If you have missed the last few installments of Jeremy Blumel’s bi-monthly column in The Squamish Chief, then here is your chance to redeem yourself.
Squamish Chief up in smoke. Photo by Tim Schaufele ©
A branch cracked and I whirled around, causing a moment of dizziness. My eyes focused on a putrid hand extending toward me, clutching. My training ingrained as instinct, I made short work of him, my adversary. But not for long; he is part of the undead brigade, swelling in ranks and threatening to unseat us, the living.
My bag packed and nourishment consumed, I quietly slipped out of the silent house into the eerie light of a bottle brown and green pre-dawn and onto my steed. Gliding through the silent streets, I scanned for movement in the shadows of the tell-tale scraping, rasping and rusted hinge-like pantomime which signal The Brigade. You just can’t relax now, in this new time where the living fight for their right just to live. I pulled into the gravel lot off the highway switching my lights off quickly to leave me in darkness. I gazed up at the Stawamus Chief in the warm sickening gloom, land marking the Apron, Pan Wall, Prow Wall and Sheriff’s Badge. My phone said 4:57 a.m. as a truck rolled to a stop beside me. I hitched my steed, threw my pack into the truck bed and climbed in.