“Beneath the cloak of night, under the watchful eyes of our ancestors etched upon the canvas of stars, I recount a tale not of valor, but of a shadow that crept upon our lands. In the era when the earth was untouched by the iron hands of the future, our tribe lived in harmony with the spirit of the land. Helgate Canyon, the sacred throat of the earth, whispered the ancient songs through the winds. It was there, in the heart of our world, that darkness descended like a shroud.
The others, our brothers under the same sky yet divided by the unseen forces of destiny, came upon us not with open hands but with clenched fists. The canyon, our sanctuary, transformed into a gaping maw of despair. Their ambush was swift, a serpent’s strike, and it left our warriors fallen, the soil thirsting for the blood of the betrayed. The cries of the vanquished mingled with the night, a chorus of sorrow for the moon to bear witness.
This tale, woven into the very fabric of our being, serves not as a call to arms but a solemn remembrance of the fleeting nature of peace. The “Gates of Hell” — a name whispered in the aftermath, capturing the essence of the chasm that swallowed the souls of the brave. As the keeper of this dark chronicle, I engrave our story onto the bones of the earth, a testament to the resilience of our spirit and the shadows that dance at the edges of our light.”, the figure slumped forward, one last breath, then lying still.
The saga of the canyon didn’t just stop there, though. No, it turned into a hotspot for all sorts of adventurers—trekkers, pioneers, moguls with big ideas. When Lewis and Clark meandered through Helgate Canyon, they couldn’t stop marveling at its wild charm, totally clueless about the somber tales the ground could tell if it had a mouth.
Then came the Milwaukee Railroad, slicing through the canyon like a knife through butter—a feat of engineering that had everyone talking. For a bit, the place was alive with the buzz of electric trains, drowning out the wind’s whispers that used to share secrets of those long gone. But, like all great things, this too passed, leaving the tracks to play hide and seek with Mother Nature.
Fast forward to nowadays, and we’ve got the Kim Williams Trail, snaking through the canyon. Named for a hometown hero of the green movement, it’s a nod to the power of preserving what we love. But let’s not forget the original guardians of these lands—the indigenous folks who held it sacred.
I know I have COVID but I just needed to get out on my bike and what better place than the Kim Williams Trail. I soon found myself passed out.
And now, as I lie here, battling the ravages of a pandemic, I hear a whisper on the wind. A lone figure emerges from the shadows, the eyes of my ancestors reflected in his gaze. He approaches me, and I know that I must heed his call to share this story, for in doing so, I shall not perish. I will carry on, my voice adding to the chorus that echoes through the canyon, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the enduring power of our connection to the land. “The stories we share are the threads that bind us all.”
Boneshakerbike 