How I got there however, is a different story, and one long enough and hopefully exciting enough for a blog post.
This summer I have mostly spent my time sport climbing, and more specifically one route: Jason Lives. It is a difficult 5.12d that is a short hitchhike away from my front door, and after forty or so tries, I have honed it as my "mega project". The route has enriched my life in many ways, and I am excited for when the day comes around that I can close the book on it. One day in early July, I was working the moves and hearing my screams of effort bounce off the walls surrounding Lake Louise when a bucket hat wearing, bright pant donning figure hiked up to the base of the route. We chatted, and introduced ourselves. His name was John, and he was also working the route. We got along well and made plans to give each other belays on Jason Lives. Over the next month, this turned into a weekly routine.
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| My cruel summer mistress, Jason Lives. Photo: @cameronhaj |
Thanks to that route, John and I became good friends quickly. We pushed one another and tried hard. John is now incredibly close to sending the route and it is only a matter of time, whereas I have a little bit more work to put in. However, both of us were feeling a little burnt out about the route and needed change. Especially me, I had banged my head against the wall all summer and neglected other routes, and though I was learning specific moves I was losing climbing IQ and strength. During one of these sessions, I told John about my trip up Mt. Victoria and that I wanted to transform myself into an alpinist. At least in comparison to myself, John was a brilliant alpine climber and had routes like the Greenwood- Locke, a line up the massive north face of Mt. Temple, under his belt. I cannot speak for my friend, but I assume John saw the inexperience in my eyes and knew I was probably going to maim myself if I went into the alpine without a mentor, and he offered to take me on a route. I was psyched. We chose the route "Homage to the Spider III 5.10a" on the beautiful Mt. Louis. It had been on John's radar for sometime and was a reasonable enough grade where I thought I wouldn't make too much of a fool of myself. Typing this sentence out, I can't help but laugh.
On August 21, 2017, I tried to wake myself up and start my day with a breakfast of bananas, quinoa, and oatmeal. It was 5:30 in the morning, and as I stepped out of my front door, the Ski Resort staff residence, commonly known as Chucktown, was still alive. I chatted with some friends on the tail end of a wild night, and they wished me luck. John swung by in his Subaru and we were off. Both of us were drowsy and we chatted about the route, and didn't say a word about Jason Lives. The session previous we shook on a deal that if either of us mentioned it, they would lead the next pitch wearing nothing but a harness, chalk bag, and climbing shoes, regardless of any outside circumstances. It was enough to motivate me to keep my mouth shut, and though I was nervous about the coming adventure, I was excited. This summer I have come to terms that we all have to start somewhere, and on this lifelong journey of climbing, there is no doubt in my mind that I will be able to spend time and be successful on my dream routes, but there is a process that one has to respect and trust. That process includes sharp learning curves that leave you feeling like a massive rookie. But I reminded myself that all I could do was get out there, try hard, and eventually I would be the mentor rather than the mentee.
We began our hike to Mt. Louis just as the Sun's first light was waking up the world. I however, was still not woken up. Though just off the highway near Mt. Norquay, I had never been to the area and was mystified by the old growth forest we marched through. It was a pleasant way to wake up and the beauty of nature calmed my nerves and a feeling of content soon came to me. About twenty minutes into our hike, John stopped his impressive pace and cursed. I asked him what was up and he said that he had forgotten his helmet in his car. In the Canadian Rockies, a helmet is a vital piece of equipment on a big route as sometimes the rockfall can be immense. We weighed our options, and worried that we were losing precious time. After a few minutes of discussion John decided that he would hustle to the car and grab his helmet and I would stay and watched the pack. John set off, and I laid our packs down beside the trail, and using them as a pillow and the forest moss as a mattress I tried to catch up on some sleep. Once, my sleep was disturbed by the sounds of what I thought were a bear. I shot up from my comfortable position on edge and alert, white-knuckling my bear spray. Looking like a madman, I examined my surroundings and heard the sound again. Only this time, it was coming from my grumbling stomach. Laughing at my foolishness, I laid in the moss once more and quickly fell asleep.
