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Kimberley, October 23
10:50 a.m.
I hear him well before I see him.
He makes a lot of noise breaking through the brush. The racket of rustling leaves and snapping twigs cuts the tranquility like a skinning knife. Every few seconds, he stops and lets out a throaty grunt. Then he continues on, heralding his approach toward me.
It’s a daunting sound. My heart begins to race. My hands clench the trekking poles. My instincts tell me to hightail it out of there. But I can’t. I need to see him.
The bull moose emerges from the brush. He stops when he notices me on the trail. He’s a majestic beast. Massive. Powerful. Standing face to face with him both scares and exhilarates me.
I’m six feet, and the height of his shoulders tops me by a good four to six inches. The spread of his antlers has to be four feet across. They are free of velvet and curve out from his head like the splayed fingers of a giant. In the sunlight, they appear polished, almost white.
Unafraid, he watches me from thirty yards away. He continues making little grunts. I’m not sure if it’s still rutting season or not. Moose can become aggressive and unpredictable during that time. Some people say they can be more dangerous than grizzlies.
This one seems calm enough. He’s not stomping his feet or peeling his ears back. Better yet, he’s not approaching me. He just stands there, grunting every few seconds.
Slowly, I back away about ten feet. The moose doesn’t move.
This is only the second time I’ve stumbled upon one in the wild. I saw the first one while hiking Skyline Trail in the Cape Breton Highlands three years ago. It darted across the trail and vanished into the trees before I could even get a good look at it.
This moose is larger. That much I can tell.
He casually turns his head away and raises his snout. His huge nostrils begin flaring, and I can hear them snuffling. He seems to be checking the air for something, maybe predators. He moves his snout in one direction and then the other. I guess he deems everything safe, because he stretches his long neck and starts ripping the tips off a nearby shrub.
I take out my cell phone and snap a couple pictures of the beast. I’ll share them with the girls when I get home.
Not wanting to push my luck, I leave the moose alone. I continue on my way, breathing in a few lungfuls of mountain air. It’s clean and fresh and leaves you feeling invigorated. Not like the smellscape of the cities, where the air is so rancid with human stink, you can literally feel it infest every cell of your body. Even the clouds are whiter out here.
Kimberley Nature Park is vast. Several miles of trails lace through the forested hillsides. It’s the biggest park I’ve been to in Canada, and I’ve been to lots over the years.
The nice weather has brought people out. Just as I hoped. Some are biking, trekking, and jogging. Others are just out for a stroll. Everyone I meet on the trails is paired up or in groups.
Most of them smile at me. A few say hello. I’m always polite in return. I can’t risk leaving any lasting impressions. I need to blend in like a chameleon. Be one of them.
I trek down a narrow path that slices into thick woods. Sunlight filters through the trees, dappling the ferns on each side of me. I see old-growth stumps scattered here and there. They are relics of the logging days in the early 1900s. The springboard notches made by lumberjacks back then are still visible.
I make my way to Sunflower Hill. It’s a moderate climb to the top. The area is more open, the trees sparser. Halfway up, I stop to take in the beautiful autumn foliage of St. Mary River Valley. Larches splash golden bands over the valley and up the slopes. But the mountains are what get me every time. They dominate the horizon, their peaks fading in and out of the gray mist. I could sit and stare out at them for hours.
When I crest the hill, I see no one around. The only sounds are the quiver of wind in the tall weeds and the distant singsong of birds.
I keep going.
Eventually, I come to the remnants of an old miner’s cabin. There’s not much left to see—some pieces of charred wood, the outline in the soil where the cabin walls once stood. Wildflowers cover whatever the floor used to be. Nearby lies a pile of tin shingles, three cinder blocks with part of an old stove on top of them.
A few yards away, I follow a path through a dense stand of lodgepole pines. A sign on a tree identifies it as Mountain Mine Road. I came here during my last two visits. The trail leads to the Myrtle Mountain Lookout.
There’s a pleasant surprise waiting for me when I reach the tree line. I see a lone male standing on the mountain shoulder, looking out at the view.
There’s no one else around, only the two of us.
I smile. That familiar rush of excitement pushes through my body. It’s weird, but my insides feel as if they’re vibrating.
He’s a mountain biker dressed in black cycling tights and a blue wind jacket similar to mine. His bike leans against a small spruce close by. An orange helmet hangs from the handlebars.
He looks over his shoulder when he hears me step on some twigs.
“Afternoon,” I call out.
He ignores me, takes a sip from his water bottle.
I realize he’s a young guy. Midtwenties, I’m guessing. A little shorter than me. Dark hair. Lean. Athletic.
He could have a lot of fight in him—“could” being the operative word. Looks can be deceiving. I’ve had big people go down easy and small ones go down hard. The element of surprise is key.
