BUSHWHACKING
As lucky kids of the Grand Boulevard neighbourhood, my younger brother and I were close to the mountains and, very luckily, the Seymour Demonstration Forest.
On a rainless weekend afternoon, we’d hop on our mountain bikes and head to the woods for an adventure. No supplies, no extra water or jackets and no plan either, except to freely explore. We were fortunate that our mother was not a worrier, and that she didn’t know our plans.
We’d reach the mouth of the woods and take off on the well-paved Demo Forest road. (Yes, after the 5km ride to the top of Lynn Valley Road and along the old logging road — a clear indication of how much energy we had to burn.) Once a long ways into the woods, tired of peddling, we’d stop and marvel at the quiet… aside from our panting. We were surrounded by towering evergreens or had incredible views from a clearing. It was quiet, the air was refreshingly sweet, mountain air and only a rare sound of a hardcore biker ripping rubber wheels would break the spell as they whizzed by.
Sometimes we’d dump our bikes and charge into the bush at top speed and “bushwhack”, or so we called it. That’s when you basically run through the forest and try to keep as fast a pace as possible. The rush of having to make quick decisions, sometimes risky and sometimes hilarious: a foot sinks into a hole or a shirt rips on a branch — that sort of thing. We’d race until we ran out of breath. I saw my brother make amazing jumps, and sometimes he’d disappear in front of me, then reappear somewhere unexpectedly. Talk about a wicked playground!
Once a patrol car saw our bikes and said something over a PA system. My brother went out to the road. Turned out there’d been a mountain lion sighting, so we were told we had to leave the area. When I arrived at the scene, I saw a long trail of large, wet footprints on the cement road, and was quite happy to hop on my bike and take off as fast as possible.
We never actually saw any big animals and even after that incident we still returned. Maybe subconsciously, that was why, after that, we preferred rock-hopping along the creek instead, if my memory serves me right. That was definitely one of my favourite activities in the mountains, jumping from rock to rock, as fast as I could, beside the rushing creek. Every step had to be calculated quickly, and risks had to be made if we were to keep our pace. When either of us yelped and stopped suddenly, the other would help gauge if a leap was too risky, or we’d gasp at the obvious near miss into a large, deep pool or a collection of nasty, sharp rocks. We could rock-hop forever, if it weren’t for canyons and sunsets.
I sincerely hope there are Grand Boulevard kids doing this sort of thing today, because I can’t think of a more magnificent playground, at your doorstep.
Aidan