It’s raining sideways. Cold rain, like ice pellets on the face. Wind bends the treetops. The temperature hovers barely above 32 degrees Fahrenheit—hypothermal conditions.

“D’is is called da ‘B.C. Trail,’” says Michał Jurewicz.

He nods toward a sliver of black dirt that angles along a granite cliff before disappearing into a dark corridor of cedar and fir.

Like a lot of mountain bike trails, this one has a backstory. According to Jurewicz, COVID-19 killed the British Columbia travel plans of some local shredders. Bored and spared the cost of airfare, they decided to build a trail in the steep hills above their hometown of Szklarska Poreba in the Krkonoše, or Giant Mountains. It was to be the B.C. of their mountain biking dreams. Their imaginations were rich, we would soon discover.

We zip up jackets and slap hands together for circulation. A grizzled old-timer huffs up the trail, grimacing into the rain, a mut of Labradorian mix on his heels.

“Czesc,” he says, grunting out a curt Polish greeting without breaking stride. The drenched dog follows behind, abjectly.

“Poles are the grumpiest of all Slavic peoples,” Jurewicz says, his gaze following the sodden hiker and dog. “I think it’s the grey skies and rain.”

As an afterthought, he adds that the Krkonoše Mountains are “the rainiest place in Poland and October is the rainiest month.”

He shrugs. We shrug. So much for good timing. Last fall, photographer Kari Medig and I chose the wettest week in the wettest month in the Polish calendar to sample the slick dirt, rock, and roots of Lower Silesia, a mountainous region in the country’s southwest corner bordering Czechia.