My slumber was disturbed by a running, helmet wearing, John. With haste, we set off and continued. After some casual trail hiking we caught our first glimpse of Mt. Louis. My eyes widened at the sight, it was a steep pinnacle of limestone that shot out of the sky with a force that demanded respect. Our objective was still a bit of a hike away, but we pushed on to a boulder field between Mt. Louis and Mt. Edith. With the descent route being different from our ascent, this would be the point that we would return to. Therefore, we got our climbing gear on, and I exchanged my big pack for a smaller one, and my mountain boots for Nike Freeruns, clipping my climbing shoes to my harness for the rest of the approach.
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| John dwarfed by our objective |
Though shorter than the trail we hiked on for the past hour and a bit, skirting around the base of Mt. Louis was a grind. The trail appeared and disappeared, and routefinding has never been my strong suite. Thus, we ended up slogging up a scree field for what seemed like forever. The Freeruns offered little to no traction, and my body hated me. I hadn't gotten enough sleep and should've poured more quinoa into my oatmeal and every fibre of my body was reminding me of this. We stopped at a grassy ledge before the final scramble to the base of the route, and I ate some much needed carrots. The scrambling didn't look too tricky and to be honest it wasn't. But the Freeruns made every bit of slab feel like it had been lathered in butter, and I have no shame in saying that on the last section John tossed me a rope from the base of the route just in case. But we were finally there, and both of us were eager.
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| John psyched to stop scrambling and start climbing! |
We roped up, and John began up the first pitch. "Homage to the Spider" is a traditional climb, meaning that besides at anchors the pitches are protected with camming devices and metal chalks that are placed by the leader and cleaned by the follower. This is obviously more daring than sport climbing, where routes are protected with shiny metal bolts that the leader clips into as they climb. We were concerned about our time, and didn't want to be on the route in the dark. Thus, we came to the consensus that John would lead all the pitches unless for whatever reason he wasn't feeling it. Grade wise, the climbing was more than in both of our comfort zones. However, in the alpine I have learnt hands on that grades should be taken with a grain of salt. This ties in to the recurring theme of my summer: learning. The facts were there, I had lead less than five traditional pitches total, and though I'm sure I could've lead most of the pitches if need be, this wasn't the time to find out. John was experienced, and by watching him lead, and follow his leads, there was lots to learn. Originally, even though I knew it was the right call I was slightly disheartened. Leading, and more specifically leading trad, is an adventure and it scares the shit out of me, which is exactly why I wanted to do it.
John ran up the first pitch, rated at 5.9. His climbing style was bold and creative, and you could tell that this was not John's first rodeo. Continuing with that terrible metaphor, I cowboy'd up for my first alpine trad pitch. I was on top rope from John, and therefore a fall would result in a swing and a few feet of freefall at the most. The first pitch was interesting, consisting of both face climbing and chimneying up a wide fracture in the mountain. Chimney climbing was something that was totally new to me and I enjoyed the movement and felt very challenged by it. It was this delicate blend of creativity and hard work. At times I would stem the chimney, with a foot pushing on either wall, their opposing forces keeping me upright and moving. Sonnie Trotter, a professional climber and Bow Valley legend, said in his "Castles In The Sky Video" (well worth the watch) that "I go climbing, and something happens where I fall in love with it all over again." Though it was exhausting and far from beautiful, that was one of those pitches, and today was one of those days. John and I chatted at the belay, and I told him how it felt hard for 5.9. John agreed, and it was one of those "welcome to the alpine" moments of the day for me. It wasn't a sport climb, and on the grand scheme of things not an overly daring or really big climb, but it served a lesson that the alpine is a place far more wild than a crag and needs to be treated accordingly.
