the Cold and the City and the Warmth of the Gritty

December, to me, is the city.

Metal and cold. Closer to the North Pole than the Equator, its smoke billows in defiance to the natural cycle of this part of the earth. Skyscrapers rise like hundreds of middle fingers, flipping off the mountains to the west. The river cuts through the nucleus of it all, a flowing frozen this time of year. Its headwaters are just south of one of the largest expansions of ice in North America. That scene of majesty is less than three hundred kilometers away. Down here in the prairies, the river brings the life of the mountains to a reliant but indifferent population.

In the same skyline as grand mountains, these buildings- a quarter of them vacant, are an arrogantly obvious example of humanity's ability to displace and consume.

Cold and industrious as the city may be, its lack of color reveals specks of vibrancy that otherwise go unnoticed; small explosions of joy are bright beacons of light in a sea of snowy white. I like the city for this, the snippets of the warmth juxtaposed against cold-conducting metal. It only takes a curious stroll to see it everywhere. If we are willing and privy, it is all around us:

Determined to get some fresh air, a couple pushes their baby's stroller through a foot of snow on what they believe to be a sidewalk. 

A woman spends her day in the cold, at the train station, passionately petitioning downtown Calgary to do their part in ending the regime of the Chinese Communist Party. 

A man, carrying all of his belongings in a grocery bag, sits down near a street corner. He pulls a beer out of the grocery bag. As he's about to crack it, he sees a stranger waiting to cross the street. He asks the stranger if he'd like the beer.

Yes, these are delightful moments in a cold city, their value so much more obvious this time of year.

And have you ever dragged a cigarette in the cold? Or better yet, paired it not only with winter, but with a coffee too? The other day I just missed a late night train, and was rewarded twenty glorious minutes to savor an American Spirit in one numb hand, and a hot black coffee in the other. God damn!

The cold city also showcases the contrasts of society. Wealth is hurried and remote starts; often, it doesn't even wear a toque. Poverty, on the other hand, rides trains to nowhere all night. It is almost always wearing a toque. While one is warm on the inside of cold metal buildings, the other leans its back against the unforgiving exterior. What difference a wall makes.

The cold matters because anything that does not create warmth is easily identified as cold. Bullshit freezes over. And the buildings, arrogant as they may be, are important because they radiate the cold. When cold has somewhere to go it becomes grand. Cold vastness is grand. The Canadian Rockies, for example. 

The city in the cold is a completely blank canvas, aggressively erased of warm hues or filler. All of a sudden, a stroller being pushed is vividly inspiring, and it becomes so much easier to appreciate how badass it is for a woman to spend a day advocating for a cause in no convenient way.

And someone with nothing giving up their last beer? Well that's just fucking awesome.

It Takes A Village: Friendship, Failure, and a First Ascent

It Takes A Village and The beautiful Bow Valley. Photo by Mason Neufeld

Do you ever feel like you’re on a dock, looking out at a big sea and wondering what it is like? 

Maybe you even went as far to dip your toes into the waters of the harbor. 

Maybe you blinked, and a succession of moments whirred by. Now you’re in the middle of that big sea amongst its waves and its glassy waters and its storms and its sunsets.

In December of 2018, I think my toes were in the water of the harbour. I was eighteen, and had been climbing for about a year and a half. It was quickly becoming more than a fun weekend activity. I had recently returned from my first American road trip, and was beginning to understand my own vision of my climbing and where I wanted it to go. I found myself most satisfied off the beaten trail. The world class sport climbing crags of my original home, The Bow Valley, didn’t quite feed the rat the way they once did. And the rat was hungry. I took the often spoken words of “endless potential” in the area very seriously, and began to gaze out at the endless seas of limestone with dreamy intention. Hiking to whatever caught my eye, I would believe in every undeveloped pile of choss right up to the moment where I could touch it (and take it with me), and my “dream line” would crumble. The questing kept my spirit warm in those shockingly cold months of early winter in Canada. Plus, I learned at a young age that unicorns must be believed in to be seen, and I stood firmly by this principle when looking at limestone cliffs of varying quality. 

That December, Christmas came early. My friend Kyle and I were on a wintery ascent of Heartline, a classic rock moderate on the west side of Heart Mountain. On the morning of the second day of our climb, beautiful rays of light shone on the east side of the valley. Above the dense forest and amidst a collection of rambly, snow covered cliffs sat a bullet like slab, completely free of snow- or any visible features for that matter. It didn’t sparkle like the rest of the dusted slopes. From a distance, it was intimidatingly blank.

Kyle and I's first view of the cliff. 

A few weeks later, my friend Bella and I quested up the west side of the Heart Creek Valley with a rough idea of where the cliff was. It took us three hours and a rappel that missed the cliff entirely, but our day ended with Bella disappearing down a rope we fixed off of a tree and breaking momentary cold silence with “holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!”.

When I rappelled in for the first time, I knew that I would spend a lot of time in this place. I was totally entranced by the setting. Even the three hours of post-holing to get there was magical. As Bella and I crunched moss under powdery snow, we marveled at how remote it felt despite being so close to one of the Bow’s busiest summer crags. We joked that we had entered a different realm, and that this may be the place of a mystical Sunday Morning Book Club for Lions, Tigers, and Bears. The Book Club became the nickname for the crag. 

