Marked by The Mountain

It all stemmed from that electric moment.

I was in the slow continuous slog of the ascent up Mount Hyland with my friend Dev and my dog Achilles. My mind in a dull anger from romantic and financial concerns, but the sharpness of these feelings dissipated with each upward step. I liked the mountains for this reason. I had begged to be soothed by the mountains, and the mountains had heeded my call. For days, I climbed, skied and looked back at my signature penned on the mountain canvass. I had no idea that the slate was about to be wiped clean.

The mountains shone in the resplendent dusk, with one easy lap left before dinner. Our awareness was dulled by the simple terrain and easy objectives. After numerous bigger descents in the Babine Mountains, our confidence in the slope was good.

We were the perfect victims.

I felt the mountain move, seeing nothing changing but feeling everything. When the chaos hit and the slab broke apart, I fell towards death, grabbing onto small islands of hope, small trees that had stood the onslaught of time and the power of the mountain. I was lost within this madness.

Caught between two trees, I stood against the wave. I came up for a breath before my skis gave way. I was carried; head below, towards the bottom. Again, I caught something in the wave. I held on. The white chaos washed over me. My muscles strained as the torrent opened around me. In an instant, I was staring at the growing depths below me. I had escaped the mountain’s retribution.

I yelled a primal release and then shouted above to Dev, who had also escaped. We rejoiced in our good fortune.

We did not think of Achilles at first, my dog of 3 years. He had the senses of the wild, chasing prey like few animals could. But, as the initial shakes and joy wore off, my voice grew hoarse as my calls echoed the quiet peaks unanswered.

Dev and I began probing the rubble. It was deep. The probe had no hope of reaching the depths of its tombs. How close I had been to joining him. Still despair had no place in the search; thinking would come later. Darkness fell and we continued the search, small specks of headlamps probing the debris field. Down, right, left, step, down, right, left, step. With every step the prospect of loss grew.

I had last seen him at the foot of the hill, his canine smile and sparkling eyes disappearing ahead. It was impossible to believe that he was under the cold hard blocks of the shattered mountain.  

Hours passed and in the dark, Achilles, less fortunate than us survivors, was abandoned in his final resting place. On the mountain, I stood alone, relinquishing control and accepting defeat. I turned off my pale blue light and embraced the silent darkness.

I only realized afterward how I would miss Achilles by my side. He and I traveled the forest with our roaming minds for company. We searched for meaning in the mountains. He watched my back while I slept by the fire, he had charged that angry mother bear... We had been ski partners until the end.

Alone in the darkness, I wept.  

…

Led Zeppelin cranks out of the speaker in the tattoo parlor. I sit in the chair, nervous. This is my first tattoo. The gun buzzes and I feel the needle do its magic on my back. Afterwards, I look in the mirror and on my shoulder is Achilles hovering over the very peak I had lost him on.

As I look in the mirror, I see two loves looking back at me; the mountains and the friend I lost to them. It’s a reminder that I should never take either for granted. The mountains will provide years of joy and fulfillment but I have an important message inked on my back. Love the mountains, but know how unforgiving they are to complacency.

I smile at the visage of my fallen friend, lost to the mountains but always found in memory. Now, he’ll watch my back for the rest of my life. It is time to skin up and return. A new season awaits and I will greet it as a man marked by the mountain.

Fred Beckey

It's an easy 5- by Fred Beckey, I had told Celine. Essentially a hike with a bit of rope work. The paragraph description was described as a walk in the park. But mid way up a steep corner that felt like a 5.8 with little protection (I only brought a small rack because this was supposed to be a hike), I cursed the man's name. I cursed him on Mt Gimli in the same fashion, on a 5.8 climb that felt like a 5.10+ to my soft large frame. Every route I have done with the Beckey name on it has been notoriously sandbagged but has also been some of the most aesthetic and incredible climbing I have ever done.

Beckey tagged the plum lines, his name found everywhere and often decades before anything of equal difficulty is established. The man who brought the dirtbag as a romantic figure to the forefront passed away at 94, still climbing and skiing until the end. For years to come climbers such as myself will still be chasing his name though the mountains.  

Dirtbags

Noun..A dirty, unkempt, or contemptible person .

