Cave Reflection, Wind Refreshment

   I understand that this piece is rather colloquial (thanks for the help on that one, spell check!), and full of what I can understand as being a surplus of flavourful vocabulary. The mountains are a powerful place in which we can rid ourselves of triviality- and pardon my reach, by being a wide eyed sponge, learn about what matters, and then jaunt on these important trails with vigour. Godspeed in wading through adjective after adjective!


   I couldn't decipher between the feeling of a soft rain storm, and the mosquitos in spades. Both were trying to pierce my lost-and-found wardrobe. Carl was preparing gear in the mosquito free peace of his Sprinter. Every glance to the southwest ended with a shout of glee, as the Hound's Tooth was still visible, refusing to be enveloped by the alpine storm we chose to block out of our minds. The rain became heavier, my soul lighter. We were there. Nothing else mattered.

   Thanks to the character building amount of things on our backs, our elevation gain was slow, and rain became sleet before it was snow. The vista became more and more surreal: Granite spires rising out of a desolate glacier, shooting toward the sky with gumption; defying the idea of human entitlement in the mountains. We dipped peanut M&M's into a melting stick of butter (a fine delicacy) in the mess room of the Conrad Kain Hut, which made for quite the conversation starter with those scurrying into the shelter. Everyone was kind, but they simply weren't the mountains. The societal bubble amongst the wilderness made me keen to defy the wishes of my legs and finish the kilometre slog to Applebee Dome. We stayed long enough, payed the custodian the camp fees, and our legs stepped into the elements with a familiar burn.

   The final leg of the approach was done in a magnificent weather window. The landscape flowed through me, and I felt light. Carl could see my eagerness and insisted that I keep moving ahead of him. It was a small explicit gesture, but it highlighted the kindness and understanding of my friend. I am exaggerating the grandness of this gesture because it allowed me to have time alone with the mountains. To be "alone" with the mountains is time that should be sought after in moderation. The solitude primes the soul for absorption of the surroundings, and the surroundings offer perspective. This perspective dominos into appreciation for everything in our lives, and ultimately, happiness, or at least a keen pursuit of it. I was alone, but not lonely. There was no humanity in my small Bugaboo bubble between refuges. Of course my painting ignores the hues of the incredibly, LUXURIOUSLY, well trodden trail that was easy to follow, even with a dusting of snow; there are brighter colours to focus on. Anyways! My self awareness dwindled to minimal as I was held by the indifferent hands of the mountains.

   A brief, ironically self aware interruption from writing that has you either full cringe, and continuing to read out of sheer entertainment, or with the hope my intention shines through, running to your hills, whatever those hills may be: 

   These moments were highly spiritual, and in the comfort of a home, or even in the wifi laden cafe I write this in, can be looked upon incredulously. To put them into words that lack honesty, and more importantly lack the effort of truly doing them justice, would be a disservice. I am learning that sometimes society teaches us to look down on honest eccentricity- especially within ourselves. We look down from bland grey towers built with mortar and the brick of ego. The safety of this metaphorical tower left me subconsciously squirming, and thanks to friends that challenge and inspire me, I took an honest step outside. With this step came introspection, and a view of the ugly, ugly tower. Another metaphor for the ego, this one passed to me by my friend Liana, is that it is a dragon within us. When it rears its head, the sword must be swung. This dragon in particular is rather heinous and its head will constantly regrow. The war wages on for all of our lives.

   My horse isn't high, it is simply a revelation I have gone through in the past few months. It has contributed to a happiness so deeply engrained within me that to hold it for myself would be a sledgehammer to the collective pillars that happiness stands on. On a more shallow depth, my sharing is also for the sake of context.