Perched hundreds of metres above the west slopes of Heart Creek Canyon, The Book Club is a twenty five metre tall by thirty metre wide slab of some of the most beautiful stone in The Bow Valley. Upon first seeing it up close, I screamed with excitement. The exposure below my feet was exhilarating. I imagined feeling the wind and the green blur of tree tops as I edged dime-sized footholds. I imagined whippers into the open air. I imagined the beautiful movement that would allow passage up this wall. It was even more intimidatingly blank up close. I felt a profound feeling of gratitude and connection with the natural world. This was not something to conquer, but a place to learn from, cherish, and experience. I tried to hold on to those virtues throughout it all. I both succeeded and failed at this.

My personal discovery of The Book Club made me believe deeply that my climbing could transcend from activity into a practice of art.

My friend Tyson and I spent many winter weekends swinging around The Book Club looking for holds and dodging near-misses. We borrowed a drill from our friend Niall, and later another one from our friend Michelle. After a few weeks of laughter, snowmen, and many cigarettes, we had sunk the handful of bolts we had into the wall, equipping one route each. One of my best friends and I had beautiful unclimbed projects right beside each other. It was special. We knew it and savoured it.

Tyson Martino and I. Indian Creek 2019. Photo by Sarah "Berta Boy" Johnston

The winds of change blew me away from the Bow Valley before temperatures were warm enough to try the route in earnest. Most of the sequences remained elusive that spring. I wanted a process, and I got a long one.

I blinked. And a succession of moments happened. I was fully cast adrift into a violent sea of dreams. I went to China on a life changing trip. Then back to Squamish and  another American road trip funded by a line of credit. I blinked, and I had grown  from an entertained teenager into a committed twenty year old apprentice to the craft.

 Whenever I was passing through Canmore, I would wrangle whatever friend was in town and head up to The Book Club to continue my journey. Holds broke, and what I presumed to be the crux—at about bolt five—remained puzzling. More sequences were unlocked, and more remained elusive. I was deeper and deeper into the process of climbing a line that inspired me to my core. I blinked, and was in the big sea a younger me would look out and ponder at. Storms or sunshine, there was nowhere else I wanted to be. The Book Club remained a guiding waypoint on my horizon.

Just before the pandemic came to Canada, my hero-turned-best-buddy Jim Elzinga saw me cooking some oatmeal outside of my minivan-home on a particularly frigid morning. He invited me to his place for warm espresso, and we began ice climbing and training for our individual goals together consistently. Then, the world turned upside down and Jim was one of the few people in my social pod. Our early pandemic days were like a Rocky Balboa montage. We fucking raged. 

When it came time to climb again, I ventured up to The Book Club with my friend Ethan. Feeling the confidence from hangboarding and the reverb intimidation from Jim screaming at me to try harder during our training sessions, I began to learn the nuances of the cliff. Little ripples demanded absolute trust to be usable. The pain of the razor sharp edges was not be wished away, but to be relished; even sought after. On that cool spring day with Ethan I almost did all the moves; I couldn’t muster the courage for the top runout to the chains. The process slowly continued. It started raining in Canmore and the thought of linking all the moves was laughable, I simply wasn’t there. I ditched the Rockies for my summer home of Squamish. My long distance love affair with The Book Club continued. The last casual passing-by mission was with one of my dear friends, Luke Dean. Luke is easy to be around and stoked to the moon. He was the perfect partner for the day. I was nervous. I really wanted to do all the moves and move on in the process. He steered the direction of the day into a positive place with his music, jokes, and shouts of encouragement. I pulled all the moves out of my ass, shaking like a leaf on the final runout, which was determined to be purely mental and totally safe. It was possible, but still felt eons away. Luke, the undying optimist, denied this claim of it being far away. He told me if I was serious about it I should just give it the devotion that it deserves, and see what happens. 

Wise Luke Dean. I have no clue who took this photo. Probably Sam Tucker. Maybe Tyson?

It had been over a year since I first bolted the route. It was too hard for me to be treated so casually. There comes a time in process where you either hone in or risk it diluting into a “what if”. I was at this crossroads. No more dipping my toes in, when I had already paddled out to the high seas. His words turned gears in my head, churning out big questions. What are you willing to give? Are you okay with committing, and failing? Does this matter to you?

I had to put my cards on the table.

In September, I quit yet another part time job in Squamish and with the undying support of Mason, headed east. I was done half-assing this rig. I wanted to live this dream. I was a man on a mission. We zoomed to Canmore, and then up the hill to The Book Club. Trying to ride a manic wave of commitment, I fell almost immediately, and couldn’t make it to the top. I was frustrated and felt defeated. Mason pointed out the classic trap that I had fallen into; just because I “cared” didn't make me entitled to the outcome I wanted. She talked some sense into me and encouraged me to try again with less pressure and expectation. I did, and had a lot more fun. Right! Fun! I tried to shed my entitlement and honour the pure vision of the younger me; that younger me, looking out into the sea of the unknown.

What’s the point of casting yourself adrift if you ask the open ocean to be as comfortable as the beach?

I began a motion of devotion. Alone— where I would nerd out on the subtleties of the movement and learn about humility in such a grand place—or with Mason and friends where we would laugh and fall and laugh and fall. Each day, I would hike up the mossy hill to the wall of my dreams, and continue where I left off. Progress is not linear. I was falling all over the route at seemingly random places. The links I was making didn’t make much sense. One day, out of nowhere, I did the entire route in one hang. Maybe Luke I was right. Each day I would talk with Tyson on the phone; he was in deep on a project of his own elsewhere and we would give each other updates and encouragement. He told me to flip the switch. Perhaps it was time to write the final page.