We must clear the air

Spraying deodorizing clarification

In regards to “the dirtbag"

Merriam Webster can get stuffed

Dictionary depicting a grim picture

Dirty and unkempt, acquiesced

Dirtbags are contemptible

Only to those envious of freedom

Tucktaped, grimey down jackets

Rundown vehicular abodes

Parking within striking distance

Of aesthetic alpine areas

Foregoing the American dream

For personal pursuit of pleasure

Even if it means washing

Dishes in public restrooms

The Dirtbag is a romantic

Unhappy with convention

Nuclear suburbia

Repulsive as his socks

Passion permeating personalities

Overcoming unwashed funk

Please consider this  

When employing the use of

The Word “Dirtbag”

The lost dog

It hadn’t snowed here since I got back from Asia. The mountains were cold, icy and rocky. You could climb pretty much anywhere but it was pretty damn sporty and not very pleasant going down. When you get stability like that, you can get up virtually anything without worrying about stability, if you fall however, there is a chance you won’t stop until the bottom.

On Thursday, my friend Greg and I sledded from the house up a mine road and went for a couloir that we called the Rutecki. The climb was pretty great. All the forest part was done via snowmobile so it was all kick stepping and rock climbing to the top of this sub peak in the Silvern Lakes area. Halfway up, it became quite apparent that it was going to be an exposed climb because of the conditions.

After an hour of climbing, complete with a few “I wish I had a rope and crampons” moments, we got to the top. You could see the Babines, the Nipples and the massive Toboggan glacier looming to the east. Below us lay the Rutecki: a chamber of radness in a cliff wall, which shot down about 800m. After a quick transition, beverage and ro sham bo, I dropped in first. It was variable wind crust and ice. We had hoped for perhaps some wind sheltered snow but there was none of that to be found in the mountains. Luckily, I love hop turning down shitty, steep snow. I got down to the bottom to watch Greg. I waited, waited some more and then climbed to a better vantage point.

Greg had bailed, and in the process he had dislocated his shoulder and lost his ski. Luckily, he had managed to arrest himself after about 50 meters of sliding and tomahawking. The tomahawk had popped his shoulder back in too! Lucky us. I realized that Greg was in a rough way and stashed my skis and started bootpacking up. I motored up to Greg, collected his gear and then put in a bootpack for him to get down. He was shook up but able to get out which was a huge plus. We bootpacked down and during the descent, Greg realized he was getting frostbite on his fingers. I had a spare pair of gloves which were a little thicker. We made it back to my skis and we were able to traverse and bootpack for another hour to get to our sleds. We fired them up and got home in the dark.

It was confirmed by both of us as type 2 fun.

Greg was out, but it was the weekend and Alfred, a weekend warrior these days, had sent me a text.

“Galleon line?”  

I gave him a call and he wanted to go for it from the parking lot, a massive day. We would have to tour the mine road for 8km, bushwhack for 4km, climb a peak  then drop behind it and climb up the couloir that you can see from town. It was just the type of hair-brained fantasy picnic that I was into. I guess that’s why Alfred and I ski so many lines together.

At 5:30 am I left the house, it was a tour not a sled so I was stoked to bring the dog. I was also pumped to be going back into the Babine range; a range which I have always had a soft spot for. Grabbing Alfred and a McDonald’s breakfast we were at the trailhead by 6:30am, bushwhacking by 8:30, kick stepping up the mountain by 11:30 and on the summit ridge by 1pm. However, the weather was changing, a big grey cloud bore down on us and the winds picked up. The temperature was pushing -40, winds were gusting at 70km/hr and I had to keep a constant eye on Achilles because there were goats everywhere.

That dog and his bloodlust for mountain goats would be the death of me.

With the change in weather, my stamina felt sapped. My feet hurt a lot from all the kick steps into icy chutes and I could feel multiple blisters and one numb toe which could be frostbite. I started to lag behind Alfred. At 2pm we were at the summit of Mount Elmore and the couloirs of the Galleon were mired in an angry storm cloud. We could bag a really nice line off the summit of Elmore and call it a day. We transferred over and dropped in, skiing towards the mine road and cabin area. The dog had been lying down as he had been told but had been glancing over at a herd of goats which were hanging out by a cliff band about 200m away.

