The further I climbed, the less I could see.
The world began to melt away through the mist. Gradually, there were no more trees, no more birds, no more rocks, no more sounds. The only thing I could see was the tire in front of me, the road directly under my feet as I pushed my bike, and the edge of the next curve before it dropped away to a thousand feet of nothing.
Finally, the steep 19 per cent incline levelled off to a more reasonable seven per cent. I got back on to the bike and did a few cautious pedal strokes. The stack of discarded logging material that a year ago had towered 20 feet above my bike was a charred circle of earth with a few remnant hunks of former trees. Beyond that, the idea of a clear cut was just barely visible — hinting at a devastation that would not be fully revealed in this gloom.
I stopped. Snow ahead. The map said I had about 100 metres of climbing left, but the road was getting impassable. The weather back down in the valley had been warm with a bit of wind, but up here the light wool layer I had put on was not doing much against the wind and gloom. A sound came out of the woods just to my left: “whump… whump… whump…” foreboding and otherworldly without the benefit of form or figure. Ahead, the road continued, albeit in a thick layer of snow. Behind was about 20 minutes of descending back into the world, life and comfort.
I turned back.
Constitution Hill is becoming an annual tradition for me. I rode up to this same spot last year on my birthday, and since then it has been on my mind, particularly as I drive by the increasingly-bald hillside on my morning commutes.
The past few times I’ve ridden up the winding logging road a clear expanse has opened up in front of me, offering views as far to the north as Campbell River, and Parksville to the south.
This year, however, the shroud of a late-season fog kept those views from me, and gave the mountain an otherworldly feel.
I felt like I was in a place I should not have been, like something was warning to me to return, get out and get back to the land of the living. I know it was probably nothing, but it was not worth ignoring.
Next year, I’ll attempt the hill again, hopefully on a clearer day with the sun on my back.
As I descended, things made more sense. Animals came out of the forest, people started showing up again, the road became smoother and then paved. Countryside turned into farmland, into the town. Then I was home, back in the garage hanging up the bike on the wall… back into the known.