Twenty years later, I still get the occasional involuntary twitch, shudder or shake whenever I drive past Aspen Road.
The location in question, one of the few right turns between the border of Langford and the start of the Malahat, crosses high above Camsuma Creek to link a small subdivision with the outside world.
The editor at the time sent me off to check out reports that part of the roadway had crumbled, the result of a whack of heavy rain courtesy of a smack from the back of Mother Nature’s hand.
I parked in front of the wooden barrier sitting just before the jagged edge of where there once was a road. I walked the 50 yards or so as close to the edge as I could get so the handful of folks on the other side of the abyss would be visible in the picture, although more mice-like than regular size.
A voice rang out from far down below where a crew from a television station had set up shop to get some shots of the creek that had morphed into a swollen gorge of churning water pounding away the banks.
“You’re standing on a thin piece of pavement,” my unknown saviour from far below shouted. “Get back behind the barricade!”
I scrambled back as quick as my quivering legs could carry me, trying to be more light-footed with each fearful step.
A man who lived nearby approached from behind and offered to take me down to a trail that hugged the creek’s edge while he explained in detail what he believed had caused the road to crumble. I took some notes and was soaked to the knees by the time we made it all the way down.
It was only then when I looked up for a photo of where the road stopped and the sky started that I realized how close I came to not coming home that day, other than in a body bag.
The ground under the pavement where I had been standing went from quite thick to not much more than a few inches of dirt and tar.
Different scenarios took turns occupying my thoughts as I drove back to the office, running the gauntlet from how lucky I was, and how stupid it was to wander well past the barricade. I also made a solemn promise to pick up the telephoto lens I’d put off purchasing.
I told the editor what happened while I was taking off my boots and hanging my socks on the heater by my desk.
He looked up from his keyboard just long enough to ask if I got any photos.
I tease him about that when we get together from time to time.
And I still get the willies whenever I pass Aspen Road and that file from long ago in my memory bank clicks back into place.
Rick Stiebel is a semi-retired local journalist.
Columns are the opinion of the writer and do not represent the viewpoints of the paper or Black Press Media.
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