Alfred dropped first and I clicked in, minutes later I was skiing 10cm of dust on crust down a massive face. After 100m I stopped and waited. Calling the dog. He didn’t come. I looked to where he had been lying. He was gone. He had run off after the goats. I called and called with no reply. The clouds thickened, the wind picked up. Alfred was far below me unseen. Darkness was coming.

Eventually I realized the only option was to trust the dog and his ability to find his way back to the truck. The number of times he had ran off is unbelievable but he has always made it back to the truck. After yelling myself hoarse I skied down to meet Alfred and let him know that my dog was missing and the only thing we could do was retreat before the storm and the darkness fucked all of us over. I took one glance at the now distant mountaintop and saw a raven circling the peak. My stomach twisted into a knot and dread filled my heart.  

It was dark by the time we made it to the truck, and my back, hip, shoulders, feet and everything else hurt. It had been a 12 hour, 31km, 2400m elevation gain tour according to Alfred’s GPS. It would have been an amazing tour if I had seen dog tracks on the road down coming out of the forest where we had started bushwhacking. But there were no tracks. The truck was dark and lifeless when we arrived, soaked and refrozen over multiple times. I fired up the truck, drove Alfred home, got a sleeping bag and a change of clothes. I prepared for a cold night in my truck hoping that at some point in the evening, I would hear his bushpig grunts outside my door.

Greg said he would go with me the next day, though he had a little while before he would fully recover from his incident. I went back to the Babine parking lot, back in radio silence and tried to read, tried to sleep but my mind was filled by the cold whipping winds and images of the dog, frozen to death, splattered under a cliff. His death haunted my short naps and the night never seemed to end. I kept going outside and calling into the night, only to have the shriek of the wind answer. Each call seemed to take more hope out of me. He always returned to the truck. Something was wrong.

Eventually, my fatigue overcame all worry and discomfort and I dozed off.

I woke up at 7:20 am and was greeted by the familiar dread. The dog wasn’t there and I was an hour late starting the 31km loop again. I had to rip into town to buy duct tape for my bleeding feet, naproxen for my sore muscles and more McDonalds for my empty belly. I met Greg in town, he brought coffee and well wishes from the house. We suited up but upon leaving, Greg’s ski binding broke, it had suffered more damage during Greg’s fall than he had. I would have to go back in alone. I was not expecting to find good news either.

I started the tour and necessity took over. I moved fast, I didn’t stop and I tried not to think about anything but getting up fast. My screaming feet were muted and my brain became dull to everything but the image of the raven and the dog. The dog was on my mind, frozen to death and abandoned. The raven was on my mind, circling and eventually homing in on his body. Feelings of failure and dismay loomed like the storm cloud did the day before. The only way to escape this storm was to move faster. Scenery passed me by and soon I was back up in the alpine. There were no clouds but the temperature was still bitterly cold. I was on my last pair of gloves and I could feel the cold taking over my digits. I thought of the short hours I had spent in this frozen wasteland, what it would’ve been like in the storm last night. How scared he must have been. How could anything live in an environment so hostile to life.

I made it up 2 hours faster than I had the day before with Alfred. It was perhaps the fastest I have ever toured. I had to find him. At the summit rocks I searched the cliffs where the goats had stood, looking for his body. I found nothing. It was a small victory and I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. The storm had removed all of our tracks but after searching I found a faint trace of a goat trail. I followed it. As it went further away from the summit, it grew stronger. Then, I saw a paw print. Emotion grasped me and I yelled with joy, ``good boy!``. As if on cue a frozen apparition burst from behind a rock. I dropped to my knees, eyes watering and held out my arms. He was in them in seconds, licking my face and I didn’t let go. We embraced for a long time. Both of us telling each other our stories, even though we couldn’t really understand each other’s language.

I pulled out my phone, I had reception this high. I called Greg and told him the good news. Then I started the ski out with Achilles by my side. We picked a large open bowl that funnelled out by the mine road. Soon we were on the road and relief flooded over both of us. Fatigue, cold and pain flooded back with every step toward the safety of the truck. By the time I arrived at the truck, my frozen, haggard body was on its final reserves of energy. Even starting it was an incredibly difficult task. Taking off my boots hurt like hell and my feet were frostbitten and bloody with many blisters. But I had rescued the dog and I felt really good about that.

