How’s she goin’, b’ys? Donny here.
Now listen—if you’d told me I’d be snowboarding down a half-forgotten hillside on the Port au Port Peninsula with a haunted chalet at my back and a ghost watching from the trees, I’d have said you were cracked. But this episode of Adventures Unknown? It was something else. A fever dream wrapped in fresh powder.
Let me paint the picture for ya.
So I get a call from my buddy Chris Lake—drummer in this wicked band outta Corner Brook called Sludge Fist, and, not to be dramatic, but possibly Newfoundland’s snowboarding answer to Shaun White. The fella’s been snowboarding since before he was a kid, and let me tell ya, he’s got that easy grin and wild glint in his eye that means you’re about to do something awesome.
He says, “Donny, I found something that you’re gonna love. You ever heard of Fox Island River?”
I hadn’t. But I packed up the gear anyway, strapped the ol’ snowboard to the roof rack, and hit the snow covered winter road to Newfoundland’s West Coast.
Before we ever set foot near Fox Island River or laid eyes on that haunted hill, I pulled up outside Chris Lake’s place—a cozy two-storey just outside Corner Brook, tucked up on the edge of the woods, like it was built for bonfires and big ideas. Snow on the roof, smoke curlin’ out the chimney, and guitars in the window. It already had the feel of a place where something cool was about to happen.
Chris opened the door grinnin’, wool hat pulled low, flannel shirt barely hanging on after what looked like a day full of tunes and half pipes. I stepped in, and the first thing I noticed—after the smell of good coffee and old wood—was the massive drum kit takin’ up half the living room.
I’m talkin’ cymbals, snares, double kicks, toms in every size, and a ratty old towel hanging off the hi-hat like it had seen more gigs than I’ve seen Saturday nights. Posters of classic bands covered the walls—And in the middle of it all was Chris, the legend himself.
“Still bangin’ on the cans, are ya?” I joked.
Chris laughed, cracked his knuckles, and said, “Only way to keep warm in Corner Brook, b’y.”
It was time to hit the road in search of a hidden and possibly haunted hill.
Chris and I had heard the whispers—tales of an old snowboarding hill somewhere out on the Port au Port Peninsula, in a place called Fox Island River. They said it was built up back in the ’80s by a few wild dreamers, the kind who thought the west coast of Newfoundland could rival the Rockies if you just packed the snow right and believed hard enough. And apparently it almost worked too, and still could!!!
Problem was, over the years, the lifts stopped running. The roads grew over. The map lost the trail. And that hill? Well, it just kinda disappeared. But legends don’t die easy out here. Not in Newfoundland. Not when they’ve still got powder on their slopes and stories in their bones. Chris had a tip from an old timer who swore he saw tracks there last winter—despite no one’s lived near the place in years. That’s all we needed.
We were maybe an hour outta Corner Brook, headed west on the TCH with the windows down and the heater battlin’ the cold like it owed us money. Chris had this old playlist blarin’—some punk, some trad, and lots of thrash and groove.
But then, somewhere past Stephenville, things went quiet.
No music. No traffic. Just the hum of the tires and the occasional caw of a gull who’d clearly taken a wrong turn into the backcountry.
That’s when Chris looked over at me and said—dead serious—
“You believe in ghosts?”
Now, I wasn’t expecting philosophy in the middle of the Port au Port, but I leaned back in my seat and gave it a think.
“Depends,” I said. “You mean BOO!, and floating bed sheets Ghosts or the kind of ghosts that live in old regrets and half-finished stories?”
Chris grinned, eyes still on the road, and said,
“I mean the kind that watch you. From the trees. From the places we forget.”
I swear to ya, the temperature in the truck dropped five degrees right there.
We started talking then—about hauntings, but not just the movie kind. About how some places remember things, even if no one else does. About old hills with footprints that never melt, and chalet windows that seem to breathe, and music that plays long after the band’s gone home.
And then there was this moment of silence. One of those long, weighty ones that don’t feel awkward—they just feel true. Like the land was listening.
Chris broke it with a smirk,
“Maybe ghosts ain’t lost souls. Maybe they’re just memories that got too strong to leave…or maybe they are lost souls looking to connect across the fabric that separates life and death.”
I didn’t say much after that. Just stared out the window at the trees whippin’ by. The sun was starting to dip, and the shadows stretched long across the snow. Fox Island River was still ahead of us, but already, it felt like we were driving into some other world. A place where time don’t move quite right, and the air remembers things your bones forgot.
We didn’t know it yet, but that weird little chat in the truck?
It was the start of something bigger. A conversation that echoed through the trees, down the hill, and into a haunted chalet long after we stopped talking.
We parked by a half-rotted sign, long since faded and cracked. And that’s where the adventure started.
We strapped on snowshoes and set out through the trees, every step crunchin’ through knee-deep snow. The trail, if you could call it that, was more guesswork than guidance—overgrown with spruce, laced with windfall, and tangled like it hadn’t seen human feet in decades.