On a day of great conditions and energy. Mason, our friend Kenton, and I, hiked up to the wall. There was magic in the air. The beautiful process was coming to a close. It felt like a storybook ending of a day. Kenton and I blasted music as Mason positioned herself on a line to take photos and video. I blasted off onto the blank wall focused and determined. 

Photo by Mason Neufeld

My shot at magic ended abruptly twice that day, with two different holds breaking. One of them popped off the wall right after I used it to clip the quickdraw below the crux. I thanked circumstance and the universe for deciding it wasn’t my day to hit the dirt. 

Taking a lil baby whipper. Photo by Mason Neufeld

My skin needed a rest, and I needed to step back before I fell into an overthinking cyclone of pressure and expectation. I didn’t want to feel frustrated again, and knew that stepping back was the next move. I escaped to my childhood wonderland of the Ram River with my Dad for a few days of fishing. Fishing, like climbing, is often just a fun way to spend time with people you love. After two days, I felt refreshed, still ever consumed by the blank wall of limestone that lurks above Heart Creek. I was excited to return and try to see it through.

My awesome Dad, the man who taught me to explore.

Life had different plans. My minivan- my home for the better part of the last two years, died in the Heart Creek parking lot. This minor and privileged inconvenience spiraled into an intense existential crisis that is too long and pathetic to get into in detail. I didn’t handle it with grace and climbing was the last thing on my mind. We tried to hike up anyway, but I was an anxious, teary eyed wreck. We turned around.

The following morning, Mason, my Mom, my Dad, Matt, and a few strangers and I pushed my minivan onto a rented U-Haul tow dolly hitched to my Dad’s truck. People showed up for me, and I was both embarrassed and very grateful. After getting the van to my folks place, where it could sit while its fate was determined, Mason and I decided to go back up to The Book Club. My goals had radically changed and I was just trying to gun it to the crag without breaking down in tears. 

Mission accomplished! We were psyched to be in the company of each other, and Matt, who was busy bolting two more routes on the wall. Conditions were far from perfect; it was hovering around zero degrees and there were some angry clouds lurking up the valley. I didn’t care anymore. Things had been put into perspective. It was less intense now. I thought less about how I wanted to feel. I just wanted to go climbing and enjoy the place with my friends.

Matt finished his work on another route and swung over to the small grassy ledge below the line that I had bolted, which was now an array of chalked holds and tick marks, a piece of rock that I knew every ripple of. We bumped numb fists and I set off thinking I would get to the crux and my numb fingers would give out.

Photos by Mason Neufeld

I did the first three bolts of thin, sharp climbing relatively fast. As I shook out on the good hold below the crux, I was numb, but knew I could get the feeling back if I was patient. Slowly, rotating which hand held on to the wall, the sensitivity on my fingertips came back. Without much thought, I entered the crux.

It went by in a blur I do not remember. I remember grabbing a very small right hand at the end of the crux and being completely numb, but not falling. I made it to a stance where I was more on my feet than my hands, and hoped for the blessed phenomena known as the “screaming barfies”, where warm blood enters frozen hands in a flurry of pain and nausea. Warm hands follow the pain. 

The “barfies” never came. My hands stayed numb. I began to lose the flow I felt through the crux, and it turned into a mental game. I reasoned with myself that I had nothing to lose, and I might as well believe in each hold as though I could feel it perfectly. 

After a couple tricky sequences, I did one final hard lock off and was standing on my feet, with four moves separating me from the anchor. It began to snow fat, wet flakes. The flow was completely gone, replaced by a sort of warrior mode. One committing sequence between closing the book or turning the page to yet another blank spread. It was time to honour the dreamer with action. I mustered the courage to continue, celebrated a little early and almost blew it, and clipped the chains that I had equipped a year and a half earlier. 

For a long time, I had imagined what it would feel like to clip those chains. I imagined the glory and happiness. In reality, it was mostly underwhelming disbelief. I asked Matt and Mason if I had hung on a bolt or grabbed the fixed rope. I couldn’t believe what had happened. My hands warmed as I lowered, and the reality that I had just climbed the route set in. It was a beautifully turbulent process, and it was over. All at once, I learned, yet again, that life is about process. Completion is a bittersweet part of that process. If you get it right, it isn’t a moment of relief. It is a sort of death of an experience that has taken a life of its own. 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. (Tennyson)

I was lowered to hugs. We celebrated. 

Matt smiled, and said, “So, what is it called?”

I looked at my friend and girlfriend, both smiling big. I thought of my parents and their unconditional love and support. My mind drifted to Tyson and all the times we froze our asses up here and ran down the hill for a cheap thrill. I thought of Luke and his goofy grin. I thought of all the other people that had brought this vision to life in some way. Michelle, Niall, Ethan, Dane, Jim, Bella, Kenton, Emmett, Liam, Chris, Jacky, the random people who pushed my van onto the dolly, and all the homies who wished me luck and kept the fire burning.

I had tossed around a lot of names over the year and a half, ranging from blatantly vulgar to social commentary on the systemic racism that plagues our society. In that moment, I could only think of one phrase: 

It Takes A Village.