I arrived home and everyone embraced the dog and myself. There was a big dinner waiting for both of us. Moose steaks.  After dinner, I went downstairs and was instantly in a very deep sleep.

When I woke up, I couldn’t move. My body was so stiff and my feet looked like they had been put through a meat grinder. The frostbite was gone but I knew that it would take a long time before I’d be ready for the mountains again. Endless cups of coffee, emails and basking in the sunlight streaming through the windows filled the next 3 days. Then came a good old northern bush party with a sled jump over a massive 2 tree fire, the mission to get into some heli ski terrain was suggested and the next adventure began.

The Raft.

The raft swung out of the haystack and into a long strech of flat water. Sitting in the back, he lit a Cohiba cigarillo and began telling stories once again.

“People used to drink and drive more when I was younger and one of the only times I was scared for my life was when I was hitchhiking to a party in Moncton from my university. A fella from Quebec picked me up and began driving us through the Wentworth valley. Now, it had been snowing and we were in this old Mercury with a big block V8. He pulled out this lemon hart gin and was sharing it with us. Being students, we were excited to get some free liquor in us before the party. However when my buddy spilled the gin, the french fella got real mean. He started swearing at us and saying how he hated English people spilling booze in his car. He sped up and was going 120 miles an hour in a blizzard and I thought bye god, this is how I die. We made it to an old shell, long torn down now and he pulled over to take a piss. We ran out of the car and got the hell out of there, convinced that he was going to kill us. When I look back on it, we should’ve kicked his ass.”

“Sounds like running away was the right call” I said.

“Maybe your right, I am happy that we made it out of that car.” He said.

The raft continued down the Kispiox river. Many more stories would be told that trip. A trip that might not have happened if one of those many stories had gone a different way. But time had passed the way it had passed and therefore, they were able to sit on the raft drifting lazily down the flat water bathing in sun and searching for tanks of fish in which to fill the cooler. 

It was a good trip.

The Northern Run

I knew it wasn’t right. The car remained between the lines, its speed constant at 100 kilometers an hour but I was no longer the driver. Instead I sat in the passenger seat watching with horror as the car drove itself. ‘Pull over” I thought to myself, “who knows where you really are on the road.” I cringed as the car came close to an oncoming semi. Was I dreaming? Was I awake? Was this real? The car moved on, driven by a phantom of myself. I saw the reflective signs of a driveway, the only light on the dark and lonely number 16: The Highway of Tears. I begged the phantom to pull over, reluctantly, he obliged.  

It was the 16^th straight hour of driving and I had been unable to stop. The vessel was a tired Buick Century with a transmission that could fail entirely at any given moment. I had begun in Fernie where I had left my apartment. Once warmly lit with the sounds of Motown music and an ongoing card game, the apartment was a cold, empty place upon departure. Only the ghosts of memory hinted that it had ever been inhabited, and those ghosts would leave with me. I drove away from the pre fabricated rift in time with that mix of sadness of parting and excitement of being on the road. I was moving on again.

I felt the roar of the engine, screaming and unfettered by the restraints of the gears. Turning down music that was playing too loud, I felt the “chunk” of the car sinking into gear. It was still in the first hour and already the car desired its final rest. It would not be granted such a rest. 500km of highway 93 north was ahead, the most sustained mountain road in Canada. The car could drive once it was cruising, but stopping could spell death for the car. It could also leave me stranded hundreds of kilometers into the Rockies where it would be very cold.

Construction ahead

Shit

I applied the brake and felt the wobble of hot, warped rotors as they screamed against the brake pads. Ahead, a line up of cars stood in front of a chasm of rock. Inside, a machine swept away rock debris that had tumbled off a precipice above. The road climbed sharply upward, switchbacking up towards the heavens. I stopped, the worker turned the sign and the caravan started moving. All except one wine colored Buick. It wouldn’t budge in drive, I put it into first and it began to move. Up to second, and I hear and feel a loud CCHHHUNNNKKK. Up to third, quickly shifting now. The engine struggles to get up the steep hill, slipping out of gear, catching before I slip down the hill backwards. The blue cavalier behind me curses my existence, I hope he understands. Eventually I arrive on the top of the hill. I must keep in it gear but this means I must not brake too much, the turns are sharp the hill steep but as I fly down the mountain staring at the ends of switchbacks, a constant mountain vista flies by. Just don’t lose momentum.

