Remembering The Stoke- Forgetting Everything Else

   I had recently wiped my ass with pieces of granite and alpine shrubbery (I forgot toilet paper). Our water was rather dirty (not related to my poop) (forgot cooking pot), and we were running out of it quite quickly. The goats that had cornered us into our bivi spot before they finally ran away from our rock throwing had returned. There would be no climbing today, and judging by the morning’s hike, tonight would be cold. A can of raw chickpeas with a crude gash of an opening ( I forgot a can opener) served as both dinner, and as our cleanest water source. Despite all this, the mood was light. Louis had found it in himself to laugh at my rookie mistakes and unpreparedness. The method may have been flawed, but the madness was perfect, and I couldn’t help but revel in our simple situation: hunkered down in a sea of peaks, seemingly millions of miles away from societal trivialities. There was a spoken collective excitement for the sun to set, and rise again so we could go onward. Nervous humour was the selected coping mechanism for the potentially uncomfortable night we both knew was inevitable.

I may have forgot a lot of things, but Louis didn't forget the red wine! 

     We were treated to a beautiful sunset, though its beauty was that of a cruel mistress, for we knew it would be short-lived and replaced by a cold, dark night. The Enchantment Range lived up to its name in those last moments of light. Pink sky blended with streaked alpine granite, the colours were vibrant, and then slowly gave way to the darkness and silence of night in the mountains. The stars were bright enough to give the imagination material to build off of, and soon my mind was entranced by the now inconceivable wilderness surrounding me. I have realized that the mountains assume a more ominous power when the sun leaves. Their presence can be felt more because it is seen less. The silhouettes of granite giants leave much for the imagination to fill. The dreamer in all of us becomes enthralled and the ego in all of us becomes intimidated. Peaceful silence is delicate, and often interrupted by a battle cry of rockfall. Nighttime in the mountains forces one to be at peace not with feeling small, but with being small. One has to be willing to accept the mountains as a dance partner, rather than a competitor, as there is nothing to win. Even if there was, no amount of chest puffing could defeat a massive piece of rock. Victory is in the dance itself, not the applause that may or may not come afterward. The moon and the mountains are great professors of liberation.

   The sound of goats shifting on scree eventually lulled me to sleep. I slept peacefully through the whole night, only waking to scare off the goats as they dared to go closer and closer to our bivi. Our night was pleasant. It wasn’t an epic that builds character, but instead a rather lovely place to have a rather lovely sleep. 

   Don’t let it go to your heads though boys, The Enchantments will conclude there first spanking of your asses with a retreat off one of her faces after only a pitch of climbing (forgot crucial size of cam)!

   Louis and I stashed some gear at the base of Colchuck Balanced Rock, convicting ourselves to return. My inexperience showed with my forgetfulness. I promised Louis and myself that rather than dwell I would learn and do better.

   We hung around town and bouldered for a day with our great friend Chris. After getting rained out of Powell River plans, fired out of Washington Pass plans, and temporarily spanked out of Enchantments plans, it felt good to finally get some volume in. Louis and Chris sent like madmen, and I tried my best. Running around boulders with your friends is an incredibly simple source of joy. My stoke was kindled and I was ready to head back into the mountains. 

The man, the myth, the Chris, enjoying the AMAZING climb Sleeping Lady

    It would be different this time. No bivying, no forgetting things, no obscure routes. Our objective was the West Face of Colchuck Balanced Rock in a car-to-car push. After a double inspection of our packs, I went to bed eager and calm. There was a strange lack of nerves, only excitement. I yearned for my alarm to go off. 4 am came rather early, and I jumped out of bed. Oatmeal was slammed, and in a half asleep state our hike began. 

   We moved with a silent purpose; two friends embarking on an adventure, having a keen understanding of the undertaking chosen and feeling no need to discuss it further. I was in the zone, and I could tell Louis was in the zone. With light packs and fresh legs the approach was brisk, and soon the trees thinned as we powered ourselves above the lake and toward the face. A slightly less than brief slog led us to our stashed gear, and we rested in a beautiful meadow below the talus of the face. I sprawled out on a boulder, enchanted (I write an amateur blog, I hope you expected that pun to come out at least once) by my surroundings and the face that I had signed up to climb. I felt slightly nervous looking at the striking West Face, but felt no displacement. I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

The West Face stands proud. I sit excited.

   The face called out to us, and its dark corners showed the obvious line through the jaws of the west face. Excitement built on the final leg of our approach, and it carried into the short moderate first pitch. I moved through the easy first pitch with As soon as I brought Louis up to the belay he began to move up the splitter crack above us. The crack petered out, and Louis was out of my view. Our communication simplified into the odd holler, and the movement of the rope. The physical unification of two souls adrift in a sea of granite. 

   On one end of the rope is the climber, stepping into the unknown and accepting the blanket of consequences that comes with the territory: The deep focus of a flow state, the grit of pouring yourself into a physical act- increasing the farther the act is from the perpetually expanding but never all encompassing comfort zone. Not to be forgotten is the strange euphoria of pulling it off, and the strange euphoria of trying hard and not pulling it off. 