It does seem as though I blinked, and a succession of moments whirred by culminating in a reality that was once a big, intimidating dream for other people to live out. It does seem that way, but I didn’t blink. I was pushed to go forward and helped back up onto my feet when I fell. I was believed in, and frankly by circumstance given the privilege to live an arbitrary, artistic life.

***

The snow came down hard. We moved ten metres to the left, and in the midst of an Autumn blizzard, I belayed Matt on his first attempt on a line he envisioned and bolted.

Approach Beta/Nerdy Details 

THE BOOK CLUB is a rappel accessed crag that currently has one completed line and three open projects (as of October 10). It is a scrappy, adventurous crag where all are welcome. 

In my overstoked opinion, it is some of the best stone in the valley, and offers a unique climbing experience. When I was in the process of bolting It Takes A Village, an older local told me that it “shouldn’t be another clip up”. On that note, none of the routes are total clip ups, and more reminiscent of Smith Rock’s bolting ethic. This place has a much more adventurous feel to it than other crags in the area and I believe that is part of what makes it special.  If you like trying hard off the beaten path, welcome home.

All that being said, it isn’t a reckless place to rock climb.

 Not wanting to sandbag anyone, I did all of the moves ground up “onsight”, hanging the draws before pre hanging and extending the top two with double length slings for redpoint attempts. It is exciting, but totally awesome and safe. The setting of the wall and the climbing itself feels so wild, and I wanted my personal experience to be of the same breath. I was looking for a mental challenge as well as a physical one. You will probably climb it, and call it a clip up, and me a coward!

(As of October 10 2020) The bin at the crag has both a rope to fix for rappelling and jugging out, as well as a rope to lead. I also left two double length slings to extend the last two bolts of It Takes A Village. I hope you do it better style than me, but having those draws extended is nice. The anchor has a brand new locker and non locker on the respective bolts.  All you need to bring are 10 draws, a personal anchor, a grigri, and a device for ascending the rope (jumar, microtraxion, etc.) 

Seriously, it is such a magical place!

To approach:

Hike to “The Bayon” crag at the back of Heart Creek Canyon. 

Once at The Bayon, circumvent the crag climbers right and follow a trail up an obvious drainage. Take the first obvious path up a short hill on the left (washed out dirt, less than 2 minutes from Bayon) When it flattens out, immediately go right up a ridgeline following a small but good trail. The trail weaves slightly left and onto another ridge feature, and then switchbacks its way up a steep hill. When in doubt, head straight up. Eventually, you should come to a lower cliff band. There is potential for moderate development as well as a couple of Bayon style hard, short routes. Circumvent this band climber’s right until you can go upward in the trees to gain a crest. The view should be totally bitchin’ by now. Head left up the crest you’ve gained toward the top of the hill you are on. Once at the top, you should see a green bin in the clearing.

Instructions are in the bin for how to get to the rappel access, but I will also describe it here.

More or less head straight toward Heart Mountain, it should look like the ground drops away quite dramatically. Follow cairns to the most perfect looking “J shaped” tree. Fix your rope on this wonderful tree and thank it for its service. What an awesome tree! This tree takes you to the anchors of It Takes A Village. To the climber’s left is Bookend Left, an open project bolted by Matt Sourisseau. To the climber’s right is a project bolted by the prodigal son Tyson Martino which has a lot of question marks surrounding it and I don’t recommend going for it yet (might need a bolt). Further right is another route bolted by Matt, Bookend Right. There is a rope across the base that you can use to skirt your way. Practice caution rappelling and skirting your way around the base of the cliff. There is a pesky rodent that loves ropes down there.

The cliff is east facing and gets morning sun.

Try hard, have fun, and take care of your friends and yourself.

Nat Bailey

4039904074

nbailey5@live.com

The Moonlight Buttress! Round One

   "Do you ever close your eyes, and try to remember a moment perfectly?" Danny's question hung suspended in the quiet air. He went on. "You know, remember what it smelt like, how you felt, what you saw." I looked at the point where towering sandstone met glimmering stars. I peered over the ledge and savored the inky blackness below my feet. I could smell the whiskey on my lips, and looked over at my friend who was as lost in it all as I was.

We were on the Moonlight Buttress in Zion Canyon. The last shuttle bus had come and gone, and we were the only ones in a very grand space.

"Yes. Yes I do," I replied with the peacefulness of walls and stars on my breath.

"When I go back to work next week, I'm going to close my eyes and go back to right here." Danny said. We went back to a long and good silence, the kind of which I have only experienced a handful of other times.

This conversation happened on a bent portaledge about thirty meters off the ground. Earlier, while the sun was still high in the sky, we were sharing a small foot ledge below the crux pitch. Our dreams of onsighting Moonlight had survived the first trial of "The Rocker Block" pitch. Now, the hardest climbing on the entire route was about fifteen meters above us. I racked up and took off with the blankest mind I could muster. The gear was finnicky and I wasn't up to the task. I pitched off, ripped an arbitrary piece out of the crack and sat in my harness.

We were joined by two awesome strangers,  Josie and Becca. We had a portaledge party and the four of us traded attempts on the crux. Everyone was going for it, and encouraging the other three to do the same. The energy was infectious. Becca and Josie were planning to return the next day, and wished us well before descending. On our following attempts, Danny and I both fell a move away from the end of the hard stuff. Climbing is so all in; whether or not you move your foot twelve more inches determines whether you will continue up the route, or lower back down to try again. At least that was the rules that we were excited to play by. I had not freeclimbed up high in a while, and I forgot about those magical moments that come with trying to live a dream; when the wind and the occasional click of a carabiner are the only sounds that exist. Regardless of outcome, for a moment, the universe is a simple place consisting of pulling with your hands and pushing with your feet. It is the best!

