The yin and the yang of mountain biking hides around every corner of trail. With great joy comes an inevitable crash. Long down, super big up. Beautiful weather, a couple of flats. We lap it all up and we love it, being a mountain biker, you wouldn’t want it any other way.

The yin yang equation almost skewered me yesterday, riding one of my favorite trails in Nelson, British Columbia, the Paper Bag. After three days of rain the dirt was otherwordly. The bush that lush new green that seems to borrow from a fluorescent rainbow. I come bombing around the corner, loving every second and I encounter this–what I’m calling the Witch Fist. Pointed perfectly up the trail, aimed at neck height, it took me a few seconds to figure it was a snag. Stopping just in time, I couldn’t help but notice the fist shape of the wood with a nasty, witch-like face screaming for blood.

Somewhat freaky, we moved the snag to the side and continued on our merry, but now, somewhat nervous way. Is the golden gift of the Paper Bag graced with perfect dirt too good of a thing for the forest to relinquish without an attempt for retribution? In this case, a witch-fist plunge into the larynx? Or is it just an ominous warning? A call to remembrance that nothing great in this world comes without a price. Two ways to slice it, sure, but spooky nonetheless.