Down The Mountain
This adventure machine saw more off-road action than any 4x4. Here she is after being vandalized by Timmins riff-raff.
“I think this is the one.” I whispered, cranking the wheel of my little Chevy hatchback to rumble over the first wet potholes of a narrow track into the forest. Clouds from a recent rain had just cleared and patches of thin fog hovered the wet mud and gravel as we wound our way into the bush. Here and there, the stars shone in cold brilliance through the canopy.
It was mid-august and my friend, Jordan and I had been driving west for two and a half days; taking turns at the wheel and sleeping in fits of an hour or two in the passenger seat of my compact car. For hours on end, the same Gordon Lightfoot album blasted through the speakers as Canadian towns, hamlets and vast stretches of wilderness flew by in our peripheral. We had crossed into Alberta under the cover of night by back roads through the prairies, over the muddy Red Deer River at a long, single lane bridge, and were now an hour west of Caroline and entering the first vestiges of the foothills of the Rocky Mountains.
I was no stranger to this route into Central Alberta, but after nearly three days without any true sleep, I had entered a sort of delirious unreality. As the empty back roads had rolled on through the moonlit prairies, I started to doubt myself and began to wonder if Jordan and I were still awake or in some sort of shared hallucination - the car in reality upended in a ditch somewhere. When a plague of giant owls started showing up along the road, the only thing that kept my grip on reality was that Jordan saw them too. It wasn’t until crossing the familiar bridge over the Red Deer that the sensation of being lost in an endless hamster wheel of prairie roads subsided, replaced with a mystical sense of anticipation: knowledge that somewhere, in the dark West, the mountains awaited us.
We were here to meet our other friend, Matt, for a hiking trip that would follow the Clearwater River into the Rockies to the boundary line of Banff National Park. Matt was set to arrive at the Calgary airport in about a week’s time, so Jordan and I had elected to explore the fishing opportunities the forestry roads of the foothills offered us. Even in our exhaustion we couldn’t wait. Visions of rising trout had been growing in our minds for weeks, and so with bloodshot eyes and feverish minds we crept our way along in the dark, hunting for a familiar path that cut back down the hillside to the edge of the rushing, trout-rich waters of the Clearwater.
Eventually, a clearing appeared on our right and we left the gravel to take our chances in the mud and grass. Potholes full of water bottomed out the suspension of the car as I worked to maintain speed over rutted sections of greasy clay, leaping from one dry patch of rock and grass to the next. I still wasn’t sure if the path I had taken was the right one. It was too dark to see much of anything. I was running on pure intuition. Nervous excitement was approaching a crescendo when we crested a steep rise.
“Cow!” Jordan shouted.
I pumped the brakes and brought the car to a skidding halt. Directly across our path, about a dozen deep, were a whole herd of beef cattle. Asleep on the trail or grazing in the meadow that had formed around us, they showed no concern for our presence whatsoever. In fact, only a few seemed to notice us at all; the great white and brown slab of a creature that stood in the direct line of my headlights was one of these, but the only acknowledgement she gave was to turn her head to us with a bewildered and stupid gaze, lift her matted tail and dump a load of sopping green shit down the backs of her legs and onto the trail.
It was clear they didn’t intend to move, so I laid on the horn and crept forward. I was almost touching the first cow before she gave a sudden start and began to hobble her way off the track. Once we got one cow moving, the rest began to follow suit and left us free to pursue our course towards the river. We didn’t get far.
Shortly after running the bovine gauntlet we found ourselves on the edge of a hill(what might be considered a mountain in Ontario). On our left was a fenced off area with pipes running up from underground, and to our right the track dropped off in a steep decline that ran a couple hundred meters down to the edge of the river. Just before the drop were two massive, car-sized holes, half filled with muddy water.
“Ohhh… those look pretty fuckin’ deep!” Jordan said in a tone that was half statement, half inquiry.
They were deep. The sight of them triggered old memories of my Silverado, rocking back and forth in four-wheel drive for a few tense moments before crawling free. That had been my first visit to this spot. Somehow, in my excitement years later, I had only remembered the fish I had caught and not the challenges in reaching the river.
