Before You Go

chapter six

Leon

In the early predawn light, when the sun hasn't quite peaked over the mountains and the sky still has hints of pink and indigo, I exit the carrier house and head for my truck. It's parked in the dirt driveway behind the house. While I walk, all I can hear is the crunching of gravel beneath my shoes and the echo of chirping birds. A soft breeze picks up and I take a deep breath of the crisp smell of alpine air and pine forest. It's different from the salty ocean air in Saanich, but it tugs at my heartstrings. A long time ago, Whistler was my home; a place I had always wanted to come back to. But things changed. For the longest time, I didn't think I would be able to come back here. After I lost Mom, it was too painful for me to think about Whistler and all the memories we had here. But after all the counselling I went through to fight my grief, guilt, and depression, I finally realized that I needed to come back here for several reasons.

Today, I'm dressed in a pair of fitted black wicking shorts and a matching long-sleeve compression shirt. It's one of the many outfits I have for training – one that came with my sponsor. Aside from being close to claiming a spot in the PGA tour next year, I have a strong passion for mountain biking. I find it helps with my stamina and just keeps me in shape. When Mom was alive, she used to tell me it was because I have Whistler blood; that being born and raised here made me more susceptible to being addicted to nature. Honestly, that's probably why I have such a passion for golf.

In the back of my truck is the most expensive thing I've ever bought: my mountain bike. The thing is a beauty. My GT Men's Avalanche twenty-nine-inch Mountain Bike is one of the best things I've ever invested in. With its durable aluminium triple triangle frame, hydraulic disk brake, and twenty-seven speeds, it offers stability and improved efficiency. With this mountain bike, I can conquer any type of terrain in any part of the world.

In a single heave, I remove it from the back of my truck and lean it against a nearby tree so I can gather up the rest of my gear from the back seat. Once I have my helmet buckled and my elbow pads adjusted to suit my body, I retrieve my mountain bike and swing my leg over. It's been years since I did some mountain biking in Whistler, but I'm looking forward to it. Pushing away from the tree, I take off down the dirt road.

Although Tenille's house is ten minutes away from the Village, the southern side of the property has one trail in particular that connects to the spiderweb of trails around Lost Lake. That's exactly where I'm heading. Saint-Sangster rock is along Fitzsimmons Creek, which is just below Lost Lake.

When I come to the edge of the property and enter the forest, I'm greeted by the familiar dank smell of moss, fern, and mulchy, wet soil. It brings a smile to my face. While Saanich is similar, it lacks the alpine touch, the elevation Whistler has. Most of the forests here are hundreds of years old, with thick, moss-covered trunks and a multitude of small plants and wildflowers.

By the time I make it down to Lost Lake, the sun has broken the horizon and streaks of sunlight break through the canopy, dotting the trail. My forehead is slick with sweat and the back of my shirt is soaked. I want to stop and take a break so I can enjoy the scenic view of Lost Lake, but I know I'll have plenty of time to do that later. In the meantime, the burning muscles in my legs drive me further along the trail, towards my destination.