It happened on a cool April Saturday at a popular trailhead. The local cycling club had posted a “power rake party” on social media, and 20 riders tapped the thumbs-up icon.
When I pulled into the parking lot only nine people were actually there. By lunchtime, pizza boxes sagged open, gloves came off, and I counted five volunteers still swinging Pulaskis.
The trail looked better; the workers did not. One mattock handle splintered, 35 dollars gone. Chain oil soaked a pair of Kevlar chaps. The club treasurer later scanned a receipt that proved “free” had cost more than $200 before anyone took a bite.
The hidden ledger that no grant line shows often begins with training. A Level 2 chainsaw course in British Columbia runs roughly $400 per participant before anyone fells a single sapling. Safety gear adds another $400 for boots, helmet, and cut-resistant pants. Liability premiums follow close behind. Recreation Sites and Trails B.C. now expects $10 million coverage for sanctioned events, and premiums rise every time an incident report is filed.
Consumables sneak in too: saw fuel, bar oil, first aid supplies, replacement shovel handles, and the mileage on the pickup that hauls it all. Those figures rarely appear on a grant application about “volunteer hours,” yet they drain the bank account just the same.
Fatigue shows up across the province. Vantage Point’s 2024 State of the Sector report confirms volunteerism is still below pre-pandemic levels, and trail groups feel the shortage in real time. Scroll through any regional maintenance page on social media and you will find weekly pleas for helpers that receive polite rain checks.
Riders crave fresh singletrack yet far fewer want to spend a Saturday pulling alder. Burnout follows a familiar arc: year one, new members arrive buzzing, pile rocks, and promise to return; year two finds them juggling overtime and childcare; by year three the president texts a dozen people just to locate a certified sawyer. Researchers studying rural nonprofits call it “overcommitment fatigue,” a pattern that often ends in quiet withdrawal.
Fortunately, there are models that respect both shovel and shoveler.
Microcompensation - Trail nights with perks. In Whistler, WORCA offers a Bike Park day ticket for every three trail nights logged, turning sweat equity into something riders can use.
Corporate dig days. The North Shore Mountain Bike Association sells private sessions to businesses, then pays professional builders who mentor volunteers. Quality rises and risk falls.
Sliding scale stipends. Interior clubs tack a small trail pass fee onto events and turn it into fuel cards or grocery vouchers for dig leads. Five hundred dollars spread across a season keeps skilled builders from footing every bill.
Partnership routes deepen the bench. Employment programs such as Cariboo Chilcotin Aboriginal Training Employment Centre (CCATEC) underwrite wages for Indigenous workshop participants who apprentice on trail crews, allowing students to earn certifications while clubs secure reliable labour. Indigenous Guardian teams go further: more than 200 crews now patrol their territories, blending cultural stewardship with steady salaries. Paying people to care for land proves that stewardship can sit on a payroll ledger without losing its soul.
Real reciprocity, not charity, begins by naming the value of time. Unpaid labour privileges those who can afford to gift their weekends, often sidelining young parents, newcomers and Indigenous riders whose place-based knowledge is invaluable. In the context of reconciliation, ignoring that imbalance borders on disrespect. Better to write the true numbers down and share them. Post the real cost of a dig day: saw fuel $20, first aid supplies $15, insurance five, tool depreciation eight and show how a $10 membership grows only because those costs exist. People rarely argue with math they can see.
Food still has its place. A shared meal remains social glue, but it cannot be the only reward. Offer a clear ladder: attend two digs and the club covers your saw course; lead three and you qualify for a seasonal contract when grant money lands. Momentum builds when volunteers see tangible progress, not an endless pit.
Back at the trailhead, the April sun setting. The five of us corralled tools, wrapped blistered hands in tape, and laughed at a wheelbarrow that lost its wheel halfway through a run. The berm lips gleamed, yet the triumph carried a ledger line. If we want that feeling next year, we must plan for it now with honest budgets and fair pay.
Free labour carved the province’s first singletrack playgrounds, but those playgrounds have grown into miniature economies. They deserve the same realism that paves highways and staffs hospitals. Let passion lead and fairness follow close behind. A trail is only as healthy as the people who keep it open.
Thomas Schoen writes a monthly column on trails for the Efteen.