“Ahhh, shit.” I squinted in the darkness, leaning forward over the steering.
“What’re ya thinking?”
“Let’s get out and take a look.”
The night air was cold and pinched our skin into goosebumps. We hadn't bothered to shut the doors of the car as we approached the holes and it rang obnoxiously against the silence of the night.
“I don’t know, man...” I muttered, sliding into the first hole with a stick I had picked up from the trailside. I plunged it into the center of the pit and Jordan let out a yelp as the stick sunk to half of it’s length. The water would reach the hood of the car.
“Swallow us alive!” he laughed.
“Seems a shame to turn back now, though. We’re so close.”
“Can always get some sleep, take a better look in the daylight. No need to risk your car, pal.” Jordan spoke with calm resignation - he meant it. There was no trace of disappointment in his words. Knowing Jordan for many years, I had come to recognize his gift for patience and sage advice, qualities I had benefited from many times. However, I also knew of another side, one that wouldn’t shy away from joining me in something absolutely reckless.
I scratched the back of my neck, looked at the hole, then at my car. A groan escaped my lips as an incoherent sound of exaggerated agony. Indecision was tearing me in two. If I went for it and got stuck, no one was here to help us. Still, I really wanted to reach the river.
Just then, a memory came to me and drew a broad grin on my face. I laughed out loud and turned to Jordan.
“There was this guy, a mudder, when I was tiling a new medical center - picture Geddy Lee but rough. Ratty, brown hair past his shoulders, always wiry from the drywall dust. Never wore safety boots, just worn out sneakers and grey sweats. Reeked of booze everyday. Real character.
Well, one day we’re having coffee break and he’s up on a scissor lift, running his trowel over this intricate, curved bulkhead - tricky business - and he’s got this thing smooth as glass. The way he was moving, there was something about it. I mean he was in a real groove, like he’d tapped into something and it just glowed all over him and made ya forget how he looked.
So we’re watching this guy, kind of mesmerized, when he stops to pull a fresh smoke from his pack and my buddy asks:
‘Hey man, what’s the secret to getting those bulkheads so fucking smooth?’
The guy doesn’t even look at us, just lights his cig and takes a long, slow drag. Almost looks like a ghost with all the white dust and hair sticking out everywhere. Then he kinda looks up over the construction site, blows the smoke out the side of his mouth and cool-as-shit, says, ‘Ya just gotta believe.’
Then he just turns and goes back to work like we weren’t even there.
Haven’t thought of that in a long time - I think it’s a sign.”
We both grinned, half at the story, half out of nervous excitement and got back into the car.
There were a couple of essential factors that, when combined, I figured would get us past the holes. The first was speed, the second was aim. I decided not to think about what would happen after, when the car would immediately launch into a steep downhill dive towards the river; I’d leave that to a third factor - the “just believing” part.
I reversed the car to give us a runway to build up speed, shifted it into drive and sat there with my foot on the brake. My nerves were electrified. My body was already pumping adrenaline through my veins in preparation of the feat to come and I let it drive out the final remnants of exhaustion while mentally silencing my inner voice of caution.
I jammed my foot on the gas. My tire broke loose with its one-wheel-peel and the car took off in a spray of dirt. I angled for the sloped right edge of the first hole, hoping to keep at least two of my tires out of the water. We dropped into it and began to slide sideways but a fraction of a second later we had launched over the opposite side and into the second pit. Water sprayed over the hood and windshield as we hit it smack in the middle. The steering torqued out of my hands as the front tires bounced off hidden boulders and then we were through - sailing over the grass at breakneck speed towards the drop to the river.
I tried the brakes when we came over the edge of the hillside, desperate to slow down, but when the car began to turn sideways in a skid I decided that our best chance was to just run it to the bottom. I released the brake and our trajectory straightened back out. All we could do was hold our breath and hope not to roll or blow a tire on a rock. My low-profiles were fairly new, and the front-end didn’t have any real wear and tear yet - but I seriously doubted Chevrolet and Hankook had anticipated anything like our current situation.