It’s the 8th hour and the sign says 60 kilometers to Jasper. Aside from a fuel up and construction, I have not stopped. Luckily, the beauty of the mountains on this highway inspires awe. There is so much ice to climb, endless rock to climb and innumerable aesthetic lines that carve down the sharp and frigid peaks. I share the vastness with Ontario Blue Tercel and Alaska Red Sunfire. We form a group, traveling through the mountains, our beaters all hovering close to death. We gain momentum going down and glide up the steep inclines. Our speedometers dropping from helter-skelter high speeds of the descent to the 70km struggle of the ascent. Occasionally, the leader will drop to the back as we cross the frozen ice field. The new elected leader will warn the others of large potholes, a police cruiser and will be the lantern to guide though the thick clouds. I drop back and let Alaska Red Sunfire pass, my transmission just barley staying in gear on the steep hill. His car is full of gear, the back plastered with bumper stickers, he gives the nod. Ontario Blue Tercel passes and I see a similar picture. 

We hit the crossroads and we part ways, Blue Ontario Tercel heading into Jasper for a well deserved rest, Red Alaska Sunfire driving east into the darkness. Unable to downshift, I carve west, chasing the last golden rays of the sun. The road is lonely now. Robson looms up to my right. As darkness descends, it becomes harder to see. The twilight plays tricks with the mind. Suddenly it appears without warning; a moose shoots on to the road, 50 meters… I have time. I apply the brake, careful not to lose control with the violent wobble. There are no cars on the road. I am lucky. I let go of the brake and carve around the huge animal. I honk my horn and berate the animal disappearing in my rearview mirror “ya fuckin stupid gangly bastard you almost killed me!” I yell. No one is listening. So I listen to the gears, as they struggle to return to cruising speed.

14^th hour: Prince George. I smell it long before I see that sea of yellow lights and smoke. I roll down the main strip, with run down motels, shops selling porn and liquor. At this time of night, the people walking this strip are not doing it by choice. I don’t want the Buick to die here. Luckily, the car handles the one red light with minimal complaint, accepts the libations from Petro Canada and continues northwest free of the PiG. 

16^th hour: Everything seemed normal and then suddenly it was not. I was dreaming, I was driving, I was keeping the car moving, and I was not in control. The car was in control but I was not driving it. I breathed deep and tried to manage my senses, it did not help. I had to stop I could not stop but instead had to will the phantom to stop reluctantly. I could control the phantoms actions but I did not perform them. I asked the phantom to stop and to my relief, he pulled over.

It was dark. 

The car rolled to a stop and I kept moving. Was I dreaming? The realm between real and dream was still far too grey to get back in the car. The real was far to cold to stay out of the car. I could not stay here. I knew there was a rest stop in 10 kilometers. Could I make it without summoning the phantom? I rolled down all the windows, turned up Motley Crue’s Kickstart my heart. The car struggled to move but sputtered to the highway rhytmn. Finally, I saw the blue rest area sign, pulling in; I parked and turned off the car. I fell asleep within minutes.

Fernie

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.

-----

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.

-----

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.

-----

The stationary bike makes a whirr similar to my climbing skins. It is the 5^th 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.

Febuary Ice Adventures

It was the first adventure planned out west since my arrival in Fernie B.C 3 weeks prior. Eager to keep things interesting, I decided to pack my bags and leave Fernie. Although I had no qualms with skiing everyday, it lacks the unpredictability of being on the road. Travelling solo through Asia gave me this itch that had to be scratched. The world’s best ice climbing sits a mere 400km from my house so I decided that it was time to get on it.

I left at eleven am from the cozy Fernie condo that I was living in. I chatted with a solid volunteer firefighter to Cranbrook. I hitched a ride with a second world war vet to Skookumchuck. Crossing the Kootany River on foot, I got a ride from a teacher at the College of the Rockies. 