The second pitch was more of the same at first and John's bold climbing continued to impress me. While climbing John went to back clean one of his cams. This is where rather than place another cam, you grab the last cam you placed near your feet and move it up the crack. John removed the cam, then went to place it above him only to find it was the wrong size. Rather than freak out that he was now very run out above his last piece, he calmly said "oops," laughed at himself and placed the right size cam. The beginning of the pitch was very similar to the first pitch, but then the chimney began to enclose and get smaller. Eventually it was too small to stem and it turned into the blue collar style of offwidth climbing. It is exactly what it sounds like, the width of the crack is too small to chimney climb, and too big to jam your fists. Thus, it requires the grunt work of jamming everything from using your arm like a chicken wing to lock into the crack, to having a knee on one side and your foot on the other. Up the offwidth I was sweating losing energy fast. I unclipped a piton, put the quickdraw on my harness and could feel my calves screaming at me with my forearms accompanying them, together making a chorus of exhaustion. Nonetheless, I continued up and the crack got smaller but found a tough time managing the pump while trying to understand this new style of climbing. Alas, I saw a foot hold that could get me out of trouble. It was high, but being a hipster in 2017, I am well versed in yoga and figured I could reach it. I raised my foot, pushing my other limbs against the crack to stay afloat, feeling my muscles burn and stretch as my pink shoes got closer and closer to the hold until it simply ceased to move, perhaps two inches from the hold. I fought for it, giving everything I had to that pitch. Trying to squeeze my body just that fraction higher in order to gain purchase on the foot but soon I found myself falling out of the crack and into the air. My ego was more bruised than my body, but I reminded myself of my circumstances and that I had tried as hard as I could, and that this was apart of the learning curve. Soon, I figured the move out and joined John at the belay station. We chatted, laughed and took in our situation. Despite my hardship on the last pitch I couldn't help but smile, I was going out and getting after it and perhaps more importantly- was learning what that really meant.
Our strategy was paying off, John's leading was quick and we were making good pace. The third pitch was only 5.7, but was perhaps one of the more serious pitches. John was twenty feet up from the belay before he got to put a piece in. He was calm and cool despite the spice, and he made good time on the chimney of the pitch, before transition over a few face moves into an easier chimney. While the climbing was the easiest we encountered, there wasn't much protection, and the last pitches had been very solid which is an anomaly in the Rockies. It caught up to us, and this pitch was full of loose rock. There is nothing quite like hearing your partner yell "rock", and then hearing what sounds like a missile zip by you as you hump the rock in an effort to dodge the strike. I had read stories of my heroes talking about pitches of loose rock in the alpine and for some time could only dream of what that would be like. While I was on toprope, and there is still much to be imagined about leading a pitch that serious, I began to understand the Canadian Rockies through the lens of that pitch. The chimney was easy enough, but the easier second chimney was full of loose rock. On one move I grabbed a hold with my left hand and began to pull on it. Just as I placed a foot, the hold, though still my hands, was no longer connected to the wall. I nervously laughed at the dinner plate of limestone in my hand, called "rock", and tossed it off Mt. Louis into the valley below. Being near the belay at this point John saw this unfold, and exclaimed in a goofy voice, "The Rockies! You like a hold here? Take it with you!" This lightened the mood and my laugh turned from nervous to hearty. Yet another example of how climbing partners can make or break your day.
The next pitch was the crux pitch. Though only 10a, the second pitch taught me that that can be totally bullshit and I was a little intimidated. John climbed up easy terrain but with no gear, and after thirty feet or so John said rather matter-of-factly: "Man, I could really go for some gear right now." Despite his plea, he continued climbing without gear and finally, I watched him grab a cam from his harness and I sighed with relief. As he was doing this, he asked, "how many pieces do you have on your harness?" I looked down at my gear loops and cringed at the sight of at least half of our rack. I had forgotten to give him the gear that I cleaned on the last pitch. A total rookie move, welcome to the alpine, jackass. "Do you want to climb down and get it?" I asked. John replied, "Nah, I reckon with the fixed pitons I should be good." Up he went, what a badass! John ran up the rest, continuing to impress me with his climbing style. He pulled through the crux, which was protected by fixed pitons and yelled back at me, "that move was sick!" I smiled as my bearded friend topped out and put me on belay at the ledge. I started up, and the pitch simply flowed. It was a style that I was used too, limestone face climbing. Though the moves were sometimes cryptic, the holds were there and the movement was absolutely beautiful. I topped out and told John that that was one of the best moderate pitches I had ever climbed. This gem was 140 metres off the deck and a two hour hike from the road and I now fully understood my desire to get into alpine climbing.