As I walk past the bike, I notice the Yeti name on the frame.
I give a wolf whistle. “Nice bike.”
That gets his attention. He watches me approach with squinted eyes.
“What did it cost you?” I ask.
“Seven big ones.”
The price stops me for a second. “Wow. Seven grand.”
He thrusts his chest out. “I’m a brand whore. My skid lid cost me two-fifty.”
I assume he’s referring to the helmet.
“I heard the Yetis were expensive.” I step up beside him. “But wow. I didn’t know they were that much.”
“They can run over ten, depending on the frame. Upgrades. That one has the Thomson convert dropper.”
I don’t ask him what that is. I don’t care. I can’t get over the fact that he spent seven grand on a bicycle.
I appraise the edge of the mountain. It’s more a steep hillside than a cliff. If someone fell over, they would roll down a good distance, probably end up being stopped by a tree or bush. I can’t see the tumble giving anyone more than a few bump and bruises, maybe a broken bone or two. That’s too bad.
I look out at the rooftops of a small town nestled in the valley. The Canadian Rockies surround it. Today, they’re a dark shape almost lost in the haze.
“Some view, what?” I say.
“Yeah.”
I point off to the town with a trekking pole. “Is that Kimberley?”
“You’re not from around here. I didn’t think I saw you before.”
“Ontario,” I say.
“Trawna?” He laughs. “Isn’t that how they pronounce it there? Trawna.”
“West of there,” I tell him.
“You here on vacation?”
“Business trip.”
He pauses then nudges his chin toward the town. “That’s Marysville. It’s the southern part of Kimberley. Used to be its own town at one time. Bigger than Kimberley when they had the smelter going. I live there.”
“Must be nice to have this park in your own backyard.”
“Uh-huh. I come here every weekend. Rain or shine.”
“It’s a busy place today. Busier than my last visit.”
His face pinches. “Yeah, I hate it. Summer is worse. I always stick to the single tracks. Too much roadkill on the doubles.”
I frown. “Roadkill?”
He gives me a blank expression. “You know. Dogs. People. Especially people. You’re always slowing down for them. I like to hammer it when I’m on the bike.”
His remark makes me smile. I wonder if I’m standing next to a fellow misanthrope. It might almost be a shame to kill this man.
He looks off toward the valley, takes another sip from his water bottle. I check the trees behind us and see no one coming up the trails. I listen but hear no voices.
“It’s shred time, bro.” He turns to leave. “Have fun.”
I let one trekking pole drop quietly to the ground. Then I shorten the other one by shoving the lower section up into the upper section.
The man is a few yards from his bike. I sneak up behind him, drawing the pole back into a baseball swing. I connect with the back of his skull, and the crack echoes in the open air. The impact snaps his head forward, and he falls to his hands and knees. The water bottle rolls across the grass.
I don’t give him time to regain his senses. As he struggles to get back to his feet, I step in front of him and swing the pole again. It catches him square across the bridge of the nose.
That gets a yelp out of him. Hands flying up to his face, he topples onto his back. I quickly jump on top of him and press the pole down across his windpipe.
He squirms beneath me. He pushes at the pole, digs at it with his fingers. He punches my arms. None of it has an effect. My body is stoked with adrenaline.
The man’s face is swelling up into a grotesque shape. Blood bubbles from his nose. Wet gurgling noises come from his throat.
I peer into his eyes and bask in the terror I see swimming there. It’s a look I’ll burn into my memory. Store it there so someday I can pull it out and relive this moment once again.
All at once, something weird happens. Maybe spine-chilling is a better description.
The man’s face dissolves right in front of me. His nose, his eyes, his mouth. They all get swallowed up in the purplish mass.
A new face emerges, and it spikes the hairs on the back of my neck.
It’s Heidi. She gazes up at me with eyes so red and inflated, they look ready to burst out of their sockets. The image causes me to do a double take. I nearly lose focus on what I’m doing.
Quickly, I regain my composure. I press down on the trekking pole with every ounce of strength I have. Something crunches in the man’s throat. His arms fall out to his sides. His body jolts a few times then becomes still. I watch the light fade out of his eyes.
Before someone comes along, I conceal the body in a grove of spruce trees. Wheeling the bike to the edge of the lookout, I push it over. To my surprise, it manages to remain upright for several yards before the front tire wrenches sideways and the bike begins tumbling end over end. Eventually it disappears into the trees.
Seven grand. I still can’t believe it.
I pick up my other trekking pole and then leave the area. As I head down Mountain Mine Road, that image of Heidi’s swollen face shadows me.
What does it mean?
Is it a premonition?
Is my subconscious trying to tell me something?
