MOUNTAIN LIFE - Blue Mountains | Spring 2020

50 The day was awful. It was absolutely pissing with rain. It wasn’t cold, but the warmth meant that somehow, the bugs were still biting. And they were freaking ferocious. Like northern Ontario ferocious. Minaki ferocious. Looking downhill, the small swath of singletrack disappeared into a massive swamp-like puddle. This was a zone we constantly had to repair. One hundred fifty feet of bridges that were always waterlogged and crumbling in this boggy terrain. But you couldn’t see the bridges today; they were completely submerged. Behind me were ten kids. Nine to 12 years old. And one 16-year-old camp counsellor. Still basically a kid himself. They were not stoked. With the rain pounding, the blackflies and mosquitoes circling, there was a frantic tension in the air. Some kids wanted to turn back. They figured the trail was unpassable. Others wanted to forge ahead. It was 3.5 kilometres back on technical rugged trail the kids had just struggled through, or 1.5 km forward through a swamp, but then onto the road and back to the Rockids basecamp at the Minaki Yurt. And there was me; a wizened 26-year-old counsellor that just wanted these dang kids to stop whining. So I made the call. We’d push through. Trying to muster some enthusiasm (for myself and the kids) I hopped on my bike, cranked a power wheelie and bombed down the hill hoping for enough momentum to get me through the 50-metre-long puddle. It didn’t work. Less than 10 metres in, my wheels slipped off the bridge, bringing me to an instant stop and landing me knee-deep in black, tar-like swamp mud. The kids followed with similar results. We all ended up in the shoe-sucking terrain, trying desperately to step onto the submerged bridges, while dragging bikes. It was, to say the least, character-building. When we finally emerged from the swamp, like a rag-tag juvenile crew from the Swamp Thing , we needed to cross one last four-metre bridge. It wasn’t underwater, so we hopped on our bikes, rode over the bridge and then made the final up onto the road’s shoulder. That’s where every single one of us discovered we had either one or two flat tires (we later learned one of the bridge’s boards had flipped and a nail had had its way with our tires). The last 1200-metre walk along the roadside was miserable. And as the bugs circled, the rain continued to pour down; streams of blood from bug-bitten ears mixed with mud and ran down our necks. The kids whined and our shoes slopped along the gravel. When we finally poured into the three-storey yurt and mess hall, the camp cook had chicken noodle soup and grilled cheeses waiting. We slopped onto benches and began devouring lunch quietly. But slowly the room got louder. And louder. As we espoused our exploits, like any good adventure story the mud got deeper, the cloud of bugs got thicker and the blood ran more freely. And I was proud of these kids. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right? –Colin Field Streams of blood from bug- bitten ears mixed with mud and ran down our necks. Minaki Ferocious: Mountain Bike Camp