Flying down the face of the hill, we found ourselves caught in deep rivulets that the rainwater had cut into it over the years and running over a washboard of exposed rocks. At the speed we were going it made us feel like we were rolling downhill in an old washing machine instead of a car - the kind of washing machine that creates stains in your underwear. We rattled and bounced in what felt like one continuous, violent vibration until the track vanished and we skidded to a halt in the grass beside the river.
“Holy shit!” I laughed in relief, and then, “I have to piss.”
“Me, too.”
We both got out and drained our tanks before leaning against the car to gaze out over the river. The starlight glinted off of the turbulent surface in silver shimmers, dancing to the gurgling, rushing sound of the water running over its bed of boulders. Nerves, fried from our long journey and the jolt of our kamikazee stunt grew numb as the adrenaline rush subsided. Exhaustion hit us both like a tidal wave. We looked at one another, both of us grinning weakly and got back in the car. Sleep took us as soon as we could reclined our seats.
We awoke to company.
On the other side of the meadow, behind some brush, was a pickup, a tent and two men putting fly-fishing gear together. Evidently, they’d been there the whole time. I thought of our honking and laughing and the sound of us rumbling down the hill in the night. We weren’t sure what sort of reception we’d receive after our antics, so we busied ourselves with readying our own fishing gear and set off downstream from the car.
Fishing wasn’t as good as I remembered it being years earlier, but that had been in the springtime and the river conditions weren’t the same. Jordan still managed to hook into a nice little brown though, and we were in high spirits as we hiked our way back to the meadow with a bit of protein to add to our breakfast.
Our neighbours were plying the faster water beside the meadow when we got back. One of them noticed us and waved.
“Catch anything?” He shouted over the torrent of the river.
Jordan hoisted his trout in answer and we headed over to where they were fishing.
“Any luck?” I asked.
“Nah, not yet. We did pretty good yesterday, before the rain. Water’s different now. Name’s Dave - guy in the water there is Nick. Poor bastard’s allergic to fish but he loves catchin’ ‘em. Make sure you tease him.” He gestured at his friend, who - yet to notice us - was groin deep in the water, whipping a fly along the undercut riverbank.
We all shared a laugh at his expense and then Jordan and I introduced ourselves and shook hands.
“Hey, sorry if we woke you guys last night. I didn’t expect to meet anyone out here.” I grinned an apology. Dave’s face broke into a look of hilarity when I mentioned our entrance.
“Ya, I woke up to this horn blasting and shook Nick awake but then it was quiet for a minute. He thought I was fucking with him at first. Then we hear hell breaking loose at the top of the hill. I opened the door of the tent when you started coming down and thought - holy fuck, there’s a goddamn chevette barrelin’ down the side of the fucking mountain!”
Jordan and I burst out with laughter.
“Actually, we’re pretty glad you guys are here. Battery on my truck died! We could use a boost. Kind of crazy timing when I think about it.” He shook his head incredulously as he shifted his gaze to my car. His brow was deeply furrowed.
“I still don’t understand how the hell you got that thing down here.”
Jordan and I shared a smirking glance before I shrugged.
“Ya just gotta believe.”
I hope you enjoyed the read. These small stories, blogs - whatever they are - come from my heart; I share them out of a passion to create and see others inspired to make their own connection with the Wilderness. If you found value in your time here, and are inclined to do so, you can help keep me writing by buying me a coffee!
About The Author
A bounty of fish from a solo canoe trip down the Makobe River, Temagami.
For Clint Zold, the pursuit of authentic Wilderness experiences has led him across landscapes both far and wide. Whether paddling the ancient Nastawgan of mystic Temagami, hiking the lonely mountains of the West, or snowshoeing the hunting grounds of his trapping territory in the Arctic Watershed of Northern Ontario - Clint is truly at home in the wild.
Living off-grid on the banks of the Mattagami River; the canoe, axe and snowshoe have become his daily companions in a semi-subsistence lifestyle where food, warmth and water come from the land around him. His passion for Wilderness is only equaled by his desire to share it with others