The Road to French Pass

The road to French Pass is winding. And steep. And bumpy. It's 60 kilometres of ashphalt, gravel, holes, and cow shit. The ride takes two hours. The speed limit on the road, although wrought with hairpin turns and no shoulder, is 100 km/h. I think it's a sick joke.

The first part of the drive is along a valley flanked with low vegetation. Eventually, a sign anounces your passing into a scenic reserve. For a few hundred metres, the path is lined with beautiful tree ferns and awesomely strange trees that rise up and block the sun.

Soon, however, you slow to a crawl as the car drives over a cattle guard. Suddenly, the trees are gone. You lower the sun guard to shield your eyes. You've emerged atop a pass, with the slope falling away steeply at both sides. The shattering uniformity of the landscape is astounding. The ground is covered in tan-coloured tufts of grass. Geometric lines snake along the winding hills, intertwined in a complex pattern that betrays the trails of the areas residents.

Eventually, you start to notice these strange animals everywhere. In the distance, they look like maggots creeping along the treacherous slopes. Lifting their heads in alarm, they chew relentlessly as their beady eyes stare at you. Suddenly they take off down the hill in panic. Mobile lamb chops. Great black beasts seem to wonder what the heck you are doing on their turf. The void stare of cattle always makes me feel uneasy as I can't understand why they never react. To anything.