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| Ear to Ear grin topping out the fourth pitch |
Another offwidth was above us. I was keen for the challenge. Once again, John ran up, mostly chimneying but doing a few offwidth moves near the top. Perhaps I have reiterated it too much, but climbing with John is rad. He is patient, a good teacher, and also knows when to kick you in the ass and get you to just go for it. I told him throughout the day that I was excited for the inevitable days that we could swap leads on big routes. He simply laughed and said, "that'd be nice!" We settled into a routine, and once again it was my go. The chimney wasn't too tricky at first, but I got sucked into the crack rather than stay out at the chimney width. Soon I found myself committed to an offwidth, with the only way out being up. I placed my left elbow on one wall and my left hand on the other and weighted the painful jam. I began to propel myself up with my feet until I simply couldn't move. My mind raced, "how the hell am I stuck?" I then remembered that my shoes were clipped to the back of my backpack, and they had gotten caught on the sharp limestone. These god damn Nike Freerun's! Eventually, my effort though perhaps commendable proved futile and I fell. It was frustrating to fall on a 5.9, but it was 5.9 offwidth. A style I was totally unfamiliar with, a style that was a far cry to a Lake Louise 5.9. Trust the process. On `my second go, I did grunt and push my way up the crack and to the belay. I couldn't help but put a smile on my sweat drenched face. John laughed at me, and informed me that there was no need to offwidth and that if I went out a bit more, the crack flared to a chimney. A character building pitch indeed.
The climbing became methodic. John would run up the pitches, perhaps make a few lighthearted jokes as he climbed higher and higher. He'd yell that he had me on belay, and I would clean the gear. Our rhythm was giving us good pace, and the stoke was high. In my opinion, the ladder is crucial. I am climbing to have fun, and there is no sense in being on a big alpine route with someone you can't stand, let alone share a belay ledge with. With John leading the way, we eventually found ourselves at the infamous "medieval alleyway", a wide chimney that resembled a tall and grungy castle hallway. This appropriately named feature also marked the end of our roped climbing. As we unroped, and munched on snacks, John complained of a stomach ache. I asked him if everything was alright, and he looked me dead in the eyes with a discomfort that roots from the soul, or perhaps the bowels. "I have to fucking shit, bad." I cackled at this, my laugh bouncing off the walls of our taste of Old Scotland in the Canadian Rockies. I remembered John complaining about this at one of the earlier belays but thought nothing of it, now it was quite hilarious. I teased John about how he looked like the carrot I was snacking on in his all orange Patagonia get-up, and soon we had the gear away in our packs and were walking up the alleyway to a spot where it became small enough to chimney up.
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| Orange John starfished in the alleyway |
I begin to chimney up and I now find myself in the situation used to introduce this story. In a very genuine sense, it was beautiful. The cool wind hitting my tense body as I stemmed higher and higher away from the safety of the alleyway, John's beard, contrasted by the teeth of his goofy grin beside me, and then disappearing, as he quickly stemmed up the chimney and transferred his whole body to the side attached to the mountain. Despite knowing that John was only metres above me, he was out of sight and I felt alone. This presented a sink or swim mentality within myself, and after a few anxious moves I began to swim slowly but proficiently up the chimney and onto the slab. John and I rendezvoused and began up the five or six hundred feet of easy 5.6 climbing broken up by sections of scrambling and hiking that lead us to the summit.
