Thank you, Carl

   

"One of the great contradictions of climbing writing is that the bigger and deeper the experience the more difficult they tend to be to write about." -Marc-Andre Leclerc

   It is interesting that a phrase used to introduce a profound soloing experience resonates deeply with my attempt to do justice to experiences that revolved around friendship. Initially, I didn't even try to write about February 28, 2018. 

   Nine months, and Carl, have passed. 

   I feel an internal obligation to write about the moments that I shared with my friend on that day and many others, but is it possible to do an experience, let alone a person justice with any words? It would be very difficult, for it would contradict the extreme presence the mountains offer; the presence that is the welding flame of the bonds that are forged in the mountains. No words can replace living moments, and it isn't their purpose to attempt to do so. Rather, the duty of words and those who write them is to inspire living moments. The essence of this writing is the same as the essence of life: We must experience it for ourselves, and we must experience it now.

Carl seen here sporting a full pack, and a full heart! 

  I was fortunate enough to experience life with Carl on a number of occasions, one of them being our attempt at climbing "Door of Perception" (DOP) on February 28 of this year. Being a moderate alpine climb, it felt like a great stepping stone for our budding partnership. New to Canmore and yearning for friendship, I had nervously introduced myself to Carl at the local gym after seeing him sharpening his ice tools, and asking "Do you ice climb?" I could see a sarcastic response at the tip of his tongue, and then understanding in his eyes before he simply let out a "yes". It was my first taste of his incredibly outrageous, vile, and against all odds elegant sense of humour. We made plans to climb almost immediately. A wonderful night climb under the dimly lit, pastel painting resembling Three Sisters quickly ensued, and we made plans to climb again almost immediately. 

   DOP was next on the ticklist. MF Doom got us psyched to charge to the base through the frigid air of a clear and dark Canadian Rockies morning. These mornings are a double edged sword. The clear sky gives the cold a feeling of resonation, but those keen enough to get out are rewarded with an uplifting rising sun wearing a cape that sports brilliant hues of pink and orange. Waking up early and doing some walking didn't feel like a worthy cost to pay for such a show, but there we were. 

   We simul solo'd the lower ice of the route. Carl was a man of efficiency; he moved fast in the mountains and though I cannot speak for my dead friend, I believe that it was during these moments of movement in the mountains that he felt an artistic level of peace. I can speak for myself, and I saw it on many occasions. Carl moved with weightless prowess in the winter. Even in dicey moments, you could tell he wanted to be there. There was a precision so strong its only source could be passion. I began to understand it more on the first ice steps of DOP: Carl swung a tool and opened up an ice dam, soaking himself with literal ice water. Hot and unbothered, he didn't even say anything to me until we were both on flat ground. We carried on to the rock pitches. It was bound to be a wild day from the beginning as I mislead us up the wrong corner system. Ten months later, it still stands as one of the scariest pitches of my life. It took well over an hour for me to negotiate the pitch, specifically a traverse out of the corner and off a safety blob of ice. I got to a ledge and a bolted anchor above a different groove and brought Carl up, but not before letting out a few primal, fear-fuelled screams on the last few moves. When Carl arrived at the belay, I immediately received a jab intended on lightening the mood: "Good lead, but what was with all the screaming?" Carl asked, tongue-in-cheek, knowing damn well I was gripped out of my mind. I laughed and exclaimed just how scared I was with big gestures and a rambling story that had to be interrupted so he could make up time for us on the next pitch. He'd later apologize and call himself a dick for the jab over a beer on the porch of The Drake Inn, but it wasn't needed. Being able to laugh at yourself is invaluable, and if you didn't know how, Carl could certainly lend a hand in showing you the way. 

   He did make up the time that I took. It was absurd to watch him move above the horrendous gear the pitch offered. He pulled a bulge virtually unprotected, and no fear-fuelled screams to boot! This is one of those moments that I know can never fully be justified with my words. Carl was simply painting and his art was too personal to be truly captured. I joined him at the next belay- which was a solid boulder between his two legs, a smile, a wink, and the assurance that he would've caught me had I fallen. Good enough for me. I led another pitch up the face and after another marginal belay we became more and more accepting of the fact that we were well off route, and the probability of a mellow retreat was becoming more and more minimal. Topping out was our best option. The corner system ended and Carl led an easy but unprotected traverse off the centre of the face to some scrambling terrain. This didn't last long, and I belayed Carl off a sapling as he scratched his tools over a bulge, then yelled down that the slab above was easy and that I could take him off belay. Reckless? Intelligent. Selfless. Carl knew the sapling wouldn't hold both of our weight, and there was no other gear to be found. He cruised, and then we cruised up a crack system we discovered on the slab. No more type two fun, no more pants being shat (how much more could they handle?), just high quality rock in the 5.8 range. Easy terrain earned, is a lot sweeter than easy terrain given. One of my ice axes fell off my harness at some point, and Carl led one more steep pitch onto the summit block just as the beautiful sunrise's kin greeted us with her own flavour. We descended off the back side in the dark, got lost, found the road, and stumbled back to Carl's year round home and beloved Sprinter Van. It was almost midnight, and the next day was my eighteenth birthday. Carl bought some lovely cheap champagne for the occasion. We sipped it under the stars, incredibly content with our effort and excited to feed the insatiable hunger again. That morning, the dark air felt frigid and the friendly company unsure. That evening, the dark air felt frigid, but the company familiar.

   I knew Carl for less than a year, though relationships built in the mountains are well watered and grow fast. One of the more watering experiences of our friendship was the thirty hours we spent in a Bugaboo blizzard. I watched the Sprinter bounce around through a gentle rain toward the Hound's Tooth, and as we hiked, the rain turned to snow. We were confined to small shelters as the blizzard settled in and took the place of our Bugaboo dreams. The tent sagged with snow during our sole night at Applebee and we concurred that despite the circumstances, this was, indeed, THE LIFE! Carl, the man of efficiency, didn't have much to be efficient about. We sat in a cave for most of a day and spoke about our options, the wonderful women in each our lives, and everything else under the sun that we could not see. To his credit, he did find something to act on efficiently: We would have to bail, and it was decided that we would eat, smoke, and drink as much as we could before then; to save our knees, of course. It was a glorious day of being with a friend in a grand place, not to mention the gluttonous consumption of our heaviest delicacy: M&M's dipped in butter.

Bugaboo cave dwelling

  Though I hope to drink Jameson in a mountain storm again, I know that I'll never again pass that bottle to Carl. That being said, I can raise it to my dear friend. 

   To Carl Hawkins, one of the goofiest bastards to ever grace the Canadian Rockies with their presence. The ghost pooper that all ghost poopers aspire to. A person so committed to this lifestyle that he would winter in Canmore in an unheated van! The guy that went up to the crag with an injured finger just to bring snacks and belay. To Carl Hawkins, my brother of ten months, and my inspiration forever.

 We must experience it for ourselves, and we must experience it now.

Carl Hawkins in the mountains.