   All of this of course relies on the hope that the beautiful peaks that quite randomly allow you safe passage continue to do so.

   On the other end is the belayer, who watches his partner- and usually close friend, slowly slip from vision and with them the security of companionship. Their absence allows a rampant mind to run, if it is let off its leash. There isn’t much to say about the experience, because there isn’t much about the experience itself. If communication is completely cut off due to a number of sources (Highway 99 in the case of the Stawamus Chief), the emotional experience can be a hope so deeply nurtured it flowers into an absolute belief. The physical experience is holding a rope.

   The experience typically isn’t as intense as I am making it sound. The risk is something that as climbers we try to both manage and- though I cannot speak for all climbers, try to celebrate. Try. Most of the time it isn’t gripping the holds for dear life while your friend is somewhere below doing the same to the rope for the same cause. In Louis and I’s case on the lower pitches of the West Face of Colchuck Balanced Rock, it really wasn’t. Honestly, most of the time climbing is internally quite meditative and externally as simple as humming a tune to yourself as you climb; Swatting a wasp as you think about dinner, belay, and marvel at the mountains at the same time. Louis cruised the second pitch, running out a tricky slab sequence above a small alien cam like the badass he is. 

                                                                                                          

    I had a brief moment on the third pitch. I was perhaps eight or nine metres from the belay, standing atop a detached pillar I had scrambled up, and now faced the task of stepping across back onto the mountain itself, and following a corner to a large ledge above me. The step was intimidating, the corner was mostly cloaked by a bulge in the rock, and the gear wasn’t straightforward. I deliberated with Louis, and with myself. My gear was okay, and in retrospect I’m sure it would’ve held; Louis said it was fine when he seconded the pitch, and his judgement would’ve been much less melodramatic. That being said, the Nat on that pillar sure didn’t believe in it as much as the Nat that is safely sitting in a Squamish cafe. On my island of safety, I kept thinking about a few mantras:

    Once you commit, there can be no hesitation. 

A quote inspired by the essay “The Third Party”, by John Lauchlan. (A wild story about the first ascent of Slipstream, an 1000 metre ice climb in the Canadian Rockies. The essay centres around the third member of the climbing party: The voice in Lauchlan’s basically telling him he is going to die.) 

Either commit to doing it, or not doing it. Own the decision you make.

   Strong. Calm. Confident.

   Liam Haigh’s mantra was recited in my head again and again. I knew it was time, and I torqued my right fingers into a good lock, and willed my foot high onto a good edge. I stood up, and tried my best to take the challenges I faced in stride. After a few more slabby moves, I cleaned the crack with the nut tool I forgot to give to Louis- a happy mistake, and found gear. I wanted to set sail, and I cut myself from the harbour. The waves were beautifully stirring.

   Louis stomach began to stir as well. We were eager to get off the ledge I had belayed him up to, especially after he took an emergency poop on it. There was an oxymoronic grace to his climbing despite his sickness. He would do a few moves, take a deep breath, nearly shit his pants, and continue with style. Louis didn’t even mutter a word of complaint; laughter would typically be the next noise after a mid pitch fart. The badass with the bad ass took us to an intermediate anchor, and then almost fought his way to an onsight of the 5.11 enduro corner that marks the start of the steep headwall. It was a hell of a lead, the gumption of which I cannot do justice with my words. To be feeling sick, and look up at a 5.11 layback endurance corner in the alpine with conviction, and climb it with conviction is fucking rad. After a few falls, I arrived at the anchor totally wiped from effort. 

   The burning in my forearms was soothed both by constant shaking and a realization of the position we found ourselves in. Louis’ lead brought us to the base of an awesome roof. Above our heads rested millions of tons of granite. Below our feet was the deep pastel blue of Colchuck Lake. We had stepped onto a stage with a magnificent setting, and a rightfully empty audience.

An enchanting view from the base of the route :) 

   It was time to act, though any attempt at deceiving the mountain would be feeble. There is nothing to deceive but ourselves. Passage would be most successful via honest effort, succumbing to the insignificance of our position on this mountain, and in this world. I focused on ridding myself of expectations and feelings of entitlement as I looked at the next pitch: A magnificent crack where roof and face meet, complimented by just enough edges for the feet; beautiful imperfections of the smooth alpine granite. Perhaps that is one of the many things we can learn from the mountains, that it is our perceived imperfections that make us accessible. Stoicism and “strength”, leave no room for both the good and the bad. All of us have cracks (I see the innuendo, I am cringing, bear with me), that have the possibility to be filled with once again, both love and hate. This is where hope is crucial. I hope to find love and joy in each moment. I hope to climb this pitch. 