Ledge party!!! Thanks for the photo @beccabeatbox!!!! 

On my fourth attempt, I pitched off again trying to get my foot in a pod. My body convulsed with cramps, and I knew that it wasn't in the cards. I returned to the ledge where Danny and I dined on a pizza that we had pre-cooked. We listened to good music. Music so good in fact, that Danny was motivated enough to slam some pre-workout mix and have one more go. Hell yes. 

For a few minutes, once again, our concerns with the universe were silenced. The pre-workout did little to sooth the cramping from our time in the sun earlier, and Danny fell in a similar fashion to me. We put our cards on the table, and they weren't the winning hand.

We made the decision to live and die by the redpoint sword. Climbers play their ascents out by their own arbitrary set of rules. Ours was to not continue until at least one of us had sent the pitch at hand. This sounds marvelous on the ground beforehand, and even more marvelous when you're onsighting and things are going your way. It feels a little less marvelous when you blow the onsight. When you fall on your third, and fourth attempt, the marvel is gone and you begin to question your arbitrary ethics. Arbitrary as they may be, it felt right to try something that mattered in the way that we saw fit. We also thought it was important not to abandon principle upon failure.

Also, my girlfriend and Danny's wife had planned to meet us on the top. Mason, my girlfriend, is a brilliant photographer and was keen to rappel in and shoot us on the last few photos. We knew that we weren't going to make it up there, and without any way to contact them, had to beat them to the shuttle stop so they didn't hike to meet with two absent punters. 

So, we rappelled most of the way down, stopping about thirty meters from the ground, because we were both still psyched to sleep on the ledge.

It is so easy to fall into a trap of taking yourself too seriously, especially when you begin to find a level of objective success at your passion. Seemingly all at once, self worth is placed in your ability to climb a certain grade, and in the wake of that destructive value are all the ugly things; expectation, frustration, envy. 

Failure lacks opportunity for any sort of negative value system. There is no external validation, no accolade to hold and wave. Instead, you are left with only your personal thoughts on your experience. Did you have fun? Are you content with your effort, and excited to try again? What did you learn? What mattered most? 

What am I trying to say? That process is everything, and letting self worth ebb and flow with objective failure and success is a dead end, and frankly scary road. 

And what a gift it is that climbing has no ceiling. That you can fail, and try again with the power of what you learned; that you can rediscover the attitude of the kid that was psyched to flail on a 5.9, and take it to more inspiring venues. "To take your climbing seriously, but not yourself seriously," as Peter Croft said in his Enormocast interview.

So, we tried as hard as we could until we shivered with cramping muscles. We shared the ledge and laughs with new friends. Then we sat, side by side, thirty meters off the ground and half into a bottle of Jameson. Scheming, philosophizing, and wishing to be nowhere else. And the beat goes on, hopefully more this way than that. 

Thank goodness for failure, and the compass that it is. 

An Odyssey: All Along The Watchtower

 This is a story about gratitude, fear, adventure, death, life, and an odyssey that has been the cumulative experience of my life; a moment in which I have drastically changed. This is my human experience thus far, told through the tale of the megadream and the super reality of climbing The North Howser Tower via All Along The Watchtower.

*

I'm lying in my tent listening to "No Hard Feelings" by The Avett Brothers, and am going through a mental list of every person that I love in this world; I picture them smiling and tell them I love them. Every now and then David's feet hit my shoulder as he tosses and turns in his own ritual. There are no more rest days. No more "warm up" routes. The feet hitting my shoulder every now and then belong to a friend that I trust deeply.

 Man, am I grateful to be in here with someone as awesome as David. David Tan is a west coast local and one of the most just-for-fun bonecrushing climbers that I have ever known. He combines nonchalance and laser focus. I realized that despite seeing each other all over North America and casually climbing together a fair bit that we didn't actually know each other deeply at all. This can go either way of course, and it made me nervous. Luck would have it that David be about the best partner and friend that anyone could ask for when spending two weeks in close quarters and wild places. We pushed each other, weren't afraid to disagree, and mostly just laughed a lot and looked out for each other.

 At 3 am, about six hours from now, we will begin the action of climbing a "dream route": All Along The Watchtower, up the remote and mighty West Face of North Howser Tower. I try to block out the doubt and the fear and the thoughts of my mortality with the smiles of the people that I love. I try to tell myself that great moments come from great opportunity. Eventually it works, and I drift off into a short and shallow sleep.

The alarm comes too early. Neither of us are ready. I almost press the snooze button, but don't. I force myself up. David remains buried under his sleeping bag. As quietly as I can, I scurry over to the backpack rack, grab our food bag, and hear the calming sound of a stove whirring as I spark a lighter and begin to make coffee. David rolls over and tells me he didn't sleep well. I greet his concern with a tired nod. I am preoccupied with doing an inventory of the packed bag beside us, making sure we didn't forget anything; on our first day in the Bugs, we forgot a pair of climbing shoes and thought we forgot a second belay device when going to climb Sunshine Crack. It wasn't a big deal and we enjoyed a day of climbing on Energy Crisis instead, going back for Sunshine the next day. On the Watchtower, there is literally no going back to camp if you forget something; the approach includes four double rope rappels into a basin below the west face of North Howser. Once the ropes are pulled, you are committed. So, I busied myself with anxious inventory as David woke and smiled with instant coffee in his hands. Two breakfasts, eight Clif bars, three gel blocks, rack, ropes, climbing shoes, the stove once we're done cooking this breakfast, protein powder, Carl's ashes. It turns out that protein powder and the ashes of your friend look very similar, and I did a double thought to make sure the protein powder was in with the breakfast, and Carl's ashes were zipped into the pouch at the top of Alfred, our haul bag.

