Day 5 Bonville Ridge

Bonville ridge offered some awe-inspiring panoramic views of the valley below, I did my best to take photos of these but nothing I attempted could do it justice. My camera couldn't focus far enough, couldn't distinguish the pale white of the mountains from the pale blue of the sky, but I snapped plenty anyway, in the hopes otehrs could catch a glimpse of the scenery which so amazed me.
Laird turned to me before we started moving again, "Damo," he said, his eyes sharp as ice crystals, "There's a steep drop ahead with lots of bends, what do you do when going round a bend downhill?"
"Lean into the slope," I said, without missing a beat, "And hit the brake."
"Good," Laird said, and pushed past me to get to the others, leaving me quivering in anticipation.
The dogs pulled us a few hundred meters along the ridge, up and down small hillets, we picke upsome speed, but nothing impressive, and I was wondering just what Laird had been worried about. And then it happened, we entered a thicker section of forest, and the ground dropped away. The serenityof the calm and tranquil Bonville lakes served as only a contrast to the breakneck speed with which we descended back to the bottom, whipping around corners blind as bats, slamming the brakes in a panicked, adrenaline fueled flurry, leaning left and right as the trail wove around bushes, trees and snowbanks any one of which could have spelled the end of the journey for any of us. Each time the trail straightened out was merely to lull us into a false sense of security, as in the space of a single turn we would dive down again, wind rushing past our faces and fingers gripping the handle for dear life as our eyes darted back and forth in a desperate attempt to see all the beauty we could before the next corner ended everything. And then it was over, the forest cleared out into the valley floor and all life was perfect.
It's difficult to explain what kind of a dream that portion of the trail was, now that I've woken up. The snow on the trees seemed to sparkle more than usual, the sounds of doggy paws kicking up snow, sleds making trails seemed almost musical after the rush of the wild ride coming down from the ridge had brought us up so high...
The trickle of water reached us, I looked left and was delighted to see a beautiful river, sparkling, half frozen over. The river added words to the song of the forest and I was dissapointed to leave it behind. I felt a warmth in my heart, admiration in my soul for this country, and I could understand why, even after two hundred years the Christmas myths still remain strong. It is still the winter wonderland we cherish at that most special time of year, though most of us have never seen the sparkling of the snow in the trees in cool winter sunlight, though we try to emulate it with ropes and ropes of fairy lights, or the cool sheen of ice over water. The sheer, unabashed beauty of that country inspired such warmth that it is difficult to describe, but suffice to say I was dissapointed when it was over, and I found we had returned to the dogyard.