We did all this unroped, as most parties do, but on the steeper sections we saw that someone had drilled bolts into the rock. John and I discussed ethics as we climbed, and we both agreed that especially after doing much more technical climbing below, there was no reason to bring the mountain down to the climbers' level. I assume that the bolting is for guided parties and is clearly from a concern of safety. While I understand that perspective, at this point in my climbing life, I am a firm believer in the importance of adventure. As Yvon Chouinard once said, "Adventure demands uncertainty." The climbing was easy, but without the use of the bolts it provided the adventure that I had lacked that day due to the relative safety of seconding. Yes, I was slightly scared at first as I always am, but regardless of the grade there is an aspect of satisfaction that comes from being unroped, exposed and moving with confidence. I was finally able to keep up with John, and we both moved silently with a meticulous attention to detail of the rock we were interacting with. Each ledge was noted and the moves flowed together. It becomes a dance, a meditation in an environment that should be everything but peaceful, and I just think it is a shame that some people miss out on this oxymoronic tranquility in lieu of relative safety.
The body moves with a unique precision once in this mental zone; right hand, right foot, good hold left hand, huge ledge left foot, stand up and then suddenly I was snapped back to reality and the danger of the Rockies as the dinner plate size ledge crumbled beneath the weight of my left foot. I could hear the foreshadow of my demise crashing down the mountain, the intervals between sounds getting longer and longer as it gained speed and airtime. My left leg kicked out into the sky and for a moment my entire world stopped. Luckily, my three other points of connection to the rock were solid enough to hold my weight with ease. My once peaceful mind raced and I rushed to get a hold on it. "Focus you idiot, you're fine. It's 5.6, maybe not even." With that thought, I took a few breaths and found a new left foot among the plethora that the easy, ledgy climbing offered. It had been seconds but it felt like minutes, and John asked what the rockfall was from. "That was my left foot!" I said, happy to be alive and audibly showing it. John simply responded something under the lines of, "huh." With that, it was onward and upward once again for The Rookie and The Veteran.
Soon, I settled back into my groove of comfort and joy of climbing, though this time moving slower. John raced ahead, and it wasn't long before I heard him call out, "I can see the summit!" I pulled the last vertical step, and pulled onto the now flat summit ridge. I looked ahead and was greeted by John and the summit marker silhouetted among a deep sea of peaks and their valley floors far below them. I paused before catching up to John, took a quick picture and regardless of the cliche- soaked the moment in. I know that I will not be able to do those seconds on the ridge justice with my words, rather I will simply say that in order to feel, or even understand the happiness that comes from a day spent climbing, one simply has to climb.
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| My point of view, pulling onto the last of the summit ridge |
John and I snacked at the summit, and wrote in the register. My page read "THE KID'S FIRST DAY ON ALPINE ROCK, GNARLY DAY WITH A GOOD FRIEND, IT IS A BEAUTIFUL LIFE." However while putting the notebook back in the register I accidentally tore my page, and now my legacy on Mt. Louis only lives via the internet and my relentless ability to talk about it. We left the summit, did an easy walk to the rappel route and started on our way down.
The theme of the descent can be summarized with three John Forestell quotes: "I hate rappelling", "I love efficiency, I'm an engineer", and my personal favourite, "I have to shit." Soon we were on the ground and after some slippery hiking in the god damn Nike Freeruns, we were back at the boulders where we stashed our packs. As we pressed on toward the car the light was diminishing but we made good pace. The bright orange of John's Subaru appeared through the forest just as night fell on us. I couldn't help but take a photo of my friend's mad dash to the bathroom.
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| John looking like a real, live, alpinist on the descent |
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| The mad bathroom dash |
We celebrated with Tim Horton's, and I told John I couldn't wait for the next adventure, and I sincerely meant it. The alpine is a strange place. I am not ignorant to its unforgiving nature, but rather I am keen to embrace it. As we waited for our glorious empty calories at Tim Horton's, I reflected on the past 15 hours. First, I thought of how I was blessed to share the rock with John, and that if it wasn't for his patience and mentorship I doubt I would've made it up the mountain. That thought transitioned into a recognition of how much I had learnt and how it could be applied. Today I may have had to second, and tomorrow I may have too as well, but every fibre of my body yearns for the inevitable days of tying into the lead on a big, scary route. Trust the process. Third, days like this are why I climb and to be frank, why I live. The friendship, the beautiful movement on rock, and the personal growth all come together and blend into a collective sense of the realest happiness I have ever felt.