* 

I know he would find this funny. It has been a year and a half since his death. I've had the remainder of his ashes in my possession since a sunny June day last year when his girlfriend Sophie gave them to me in a mason jar. It is a fucking trip to have your friends girlfriend pass you what remains of your friend in a mason jar. 

Carl and I hiked into the Bugaboos two years ago with the shared dream of climbing All Along The Watchtower. We weren't even close to ready for it, a fact he knew better than eighteen year old I, and we lucked out by getting smacked down by a tent-collapsing blizzard that allowed us for risk free reflection. We mostly sat in a cave and drank whiskey. He encouraged me to nurture my stoke with experience, and assured me that one day. Maybe next year, maybe the year after, we would climb All Along The Watchtower. The raw beauty of the dream remained, but it wasn't time for it to become our reality. I ripped the topo out of the guidebook and pinned it to the ceiling of my minivan. It was an innocent but grand dream that became more and more wild with every step I took toward it. Then, Carl, my dream sharer, died ice climbing on Christmas Day of 2018.

Last summer, mason jar packed, I hiked into the Bugaboos with a friend to try the Watchtower and spread Carl's ashes on the summit. The stars didn't align and an attempt never came to fruition. Afterward, Carl's ashes sat in my glove box and accompanied me to many, many beautiful places that he never got to visit. There were many times where I wanted romanticize a place, take them out of the mason jar, spread them, and be done with it; glacier point, overlooking the Yosemite Valley that he never got to climb in; the many sun-kissed buttresses of Indian Creek, where he never got to see the sun dip between the six shooters and put sandy ear-to-ear grins on everyone’s faces at the crag. But every time I almost did, I knew it wasn't the right place. I knew that spreading them anywhere else would've been partly at least out of the fear of what it would take to go to the right place. The right place is, of course, North Howser Tower. All Along The Watchtower and the dream of climbing it remained innocent and grand, but the dream also grew a branch that wove its way through my process of grieving.

So after a year of having my buddy's ashes in my minivan, the sting is less sharp, and I am able to laugh at almost mixing his remains into our oatmeal and spreading vanilla protein powder on the summit of North Howser.

***

    Three am before the biggest adventure of your life is both lethargic and frantic. My mind thought of valid reasons to go back to bed and my hands went through the motions of the morning before I could tell them otherwise. Everything is packed. Crampons are on. So it begins.

    David and I are still both groggy and don't say much besides concern about the snow conditions and how they are much, much softer than when we were on the glacier two days prior en route to the South Howser Tower. We quickly ascended the staircase of bootpack cut into the Bugaboo-Snowpatch col. For the second time in three days we watched the sunrise over the Canadian Rockies and fill the Columbia Valley with orange hues. As the day progresses, action takes the place of "what if"s in my mind, and I feel calmer. The glacier is so consumingly beautiful, and the soft snow makes the descent down the Pigeon-Howser Col a fast glissade. In the East Creek Basin we are surrounded by a cirque of beautiful granite walls; turrets protecting a roadless valley that drains west into another roadless valley. As we neared the rappels I became increasingly nervous about the remainder of the approach. After four rappels comes a scurry across a feature called The Seventh Rifle Gully, a rockfall prone terrain trap that drains much of the west face. As we walked past the East Creek Campground we heard a rockfall somewhere. I jumped and hastily insisted on continuing and getting to the rappels as early as possible. David called out my irrational concerns, "that I can't be jumping at every rockfall." But he agrees that the sooner we are across the gully the better, and we move on, past the Beckey-Chouinard and across the snow beneath the Central Howser.

     Going up and over and around so many landmarks makes the approach sound like a nursery rhyme to me. Anxious tension built as we neared the rappels. At some point, David said, "I think we should definitely go to the rappels, but I am far from being totally committed to them." I feel the same way, and feel guilty about feeling the same way. I wonder if I'll come back next year if we turn around.

    David gets to the first rappel station before me; the guy is a wizard in his approach shoes. Now, we can see what we are getting ourselves into, what this dream really entails. There is no more romanticizing or simply going along with a plan that sounds good. Two bolts and two ropes and three thousand feet of rock are screaming at us, asking us if this really is what we want. Beside the rappels is a nice bivy cave. I don't know how someone could spend a night here. Never before have I spent time in a place whose energy is defined by so much voluntary tension. I feel sick. 

David says it: "If we don't thread these ropes right now I don't know if I can do this. Fuck. Fuck. We are fucking rapping into fucking El Cap!"

    In the words of Canadian Rockies legend John Lauchlan, "Once you commit, there can be no hesitation." It is 7:50 am. We have lots of time before the gully becomes dangerous and through conversation we realize that despite the fact that both of us are shitting our pants, and there is a voice in both of our heads screaming how bad of an idea this is, it is something that we both want to do. The next thing I know the ropes are threaded through my belay device and I am descending into a quiet and powerful world. David comes down. "Here we go buddy," he says, and pulls the rope.

