Let’s write a blog! Or at least, let’s try to.
Alright, so if I’m ever lucky enough to be known for anything, it’s that I’ve been writing a blog about cars, and mostly drifting, since 2009. It’s either that or telling my dear friend Gerard from SERIALNINE that I don’t care for BMWs over the course of 104 episodes of a podcast
I think the recurring theme here is that I’ll do the same thing over and over again because, much like one of the Goonies, I never say die. However, I will take long breaks and drag my feet on things. Don’t believe me? Ask about the Quesnel Driftcation video that I haven’t finished yet.
Anyway, once in a while, something so profound happens that it actually requires me to write something.
So forget everything you know about drifting. Well, not everything. Try to remember the important stuff, and buckle up because this is Full Lock Valley.
In case we aren’t all on the same page, Full Lock Valley is (as far as I know) Canada’s first road-legal touge event.
Now, if you bothered to remember some of the important things about drift history, like I mentioned in the previous paragraph, you’ll know how foundational mountain drifting is to modern-day drifting. But you probably also know it isn’t the easiest thing to do legally.
I’d argue that most drift fans have some sort of iconic mountain drifting scene imprinted on their brains, whether it came from an anime, a magazine, or an old Video Option edit.
Regardless of that image, most of us came to drifting by way of sanctioned track events. Don’t get me wrong, there was a time when we were lucky to even get that.
However, fast-forward to the present day, and it feels like we’ve actually rewound to the olden days.
Now, I know these touge events aren’t new to North America. Appalachia Drift has been running these types of events for some time, and to be honest, they’ve always interested me. But they also felt like a bridge too far.
In fact, both Appalachia Drift and Utah Touge by Ultimate Drift ran on the same weekend as Full Lock Valley.
The idea that three of these events were running legally across North America is wild. But what’s even wilder is that one of them came together in Canada.
Let’s just say that, historically speaking, Canada isn’t always super amped about motorsports or car culture. I mean, it exists, just not in quite the same way it does for our neighbours to the south.
If I’m being very honest, Full Lock Valley sort of just came out of nowhere. I’m sure the event organizers had been plugging away at it behind the scenes, but it almost seemed like the moment it was announced, it was happening.
It was a small, mysterious window of time that ultimately left me with so many questions.
Questions like: Is this happening? How is this happening? But really, is this actually happening? Who’s going? Should I go? Wait, can I even go?
To answer those questions in order, here goes.
Yes. It’s considered a film shoot, not a drift event. Yes. Most people. No, but yes, sort of.
Alright, to elaborate.
I’ve got to say, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hear some naysayers before the event happened, but I also heard a lot of cheerleaders. So, as a guy not in the know, it was hard to gauge what was actually happening.
This perhaps led to my biggest mistake: I didn’t really apply for media in any meaningful way.
Sure, I sent a message way too late in the game once I found out my dear friend Kevin and his Crown would be driving. It also sweetened the deal when I heard my new BFF from the summer of 2026, AJ Gillett, would be driving his Cresta.
Now, this leads us to the awkward part of the article.
Technically, your boy wasn’t approved for media.
What I did have was my old pal Kevin’s plus-one pass and a few of his supplies in the back of my daily. So I tagged along but brought my camera because, after all, who am I without it?
The answer is that I’d be an awkward guy who also keeps a high-vis vest in his camera bag for no reason.
To be clear, I wasn’t showing up with some elaborate plan to sneak my way into shooting the event. I was fully prepared to miss out on the action and just be a regular observer. In fact, I didn’t even bring good lenses. Usually, for an event of this calibre, I’d rent something.
But through what I can only describe as a slight oversight, mixed with a dash of me acting like I’ve done this before, things took an unexpected turn.
After putting the only improv skill I know to good use (yes, and…), I somehow found myself on the side of a mountain, taking photos of drift cars.
Was I supposed to be there with a camera? Well, that’s probably a question I should have asked before I started taking pictures.
And while I’m incredibly grateful I got to experience it, I also recognize that putting something like this together takes an enormous amount of work. The last thing I’d want is to make that work any harder for the people responsible.
Now, if anyone is familiar with the old website Speedhunters, you can probably imagine how they got their name.
I would say, in the most literal sense, this is the closest I’ve ever gotten to Speedhunting. Or just hunting in general.
In comparison, shooting a regular drift event is like shooting fish in a barrel. Shooting this event required patience.
There were times when I found myself waiting upwards of 20 minutes for a group of drivers.
Now, this might seem shocking, but actually think about what was happening. The organizers had shut down a public road, so regular traffic still had to be able to use it.
It was just as much a film set as it was a drift track, so the phrase “hurry up and wait” comes to mind.
Throughout the day, I’d slowly meander down the mountain when it was safe to do so, occasionally catching rides with event coordinators whenever possible to scope out a new spot.
Standing in ditches, surrounded by caterpillar nests, was a far cry from the usual trackside setup.
The only indication that another group of drivers had started their runs was the distant roar of engines somewhere up the mountain. Otherwise, you were left standing there, waiting for something to happen. It was a strange experience, hearing the cars long before you could see them, knowing that at some point they’d come flying around the corner you’d been staring at for the last 20 minutes.
But perhaps the most interesting part of the whole experience was the freedom we had as photographers. Unlike a regular drift event, we weren’t limited to designated media spots. Within the areas we were permitted to access, we could essentially choose our own adventure.
This meant that everyone photographing the event had a completely different experience. Where you decided to stand, how far you were willing to wander, and how much patience you had ultimately determined what you came home with.
The result was something I don’t think I’ve seen much of in drifting. Every photographer seemed to come away with their own interpretation of the same event. Instead of everyone standing shoulder to shoulder, taking slightly different versions of the same photograph, we were all telling our own stories.
And honestly, that’s pretty cool.
So now the big question: Was it all worth it?
The early morning, the hours of solitude on the side of a mountain road, the self-imposed delirium that comes from not eating all day.
Realistically, at this point, I’d only write an article for one of two reasons. The first being that the event was awful, and the second being the exact opposite.
I’ve been fairly lucky to see and be around drifting in a lot of different forms over the nearly two decades that I’ve been doing this.
I honestly can’t think of the last time something happened in drifting that genuinely excited me as much as this did.
Was the event perfect? No, of course not. This has never been done here, and everyone was sorting it out for the first time, so we can give everyone some leeway on that.
What I will say is that the memory I have from the event, and what I’ll carry forward, is perfect.
P.S. Sorry to the event organizers for shooting the event. I promise I failed upwards into doing this.