The wind came and went in low whispers, like it was trying to tell us something. And the deeper we went, the quieter it got. No birdsong. No wind in the branches. Just the sound of our breath and the distant groan of old trees.
At one point, we stumbled across what looked like an old ski pole—half-buried in the snow, rusted at the handle, but definitely not left there recently. Chris just looked at me, grinned, and said, “We’re close.”
Then, Through the Trees…
It came on slow—just a shimmer of white through the black spruce. We crested a little ridge, the snow suddenly deeper, and there it was.
The Lost Hill.
It wasn’t massive, no. But it was pretty tall, enough to make your knees tingle and wide enough to carve turns ‘til your thighs begged for mercy. The trees had grown in a little, but not enough to reclaim it. You could still see the old snowboard runs, carved into the slope like scars from another lifetime. And at the base—half-covered in drifts and half-held together by ghosts—was the old chalet.
I stood there for a moment, just takin’ it in. The view down over the hill and out to the iceberg covered ocean was spectacular. This really would be an amazing resort!
There was something sacred about it. Like we’d stumbled onto a frozen relic in time—not forgotten, just waiting for someone to come back and remember it.
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Now I know how this sounds. But I swear on my nan’s life, there was a feeling in that place. Like the hill was alive. Not scary, not hostile—just aware.
Chris said, “You feel that?” and I nodded without even knowing what “that” was.
The trees at the edges leaned just so, like they were leaning in to watch. The clouds broke above the summit, casting light in patches like stage lights following our steps. And the wind? It wasn’t just blowin’. It was singing. Low and slow, like the hum of a snowcat engine that hadn’t run in thirty years.
We stood there for a long minute, boots buried in the snow, looking up at the slope. It had this kind of mythic presence—like it had stories to tell, but only if you were brave enough to listen.
Now, I’m not the most graceful man on a snowboard. I ride like a fridge with good intentions. But I love it! And that hill? That hill was callin’ us’ like it remembered what it used to be.
Chris, bein’ half snowboarder and half rock star, was already strappin’ in with that glint in his eye. I followed, heart poundin’, boots squeakin’, and adrenaline buzzin’ like a squirrel after a double double.
We took a few strides up the side ridge, got in position near the top, and gave each other the nod.
“Three… two… one—DROP!”
And just like that—we were flying.
The first run was unreal. Snow like butter, soft and dry and deep enough to hug your board but not so deep you’d get buried. We started off cruisin’ the open face, hootin’ and hollerin’ like two kids on a snow day.
Chris carved wide turns like he was painting the hill, floating from edge to edge like the snow was made just for him. I followed in my own special Donny style—part skill, part chaos, part accidental waiting to happen.
We hit a little natural lip halfway down and Chris launched it like he was in the X Games. Midair, he yells,
“WOO! FOX ISLAND, BABY!”
I hit the same lip, made it about half as far, and landed in a move I now refer to as “The Snowplow of Shame.” Board stuck, knees buckled, face planted right into a drift.
We veered into the tree line for the next run—a tight little chute with snow so untouched it looked sacred.
Now listen, I’m not usually one to brag, but your boy Donny ripped it. Tight turns, smooth edge work, even a cheeky little tail slide off a snow-covered stump that I definitely didn’t plan.
Chris was ahead, duckin’ branches, leapin’ through tight gaps, laughin’ like he was being chased by the devil himself.
Which, to be fair, might not have been far off.
Because that’s when it started gettin’ weird. Again.
Outta nowhere, just as I was comin’ around a tight corner near a bent birch, I went down. Hard.
No root, no rock, no bad edge. Just—poof—like someone had booted me from behind.
I sat up, snow all down my back, and looked around. “Alright, who gave Donny the ol’ shove?”
“You alright?”
I nodded. “I think the ghost’s tryin’ to take me out before I embarrass myself worse.”
He laughed, but five minutes later—bam!—he goes down too. Mid-jump. No reason. Just—airborne, then airborne the wrong way.
We lay there, both of us gaspin’ and snow-covered, and Chris says,
“You feel like we’re being watched?”
And I go, “Watched, pushed, and slightly judged, yeah.”
When we finally made it to the bottom, breathless and covered in bruises, we looked back up at the slope—that strange, beautiful, haunted hill.
I swear the snow sparkled a little more.
Chris clapped me on the back and said,
“That hill’s got soul man.”
And I just nodded. “Yeah… and maybe a bit of a mean streak.”
Now here’s where things get strange.
We’re standing at the bottom, catching our breath, when this old man shows up. Pale coat, scarf froze up in a solid chunk, and eyes like wind swept lakes. He didn’t come from nowhere—but he wasn’t coming from anywhere, either. Just suddenly there.
He says, “You boys riding this the hill?”
We both nod, on edge and freaked out.
He says, “Well, it’s got eyes b’ys. And a fierce temper – best you ride it before it rides you.”