    Four rappels later I find myself scurrying across the Seventh Rifle Gully, running through craters in the snow made by rockfall toward the base of the route. It reminds me of running up the stairs after turning the lights off in the basement. It all feels surreal, to be at the base of ALL ALONG THE WATCHTOWER! Now on the rock, David's anxiety dissipated and we began the only way there was to go: up. Our plan was to make it to the bivi ledges below the fork of another route, Armageddon, seven long pitches up according to the topo. This went according to plan with the alpine exceptions of getting off route, and the wet crack. Lord, the wet crack.

    The wet crack began with a "5.10 bouldery move" on the topo. I built a nest of a couple of small cams and an RP to protect the belay, and after some deliberation, committed. Because what else was there to do? Rap off our entire rack and walk the unknown distance around the massif back to the glacier? The holds had a small babbling brook running over them, but I slipped through unscathed, following a corner only graded at 5.7. The babbling brook on the 5.10 pitch came from a torrent running down the 5.7 corner. We did it in two pitches, and David ran out of rope on his lead, resulting in simul climbing situationally insecure terrain for some time. These are the parts that I do not want to overromannticize; waiting on two handjams in running water, getting soaked, wondering if David was okay 70 metres above. The rope would come tight, and with absolute trust in each other we would continue. This moment felt like dodging punches from a superior opponent in the ring; full survival mode, ducking, weaving and dodging the knockout punch. Tied together we held on tight to the wet hand jams of our life and avoided disaster. 

    The stream took us to the bivy ledges, and we arrived a few hours before darkness. Our gear had time to dry and our weary hearts had time to rediscover their courage through hot food and mountain vistas. We laid down our rope, half of a thermarest, and our sleeping bag, and settled in. We watched the sun set with full hearts. I couldn't believe where I was, and felt grateful to be there with David. The quiet mountains lulled us into a decent rest given where we were and what we were there with, and we would need it. Day two is the big one, the day that dreams are made of. A couple of pitches on a dyke feature lead to the “Left facing corner, to infinity and beyond”, according to the topo. With food in our bellies and no need for an early start on a west face, I think I can speak for both of us and say that the apprehension and nervousness was mostly exchanged for peace with our level of commitment and an intention to soak up the experience. After all, great moments come from great opportunity, and great is not always good or easy.

Morning came. We didn't anticipate the cold temperatures stopping the stream and had no water source and had to spend time melting snow. I led the first pitch while David tended to this task. He greeted me at the belay with the news that we were out of gas. We had a long time to go before we stopped, and there would be no hot meal awaiting us this time. At least we had water, and a radical corner system ahead.

The corner was surreal. No ledges or natural breaks, just one big, clean corner zooming skyward. Thirty metres at a time, David and I swung leads, placing small gear and doing insecure moves. Despite the inspiration of the situation, it was very difficult to climb calmly in such wilderness. The uninhabited valley was so far beneath our feet and whatever friends were climbing on the glacier to our east were separated from us by a massive granite massif. One move at a time we tried our best to dance in our intense solitude. I lacked grace and even composure, but thirty shaky, wild metres at a time, always ending at a hanging belay, we both freeclimbed our way through the corner to the roof. It was a dream come true. Not a dance of flow or mastery of the terrain the way that I had dreamed it, for this mountain was too big and its energy too powerful for me to be a master of its terrain. Instead, it was a humble practice of grit. With every strange stemming move, every painful shallow footjam, every look at the valley a thousand feet below my heels, the mountain was asking me questions: What is my true character? Did I want this to be an easy accolade? How am I going to interact with a place of such wilderness? Can I find that quality of wilderness within myself? Or will I be another trying to tame wilderness in a lame farce of ego? What is more of a farce than thinking that for some reason, I could go up such a wild and hard (for me) route and be in total control the entire time? One scary, shakey move at a time, I do believe that our souls danced elegantly as our minds raced with insecurity and our calves shook with exhaustion. 

When we arrived at the roof pitch marking the end of the major corner with free climbing dreams still alive, I felt a switch begin to flip. I really wanted to free climb this thing. Not for vanity (maybe a little, I'm writing about it after all), but for more of this practice in gritty dancing. The sun was very low in the sky as I climbed an amazing finger crack just below the roof. The wall had a shallow chimney behind the crack, and I stemmed my left foot and back behind me, jamming with my fingers and smearing my other foot. Way off the deck, now more in-tune with the rhythm of this mountain, I felt the tiniest shred of that cherry-on-top elegance that we sometimes get practicing our art. I began the roof nervous, trying to qualm any nervousness that I may actually squeak out a complete free climbing experience. I need not worry though, for soon the holds were obscenely, and now I know classically wet. Without frustration or regret I switched into aid climbing mode. It just wasn't right. It would've been a forced attempt to try to free climb it at that moment and it wouldn't have been true in my listening to the moment on the mountain. I don't know how to explain the peace in which I felt with my effort without sounding spiritually zany: the energy to really try to freeclimb this six metre traverse didn't exist in that moment. My decision wasn’t motivated by fear, or even haste. The holds were soaked, which I'm sure they almost always are, and it wasn't my place to dance at such a high level. In many ways this is exciting, as I now live the rare gift of a dream lived and laced with wonderful raw memory, but also still containing a five metre shred of mystery. And mystery is magic. 

