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I stood on top of the climb. The wind whistled menacingly as spindrifts of light snow flicked across the precipices of rock and ice surrounding me. The sky was so clear, as it could only be on a day so very cold. Ice encrusted my face and my hands throbbed with pain of being constantly shaken to keep circulation in fingers that would rather remain frozen. The past 4 hours has been sheer intensity, nothing had passed through my mind except the next screw. I hung over a hundred meters high on the frozen waterfall while windblown snow pummeled me. Focusing on the belay and praying for the words: “I’m clear”. When it happened, I was then thrust into the task of reaching the next screw. My hands screamed protest and my body was sluggish with the cold but instead of going down, I went up. At the top, it felt as if I had emerged from a dream. However this dream had felt far more real than everyday life. What had passed was something not of this world but something far more; a visceral gaze into our more primal pasts.
I was beleaguered by the beauty of my surroundings. The sharp jagged grays, the brilliant whites and the cold blues. The sun shone fiercely, tanning the skin more than it would on a tropical beach yet not yielding any warmth for the body. The picture was one that was uninviting yet full of genuine beauty. To see such beauty, one must be prepared to work for it. Slogging through the deep snow back to the car, I looked back on the frozen mass of ice we had just scaled, feeling accomplished and content.
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Big fat flakes fell from the sky. The peak of Mammoth Head was enshrouded in the grays of stratus clouds. These clouds had been bombarding the hill with countless layers of snow for weeks on end. My climbing skins made a soothing whhuurr across the track as we slowly ascended from the chaos of Fernie Alpine resort into the realm of Mongolia ridge. Small avalanches floated down over the cliffbands of Mammoth head. In the center of the peak was a large cave, the eye of the mammoth. It observed us as we climbed higher up the ridge, its eye blinking when a snow sluff would thunder downwards to the field of broken debris.
We reached the top of the ridge and found the spot, empty, untouched and really deep. Meeting up in intervals, I saw my shit eating grin reflected on my buddy’s face. It was a good run.
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An explosive blast echoed down the Lizard Range and a slab ripped off the side of Grizzly Peak. The wave of snow, with a destructive force capable of flattening a village, ripped through trees, tearing those that were unfit to withstand its force. I watched from the safety of the elk chair. The sunny flat slopes were filled with families who had spent 80 dollars only to ride a small beginner’s area. The real mountain had been closed until nature had finished shrugging off its winter coat in preparation for spring. It was a day of rest for those who waited for a safer chance back into the mountains.
Cruising down the slope proved high risk in its own right. Dodging the many families who struggled to get down the mountain on these awkward sticks. Happy to have only one run for the day, I headed to the lodge. On the way, I suddenly was presented with a difficult decision, a child had decided to hit a “jump” and without warning or knowledge of my presence, headed on a direct crash course for myself. To avoid the child meant hitting a large tree. With no other options I chose the tree and braced for impact. I hit and I heard the air woosh from my lungs. My shoulder smashed into the tree. I rolled out away from the impact, but the damage had been done.
The family was concerned, feeling guilty and just wanted to help. This made me angrier, why couldn’t they just leave me alone? I struggled for breath, it came out in wheezes. I felt hypoxic. I calmed myself and shut out as much as I could. I proceeded to collect my gear. I had to get home and try to sleep this one off. “I wish I had caught that on tape so you could make money off America’s funniest home videos” the dad confided in me when I clicked into my bindings. Good joke.
I got home and began the long grueling regime of recovering from an injury, testing my range of motion. I felt tension then a pop as my joint slotted back into place. It was time to rest, the next day was bound for the hospital.
I exit the doors of the hospital and look up at the Three Sisters. A picturesque line runs down the middle sister. To each side her younger sisters stand sharp and tall. The Fernie season is done, but no bones are broken. In 6 weeks with good discipline, I can be back. Back for some ski touring and spring climbing. Back in time to work. Work to pay debts and work to fund the next destination, the next climb and the next powder day. What will bring me to that destination and where it will be, only time will tell.
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The stationary bike makes a whirr similar to my climbing skins. It is the 5th consecutive day of stationary cycling. Got to keep fit, got to keep moving. To my right, a see a man running with a prosthetic limb. Down below, I see a large woman struggling to meet the demands of her personal trainer. Everyone has physical barriers and mine seem insignificant in comparison with others. Rain drips off the windows and the mountains are obscured by spring rain clouds.