It was now 7pm and I was in Invermere, still 200 km away from my destination. My next ride was to the junction where an old man who said fuck in every sentence and a woman who always replied ‘you betcha’. They drove me in a bald tired truck through the harrowing Radium Highway. I sat for 3 hours on the Trans Canada, 30km away from Lake Louise. Finally, a solid dude picked me up in his two door rice burner. I sat under the weight of my combined luggage counting down the km until Lake Louise.

I arrived at ten thirty and rejoiced by buying gas station coffee. It was a 5km uphill hike to the chateau and then another two km of deep snow slogging with a heavy pack to the falls. I found a good patch to dig in and I haphazardly pitched my bivy sack in a snow trench. I was cold, wet and had a long night ahead of me. 

I got out in the cold morning to make my oatmeal and coffee. After organizing my camp a bit more I went across the lake to the falls. The one-hundred-and-ten-meter behemoth was a sight to see and a few moves up, I was already pumped out. Luckily the leader, a fellow by the name of Peter had paved the way for me. By 2pm I was rappelling off the wall. 

cold morning

morning 1

Louise falls

 

cave

The whistle of the stove broke the silence in my camp as I melted snow and made coffee. I made renovations to my camp, expanding the kitchen area and getting my bivy fully enclosed into its cave. I had become more comfortable in the camp, although all my layers were damp, and my outer sleeping bag was still encrusted in ice. I decided to head down into town where I could poach a fireplace and wireless internet from the local hostel.

sleeping cave

kitchen

In town I quickly got word from Sylvain, a French Canadian school teacher driving up from Calgary. He was a solid ice leader and keen to hit up something new. Arriving in a camper van, we had a few beer and talked climbing. I was cave bound before ten pm, we had a 4am wake up planned and the next day would be a full one.  

The phone let loose a wail to signal the time to get out of my cave. The outer bag was a solid piece of ice. Turning on my headlamp, I left my cave and emerged into the brisk -25 air. Gearing up, I quickly met up with Sylvain and we were on our way.

After a long approach, we stood at the bottom of a 200 meter piece of waterfall ice. Happy to follow and learn, I started belaying Syl. With over 20 years of experience, I learned a lot by watching Sylvain climb. Most of the leading I felt capable of doing however, the crux pitch of WI5+ had me pumped and baffled as to how a person could climb, place screws and have enough confidence to lead such a pitch. I hung on, forearms throbbing, hands burning and heaving. 

climb day 2

Still, I proved to be a reliable second and we managed to cruise up the pitch in good time. Although I had an easy job, it was still a workout and a half.

At the end of the day, we grabbed a burger and a beer at the Louise Hostel. After oats and power bars for days straight, the meal was like ambrosia. Sylvain offered to drop me off at the radium exit of the trans can and so I hurriedly rushed in and took down camp. 

View of Castle from my highway spot

Stinky, wet, tired and happy, I waited for my first hitch. A rusty old cavalier with two people best described as “salt of the earth” gave me a ride to invermere. Their kindness included offering me a place to stay, orange pop and green smokables. I politely refused all offers but their kindness, despite clearly not having much, was very endearing. The lack of power steering, shoddy brakes and questionable condition of the cavalier was not so endearing. I got out at the Invermere Tim Horton’s and after grabbing a coffee, got a ride from a girl in an SUV. She was heading in to catch 3 dollar final half hour at the Fairmont hotsprings.

I soaked in the hot pool and stared at the stars at the Fairmont hotsprings. Happy for the break and eager to get out of the many damp layers it was an excellent way to soak away the cave. Fatigue started to kick in and I still had a ways to go. My next hitch was to canal flats. It was in canal flats where I stood for 4 hours on a barren stretch of road. With only my headlamp to let passers by know that I needed a hitch, time passed very slowly. Luckily at midnight, a miner bound for Sparwood picked me up. I struggled to continue the conversation despite low energy levels.

I was dropped off at the end of my street and like a zombie, I shuffled to my apartment. Opening the door, I dropped my bag, went downstairs and passed out. 

The warm house with good friends, coffee and cribbage was a nice place to be after 3 days of snow caving.