I have noticed a change in Kenny. Perhaps the Spell of the Yukon had seeped into his pores as we rode eloquent singletrack. There seems to have been a perceptible shift in his personality. He seems calmer, collected. Perhaps the hustle and bustle of his hometown of Whistler has become a distant memory. As we traversed along a trail too wonderful for words, the Yukon River meandered peacefully beneath us, and the evening light shone upon us in a blissful glow. But it is not easy to forget the unyielding hydraulic force of that water below. Our guide, Sylvain, paints us a picture of the late 1890's, when fevered gold seekers paddled furiously up this river in canoes, rafts, and on logs. Whatever it took to bring them closer to the gold fields. And he informs us of the misfortunes of many, the drownings, roiling rapids sucking entire parties under, the whitewater snapping boats in half like matchsticks. As Sylvan tells us these ghastly tales, I witness the calmness in Kenny's eyes fade. I see a smouldering heat rise in them at the mention of chaos and wreckage. He pushes off, his pedal strokes fervent despite the constricted trail, never mind the exposure to the water far below. He is off like a rocket, and once again his riding became hostile. James and I did our best to keep up. The trembling aspens and wandering water course framed the moment as we hurtled downhill.