Surrounding Arrow Lake
With ferries being free out here in BC, we figured — why not cross back over Arrow Lake and poke around the western side? No destination in mind, no bucket-list spot waiting. Just a dirt road leading south that looked more fun than sticking to asphalt.
The road pulled us up off the lakeshore into a haze of heat and dust. Not exactly scenic driving bliss, but we held out hope that it would eventually reward us with a waterfront camp. And, of course, Kerri had already zeroed in on a side road she was itching to explore. That little detour led to an old hunter’s cabin — a relic, sure, but one covered in more rat droppings than physics should allow. We stepped inside, gagged, and bolted like we’d stumbled into a horror movie set.
Past the cabin, the road didn’t stop. It dove steeply down a rocky grade and popped us right onto the gravel banks of Arrow Lake. Jackpot. A huge open area, nothing blocking Starlink, sunshine all day for the solar, and enough space for Marcel to sprawl like he owned the place. The only downside? Rusty chunks of… something. Old machinery? Farm gear? Alien spaceship parts? We never did figure it out.
We stayed a couple of nights. Kerri knocked out work hours, I tinkered with Marcel’s never-ending to-do list, and we hiked up to the nearby waterfall we’d been hearing rumble in the background. It was perfect — right up until the itch to move hit.
Our next stop was a recreation area with a name that felt like a warning label: Mosquito Lake. Still, curiosity won. Marcel clawed up the hill and found us a quiet little lake that was — surprise — practically mosquito-free. We wedged into a snug spot between trees, set up camp, and went for a recon hike. Meh. The trail didn’t impress. But when we returned, we noticed a tree just a dozen yards away had fallen during our short absence. Thankfully it didn’t choose Marcel as its landing pad.
That evening was classic camp life: fire crackling, cocktail in hand, pipe smoke curling into the air. A motorcyclist rolled in, and we waved him over for happy hour. He turned out to be a local with a colorful vocabulary and plenty of stories. We swapped tales until the stars came out, then retreated to our rigs. He was up and gone at dawn; we were still sipping coffee hours later.
Back on the main dirt road, we headed south — mile after mile of… nothing. Finally, the road just ended at the water with a lonely sign telling us to wait for the ferry. Our motorcyclist buddy had warned us the night before: this one takes a two-hour lunch break right in the middle of the day. Get the timing wrong, and you’re stranded. Lucky for us, we arrived before their long siesta.
The ferry itself was a creaky, cable-driven workhorse. It lumbered across the lake, scooped us up, and in no time we were sliding onto the opposite shore. Just enough time for me to re-inflate two of Marcel’s tires. Once across, I hit the other two and we rolled north, back along the east side of Arrow Lake, ready for whatever dirt road Kerri’s instincts would throw at me next. By the time we turned east again, our route over the past few weeks showed that we had fully circumnavigated Arrow Lake by road.