   The burning evolved into a cramp quite early into the short pitch. After stumbling out of the gate, and not trusting sensei Louis’ judgement on a blind cam placement (like a fool!), my brain began to shut off. I remember reminding myself of the conversation I had with Louis in Leavenworth days prior, asking for this pitch after seeing it on our sans-toilet-paper-goat-imprisonment-chick-pea-gritfest. I was here, I had the opportunity for an experience that I wanted. With each move, I felt myself becoming more and more homogenized with my environment. My senses became intensely blurred, interacting with one another like a watercolour painting. Louis’ rooting blended beautifully with the ever growing intensity of the wind as I neared the end of the roof. These sounds heightened my understanding of my exposure. I would look down to place my foot on the next granite edge, and see the talus of the face’s crumbly past seemingly directly below my heel. There was none of the typical trepidation when I looked down however. Instead, the exposure felt more like an old friend. An old friend that in some way or another, had been present for the joyful, terrifying, and pivotal moments of my life, and was back to catalyze another. In this short roof traverse, all ceased to exist but an incredibly concentrated magnification of the presence. My old friend had wrapped its metaphorical blanket around me by physically doing the exact opposite: Briefly stripping me of conscious thought about everything in a setting where as mentioned before, there could be no deception. No place to hide, and no desire to be hidden. I stepped out from under the roof, and onto a ledge. The moment was gone. 

   As it should be. 

   I whooped to the Enchantment air, and began the process of setting up the belay for Louis. Louis second the pitch with his typical grace. We shared a jaw dropped look at how magnificent the pitch was. Collective content. Louis grabbed the rack and embarked on the second last pitch.

   My writing of Louis’ climbing is repetitive as I cannot offer internal dialogue. Most of the time, even if Louis is shitting his pants on the inside he remains cool as a cucumber. His climbing is decisive and confident. When Louis chooses to do something, he just does it. It is fucking rad to watch, and I am always inspired seconding his leads. Louis cruised until the crux of this pitch, and the route itself. After a an earnest go with tired limbs and a low sun, he efficiently aided the crux of the pitch, and soon I was climbing again. I did the same, my tired arms were no match for this boulder problem. I stood below the last pitch. The sun was high enough, we were going to summit in the light! 

   Bamboozled.

   An hour and forty minutes later I laid on my stomach in a horizontal v-slot ledge, trying to ignore my full body cramps, and redeem my pride-ridden and experience lacking lead by at least building an anchor and fixing the rope for Louis to jug in a decent time. The sun was teasing me with its last light, its raw beauty adding to the raw beauty of the experience I found myself in. In the last one hundred minutes, I fell, and then attempted to aid the pitch thinking that it would be quicker. This idea conveniently ignores the fact that I have next to zero experience aid climbing. Louis tried his best to help me, but I was unwilling to listen, selfishly wanting to “figure it out for myself”. The alpine is no place for pride or principles, especially when you are working as a unit. Partnership is sacred. I had to learn that the hard way, and Louis maintained patience as best as he could. Louis explained to me at the anchor that communication is essential, we must lose ourselves in the partnership and focus both on what we are doing as individuals and how that is going to impact the team. I apologized, apologized, apologized, and then apologized again. How lucky I am to have a wise, patient, and loving friend. A lesson learnt in a foolish and dangerous way, but a lesson learnt nonetheless. The raw exposure of my inexperience and good intentioned but terribly communicated traits didn’t take away from the beauty of the situation, and it is important to note that. The beauty of the alpine is in the experiences. Adventure isn’t always just the pleasant moments you see on Instagram, and if it was then perhaps we wouldn’t be so drawn to it. Exposure and adventure are defined by being naked among uncertainty. This goes both ways, sometimes you pull it off, sometimes you build character. The lows in themselves are highs, as it is the moments where you’re in the middle of an intense ass kicking that you learn two important things: 1. that you can survive an ass kicking (a privileged one albeit). 2. How to avoid an ass kicking down the road.  You win some, you learn some.

   There wasn’t much time for reflection and Louis was keen to move- though I have no idea why. He was acting as if his partner had just totally ignored his helpful advice, and thus had to sit at a belay for over an hour. Crazy!!!! He grabbed the rack and powered us to another ledge where we began simuling and climbing on running belays in waning light. We were like two rats trying to find their way out of a maze, weaving and bobbing around loose flakes and boulders piled on top of one another, searching desperately for safe passage off the dark face. After only one close call, in which I broke a hold off and hit Louis in the hand- causing another million apologies, we found our way through a slot and our tired feet touched the promised land of scree at last! 

   It was now pitch black. We stopped for a moment to put on our headlamps, and hugged a great hug of genuine friendship. Our descent was beautifully uneventful. The peaceful silence of the mountains settled deeper into our tired, content minds the further we descended. By the time we were getting “close” to the car, I began to hallucinate vividly. Rocks became lawn chairs, trees bore human made signs of all variety. It reminded me of a story from Bernadette McDonald’s Freedom Climbers in which Voytek Kurtyka describes the altitude induced hallucinations he succumbed to on Gasherbrum IV “as a gift”. Louis and I discussed the awesome rare reality we were living, in which we had exhausted ourselves to the point of losing slight control of our minds. It was a unique experience that would soon be over, and once again cannot be wished away. It was 3 a.m by the time we stumbled back to the minivans we eagerly left twenty two hours prior, keen for the adventure that lay ahead. Now, we both nursed celebratory menthols (I love you America!), happy and content with the adventure that took place; eager and keen for the adventures that lay ahead- and sleep. Sweet, sweet sleep.

   La montañas son mi casa.