And then, just like that, he’s gone.
Chris and I look at each other, wide-eyed, and he says “What the heck just happened?” We both laughed nervously and I said, “Let’s go again dude – eyes or no eyes”.
Despite the mysterious knockdowns—and maybe because of them—we kept ridin’. Laughed harder. Fell more. Got better.
The hill had a vibe. Not mean, not angry—just playful in a slightly unhinged, supernatural way. Like it missed having people. Like it was having a bit of fun with us before letting us out of its grasp.
Chris pulled off a corked 180 near the bottom that made me want to nominate him for mayor of Coolsville. I tried to follow with a stylish heel carve and instead did a dramatic body slam into a small tree.
The tree’s fine. I’m mostly fine. |
At the base, half-buried in snow, was the chalet. Old wooden beams creakin’, windows fogged, and a door hangin’ off its hinges like it had stories to tell. From the outside, it looked like something out of a postcard from 1977. Big timber frame, sagging porch, windows fogged with frost and age. The snow had drifted halfway up the walls.
Inside, it was colder than a witch’s elbow and still as a tomb. We stepped in, boots crunchin’ over ice that had snuck in under the door. The furniture was all still there—dusty couches with moth-eaten cushions, a stone fireplace with an old kettle still hangin’ over it, and in the far corner, sittin’ in the shadows like it had been waiting for us all these years… an upright piano.
The second we crossed the threshold, something shifted. The warmth from our breath seemed to hang in the air too long. The wind outside quieted, like the trees were listening…giggling at our naivety. Chris and I both got this prickle—that crawlin’, goosebumpy sensation that tells you you’re not exactly alone. Now, we’ve all heard ghost stories. I’ve even told a few. But this place? This place was a ghost story.
We got the fire going with some half-dry logs from the woodpile out back. The flames danced, but the light didn’t seem to stretch as far as it should. Shadows hung back, thick and patient, like they had their own secrets to keep.
We cooked up a bit of grub—canned beans, bit of hard tack, and a slab of smoked mackerel Chris had packed—and tried to warm ourselves by the fire. But even as the temperature rose, that feelin’ stuck around. There was somethin’ there, alright. Not so scary—more like…a creepy presence that hung in the air.
I set up my sleeping bag in front of the fire, lookin’ out at the snow just starting to fall again. Chris was already fast asleep and snoring like a freight train. And me? I just lay there, counting sheep. I think I got to twenty-one.
At first, I thought it was a draft. Maybe a loose board.
But then it came again—a low, soft note, stretched out like the hum of a foghorn from far away.
Then another. And another. Then…it broke into full song.
The piano…was playing…by itself.
We froze. I mean solid. Then I heard a scream. It was me. Screaming lol. That piano hadn’t been touched in decades—but there it was, wailing out a slow, mournful tune, like someone long gone was trying to share their grief through music notes. Just enough to raise every hair on our necks and make the air feel ten degrees colder.
Chris whispered, “You hearin’ that?”
And I said, “If I say no, will it stop?”
We crept toward it—real quiet, like we were afraid to wake it up worse—and I swear to ya, b’ys, as we got closer, the keys pressed down on their own. Soft. Deliberate. Like fingers we couldn’t see were gliding across the ivories.
Then—bang—the lid snapped shut like a trap.
Silence.
Just the crackle of the fire and the sound of my own heart tryin’ to escape through my ribs.
When the sun finally peeked over the ridge, that whole place felt lighter. Still haunted, sure—but quieter. Like whatever was there had gone back to sleep.
We packed up quick, didn’t bother with breakfast. The hill was behind us, the road ahead. And as we stepped out onto the snow, I glanced back at the chalet one last time.
The piano didn’t play. But I swear the whole hill was smiling.
That hill changed me a bit, I think.
See, we chase adventure for the thrill of it. For the rush. But sometimes, if you’re lucky, you find more than that. You find a story buried under snow, a friend with the same spark, and a place that remembers you, even if you’ve never been there before.
This wasn’t just about finding a hill. It was about finding a piece of the past. The kind of past that doesn’t get written down. The kind that lives in half-remembered stories told at kitchen tables, or in old Polaroids pinned to bulletin boards in forgotten basements.
When you grow up in places like this—in Newfoundland, in the wind and snow—you get used to things disappearing. Jobs, people, even whole towns sometimes. But there’s something about finding a place that used to be loved, and still feels like it wants to be.
That hill didn’t just want riders. It wanted to be seen again. Respected. Heard. Ridden. And maybe the ghosts aren’t out to scare us. Maybe they’re just tryin’ to remind us what matters: Adventure. Connection. Gratitude. Love. And living every moment of every day of your life.
And, of course, a good ride down a wild haunted hill on a cold winter’s day.
Until next time, b’ys,
Donny Love
Adventures Unknown
Watch Full Episode here: By Donny Love | Adventures Unknown | Season 1, Episode 8