   The alpine wind carried with it a cold that in many other circumstances would've felt uncomfortable. In this moment, it felt refreshing. Everything felt refreshing, even the burn in my legs, and the growing strain of my shoulders. The wind made me think of a bathroom air dryer at the Telus Convention Centre. My surroundings had changed dramatically in the last forty eight hours. Two days prior, in my fanciest clothes, I ate a fancy feast (not the cat food, not yet) at my high school graduation among family and old friends. We caught up, laughed lots, danced the night away, and I retired to a cozy minivan and the arms of the love of my life. It was fantastic, and certainly not tainted by, but surrounded by the triviality of excess materialism (that I more than willingly indulged in) and the odd societal expectations that had been erased from my mind by the lifestyle of Squamish, and incredibly supportive family and friends. My flashback was brief, and another gust brought back presence, and with it, more refreshment. Refreshment that washed away triviality. The beautiful aspects of life, though never tainted, can now flourish perpetually without the excess weight of dense bullshit. Refreshment is the power of the mountains, the energy to be absorbed. My walk of solitude ended as I neared the camp, and after a hilariously close call during a scramble in an attempt to save time, I greeted others at the camp with glee. I looked back at the trail, and after a few short moments saw Carl. I was happy to have my time alone, and now looked forward to being in a place of wonder with friends. The forecast at the hut must've been wrong, we hiked up in decent conditions. We may get to climb after all!

   A bitch slap to the face came in the form of a forecasted blizzard as were setting up our tent and cooking dinner. We kept saying that we would play it by ear. I cannot speak for Carl, but my mind and heart were at a battle. The blizzard obviously meant that climbing would not be probable, but how can one lose hope, especially when dealing with the prospect of climbing. CLIMBING! IN THE BUGABOOS! All we could do was punch snow off Carl's workhorse of a three season tent, and enjoy our front row seats to a display of the power of the Earth. We went to sleep rather early, and the warmth of my massive lost-and-found sleeping bag had me drifting away from the Bugaboo storm.

   Another bitch slap to the face woke me up, this time in the form of a tent on the brink of a collapse, and nylon in my face. I cleared the snow off, and it provided a little more room, but the snow that we were clearing off was collecting around the tent and enclosing our shelter. It was what it was, we would be fine. Carl said something about his heart being full, and his words hung in the tent. With a content feeling, I couldn't help but concur. Sleep came and went throughout the night.

   With the morning light came the reality that considering the lack of days we had to sit out the storm, we would not be doing any rock climbing on this Bugaboo adventure. I was oddly surprised when it wasn't a tough pill to swallow. We hiked out in a short afternoon weather window, four days earlier than planned. Our morning was spent in a cave brewing tea, milking a cigarette, and poking our heads out at the show, still going on with vibrance. Through conversation and self reflection that a cave in the mountains catalyze quite well, I began to understand my relationship with climbing more deeply. The movement is amazing. The accomplishment that comes with "sending", or seeing a goal through, is fantastic. I'll be the first to admit it feels good to have a friend congratulate you. But the centre of my climbing universe and what I now know will be the key to longevity in the lifestyle is one without expectations. The only expectation can be pouring yourself into what you love. Climbing, and other pursuits. 690%. To be truly disappointed (and not just letting out a hearty "fuck! and getting over it) about going to the Bugaboos and not climbing, or punting off your project for the 69th time, is to miss the essence of climbing: adventure. Part of adventure is stepping into the unknown with both feet. Toes cannot be merely dipped in the easy parts, and it must be embraced with warmth that sometimes the unknown will not be what is societally perceived as pleasant, and it will kick your ass. Masochism in this metaphor is key. It cannot solely be the growth that comes out of the struggle, but the struggle in itself must be enjoyed as well. "Sending" in climbing, and in life, is so rare that if it is the only moment enjoyed, much of life would be spent unhappy. Adventure, for the sake of adventure. It is cliche, because it is true: Climbing, for the sake of FUCKING CLIMBING!!!! YAHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

If you look closely, and use your imagination, you can see Snowpatch Spire

    In the hour long~ weather window we used to pack up, and hike out of the habitat of a beautiful beast that refused to open its jaws, we were treated to a grand finale. As the rarity of sunshine hit the spires, Snowpatch Spire came alive, sending a hearty amount of its infamous snowpatch plummeting to the ground. It was loud, then it was not. A final stroke of a bow against a violin, and then silence once more. Carl and I walked out with full packs, sore knees, and full hearts. The beautiful, volatile Bugaboos had thrown gas on the fire of inspiration and excitement. We were there. Nothing else mattered.