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The Twisted Biography of the author

ANTON VON STEFAN

Part four  - the gothic writer emerges

The vacation had been drafted almost one year before.  The intension was to travel across little known parts of the province, camping along the route, crossing the myriads of mountain chains via obscure passes and following some of the paths carved out by those that opened the land with rail and road, eventually uniting a vast and diverse land.  The final destination was, as yet, unknown, but a southern route, with specific towns and cites the author wished to visit had been well plotted.  The chart, sketched on an old road map took ANTON VON STEFAN into the adjacent province, which then took the vacationing explorer up to the capitol before crossing back over the Rockies on the return.  This was the original agenda set out by the author.  Little of this route was destined to be taken.

A most carefully packed Triumph TR7, left the home of our author on a bright sunny summer morning.  Upon crossing the coastal range, the usually much drier interior brought about a quick change in the weather.  Upon bridging the second pass into the next valley to the East, the situation worsened.  Dark clouds blocked the sun, distant flashes spoke of thunderheads, and the first drops of rain soon splattered upon the windscreen of the fine British sports car.  Arriving at the small town where his first night of camping was to be spent, the rain had been joined by wind and a lighting storm directly overhead which split the blackened evening asunder with every vicious blast.  A deluge rarely even seen on the wet Pacific Coast, with water drops the size of lemons hitting the pavement before the automobile and bouncing three to four feet high upon impact, eradicated the notion of remaining in this mountainous valley.  Shelter lay elsewhere; twilight was upon our author; and, in the distance to the East, near the top of the next mountain ridge, the clouds split and the radiant glow of the rich colours of an evening sun broke through the clear slit offered.  A road not taken, nor planed, seemed to offer the peaceful slumber Anton Von Stefan sought.  This was not to be!

On the aged map ANTON VON STEFAN had, this road had been designated as a type “B” highway, obviously passable by modern automobile.  Yet, the author was soon to discover this designation meant little or no repair to the highway, one speed limit sign of an adequate pace at the outset, no further road signs of any kind for some 80 miles, and a road to a lake and a ferry he was destined never to catch.

Interestingly, the travel guide also listed the ferry departure times, with 10 pm being the final crossing.  Through heavy rain which lessened as one travelled East and turned to a dense mist as the altitude through the pass rose, the climbing, winding road, which was washed away at times to less than a single lane, was a challenge every sports car driver dreams of.  Continuously gearing up or down to maximize speed and the engines performance, the author negotiated turn after hair raising turn.  With the concentration of remaining at least upright, but with little heed to one’s actual safety on such a night on this lonely road, it is a wonder that ANTON VON STEFAN ever noticed a rather obscure, private sign some eight miles before the terminal.

The lights of the ferry receded as the huffing sports car came to a sudden halt before the weather beaten ramp.  This second sign stood all alone, partway down the embankment of the road which went straight into the black waters of the lake.  No other structure which would let one believe mankind had ever visited this landing existed.  The distant light from the boat was soon swallowed up by the distance and the dampness rising from the water.  The headlights of the Triumph were now the sole source of illumination.  The thought of remaining at the terminus for the night briefly flittered through the author’s mind, then the image of the small sign, partially hidden by the firs that stood on each side, came to mind. ANTON VON STEFAN made the decision that would bring about a most restless night indeed.

Not even certain that the sign would be visible from the opposite direction, the Triumph was put through a much slower pace.  Should the sign be missed, he would once more find himself some 80 miles west.  The other option was to drive some 10 to 15 miles back from the terminal.  Then, if the sign had not been spotted, to negotiate a 180 degree turn on a narrow mountain road, in the black of night, with dark crevasses of unknown depth calling out for his soul.

Miraculously, the sign had been placed to attract visitors travelling west.  It radiated brightly with fresh blue paint adorned in stark contrast of the white letters, easily seen by anyone coming back from the lake.  ANTON VON STEFAN found that to be a rather strange fact as few people evidently travelled this road and fewer still lived east, on the far side of the inshore waterway.  Anyone actually crossing to the West would have little reason to stop for the night after only travelling a few miles from the ferry terminal.  It was rather odd, but “Five miles to a campground”, is what the most welcome advertisement said.

A small gravel offshoot from the derelict highway led into the ebony forest.  The way was in dire need of trimming its vegetation as the branches of the evergreens boldly spread over the road, blocking any available light from the rising moon.  Every turn rounded, opened up a fresh path of illuminated road as the car’s headlamps turned the previously black space into one of light.  This revealed the path before him only seconds before the Triumph actually acquired the roadway.  This magical uncertainty of where the road lead only heightened the pleasure of adventure ANTON VON STEFAN sought.  Boldly, he increased his speed to amplify the bizarre effect.

The route climbed steeply for the first three miles, and then the apex was reached.  The way straightened, and a small alpine valley, bathed in the dim light of Luna, presented itself.  Several additional miles were traversed; the road still curved its way through the enshrouding forest, but to a much lesser degree.  Suddenly, out of the darkness, a single light split the darkness with its call.  Here, shortly before the source of this lone beacon, the tall, dark trees receded for the first time and a flat grass field spread out, with a single, unlit, block structure visible nearby.  As the author neared the radiance, it was clear that the light shone out of a fairly new, two story home someone had erected in this remote alpine meadow.  Yet, it came not from a window of the house, but from the lamp which hung above the door of this remote structure.  Undaunted, ANTON VON STEFAN pulled into the driveway, which was also the ultimate end of the narrow, gravel road.

Go to: Part 5 - A Night Like Few Others



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