coffee. 

 

After Day One, that felt like luxury. 

 

The bikes were still dirty. 

The shoes were still damp. 

The legs were still deciding whether they wanted to participate. 

And the riders hit the saddles a little more gingerly than they had the morning before. 

 

The Alberni Bam Bam had introduced itself. 

Now everyone knew. 

 

Lisa and Monica rolled out first again. 

This time with about an hour head start. 

 

Kim, Jonny, and Dave liked to roll a little faster. 

Push a little harder. 

Let the road stretch out. 

 

Most days, that meant they would catch Lisa and Monica after a few hours. 

Ride together for a while. 

Trade snacks. 

Talk about the route. 

Complain about the climbs. 

 

Then, when the road tilted or the pace naturally shifted, the group would stretch out again. 

 

It worked. 

 

Everyone rode their own ride. 

But nobody was ever really alone. 

 

Day Two did not care about any of that. 

 

It started raining almost immediately. 

 

Not dramatic rain. 

Worse. 

 

Cold. 

Steady. 

Incessant. 

 

The kind that finds every gap in a jacket. 

The kind that turns gloves into sponges. 

The kind that slowly convinces riders that dry was something they imagined. 

 

The group was soaked through early. 

But climbing has a strange way of making rain acceptable. 

 

The riders were wet. 

But they were working. 

Warm enough. 

Sometimes sweating under the layers that were failing to keep the weather out. 

 

The road kept rising. 

The bikes kept grinding forward. 

And somewhere up ahead, Lisa and Monica were doing the same. 

 

When the group finally caught them, the day gave everyone its first real problem. 

 

Lisa’s rear tire had developed a massive bulge across the tread. 

 

Not a slow leak. 

Not a little wobble. 

A proper bulge. 

The kind a rider stares at for a few seconds, hoping it looks better the longer it is examined. 

 

It did not. 

Lisa was running tubeless. 

And that tire was done. 

 

Too dangerous to ride. 

Too risky to ignore. 

 

The group stood there in the rain, wet and cold, trying to decide what the next move should be. 

 

And then Brent arrived. 

Of course he did. 

 

Somehow, once again, Brent appeared exactly when the trip needed him. 

 

The decision was easy. 

 

Lisa was jumping in the truck. 

The truck was heading back to a bike shop. 

A new tire was needed. 

 

And because Lisa was the only rider on 27.5-inch wheels, the one size the group did not have a spare for, there was no clever trail fix waiting to save the day. 

 

Sometimes the solution is not heroic. 

 

Sometimes the solution is a warm truck and a bike shop. 

 

Lisa missed the rest of Day Two. 

But she also got the only warm seat on the route. 

 

The rest of the group kept riding. 

 

Jonny. 

Kim. 

Monica. 

And Dave. 

 

Still soaked. 

Still moving. 

Still climbing. 

 

The day from Cowichan to Port Renfrew was not easy. 

 

It felt bigger than the numbers. 

 

Maybe because of the rain. 

Maybe because Day One was still sitting in everyone’s legs. 

Maybe because loaded bikes make every climb feel a little more honest. 

 

The riders climbed up and over significant hills, the kind that do not care how wet anyone is or how badly the day needs to turn downward. 

 

Eventually, thankfully, it did. 

 

A paved descent carried the group toward Port Renfrew. 

Smooth road. 

Wet brakes. 

Cold fingers. 

The promise of warmth somewhere ahead. 

 

By the time the group crossed the bridge into town, the mission was no longer complicated. 

 

Find the pub. 

 

That was it. 

 

Find the pub. 

Get inside. 

Warm up. 

Delay the inevitable return to the rain and the campsite. 

 

The riders must have looked ridiculous walking in. 

 

Drenched. 

Dirty. 

Hollow-eyed. 

Five hours past presentable. 

 

A few patrons looked up. 

Then looked again. 

 

Fair enough. 

 

The group looked like drowned rats. 

And probably smelled similar. 

 

But they were inside. 

 

There was food. 

There was warmth. 

 

For a little while, that was enough. 

 

Eventually, of course, the campsite was still waiting. 

So was the rain. 

 

Bikepacking rarely lets riders skip the hard parts. 

 

It just gives them brief moments where they can sit still, steam off, and pretend the next wet layer of clothing is not waiting outside. 

 

Day Two had given the group rain from the start, a dangerous tire, a rescue from Brent, big climbs, a cold descent, and a pub that felt like a small miracle. 

The route kept taking. 

 

But it kept giving just enough back.