Not that aid climbing was fast anyway. Due to my immaturely principled distaste for the act I don't have very much practice at it and was slow. David and his classic nonchalance was comforting to have on the other end of the rope. Perched thousands of feet off the deck, sitting in a harness for the fourth belay in a row, still jamming to reggae and smiling. Watching some jabroni nervously switch from aid to free, and back to aid, he just kept on jamming. “Waaaatch me David,”, and you know what he did? He jammed. All day he had Reggae blasting out of his pocket, and it was clear that he too was settled into the unique rhythm that he was dancing with the mountain. David led the next pitch, in a mix of free and aid, because in his words between laughter, "Man, I just realized at that last belay that right now I just don't give a fuck about free climbing." Normally, this would piss me off. Last winter in Chile I barked at my friend Jaron to come back to the belay after he sat on a cam on a pitch of a route we were climbing. But here, now, I began to realize that even though David and I were sharing an intense experience as human beings, we were also undergoing intense and unique experiences between ourselves and the place.. I know now one of the important aspects of partnership- one in which I've often fallen short: to support your friend in their experience with the mountain, not yours. 

He began climbing as the sun was setting, and it was beautifully frantic and fast. In a mix of french free, doing what he does best- moving with incredible speed and confidence, David led sixty metres of the rope up the next corner system. The off-white and grey granite of this massive west face was painted yellowy gold by the sun. We too, by association, shone with golden colours. Two souls, two drops of water in a golden ocean.  In that moment, paying out rope for my thriving friend, being swallowed by beautiful light, watching the rest of the valley undergo the same phenomena, I was overcome with emotion. I was so, so happy to be right where I was. I was so happy to be there with David. And at the same time I thought of Carl, and the loss that I thought I had grieved resurfaced in a profound and new way. I felt his presence intensely in a positive and empowering way. I felt so grateful to be trusted by those closer to him to have his ashes with me, and to have the opportunity to see this quest through. I also simply yearned for the original person in which I shared this dream to be there for its fruition. All Along The Watchtower was a teenage dream that I had to mature for before I could experience. Looking at the haul bag and thinking of my friend's ashes, looking up and seeing my friend pouring all of his energy into getting us higher, I felt a moment of coming of age and loss of innocence. In that moment in the golden light of the Bugaboos I wept tears. Not strictly of sadness nor joy nor fear nor elation. I wept tears of the human experience.

I followed the pitch clean, not out of spite or principle, it was just what I wanted to do. While moving, my legs were becoming weak and shaking out of control. We had long run out of water. The exhaustion began to sneak up on me and hit me like a rock. One more pitch to the easy stuff, and it was my lead. Enter the banshee finale of our time on the headwall. 

When I asked my dear friend Dane (who had climbed the Watchtower last year) about the route, he gave us amazing and indispensable information. Without him our experience would've been very different. For the last pitch of the headwall though, he just giggled and said "I'll save that one as a surprise. It is awesome." Dane is a power-lifter, ice climber, master of the epic, and 23 going on tough as fucking nails. His innocent and wholesome giggle made me nervous for what was to come. The topo said “5.8 4 inch crack.” I grabbed my number 4 cams and took off into the 5.11 terrain, inching toward the wide flake above and to my right.

I was so, so tired. It was all I could do to stay on on the 5.11. I placed cam after cam after cam in close distance, completely untrusting of my screaming body and working with a mind exhausted from being in the zone for two straight days. Grovelling, I made it to the wide flake. Thank god. 5.8. How hard could it be? I really should know better by now. Every muscle in my body ached and cramped as I let out screams, not of ferocious fight but rather of pain and complete inferiority. At some point I believe I literally begged the Bugaboo granite for mercy. I hung on like a kid on a rollercoaster that really doesn't want to be there: White knuckled, shitting my pants, making it a way bigger deal than it needed to be, but alive, and ready for ice cream.

No ice cream. No water. No food- save premade peanut butter banana wraps that had gone dank in the haul bag. No gas. Just the midnight sky, a long convoluted ridge, and a brother to rely upon. I led another strange vision quest pitch of 5.8 and then totally bonked. David noticed this after trying to have a basic conversation with my wide eyes, and offered that he would lead us up the scrambling for a while. A gentleman and a baller! We stayed roped and settled into the night, keeping our eyes open for a bivy site that Dane told us about. 

A distant lightning storm to the south offered no sound and thus no fear, only momentary awe from time to time. The wind was dormant and a meteor shower zoomed its way across the sky above us. Midnight became one, then two, then, sometime around three, we saw some nice flat ledges that David suggested we spend the night on. I stubbornly disagreed and insisted we keep on going until we find a spot with water. Wrong move. He obliged. I can be a real turd sometimes. 

Three became four to the tune of the flash of the southern storm and the whimsical travels of meteors overhead. The wind remained calm. We got to a confusing section of ridge with snow and four became four thirty. We got through it and took a peek above the next little bluff to see if we could put the rope away. Our little peek showed us that there was no more terrain to climb, and at five in the morning, my friend David Tan and I stood on top of the summit of North Howser Tower, just as red began to appear in the east.

The summit was calm and the sky clear. We laid out the half-thermarest and our sleeping bag, laid down, listened to The War On Drugs and Eddie Vedder, and enjoyed the scene. For two hours of the most supreme peace I have ever known, we watched the world be beautiful.

I awoke from a nap to a blue sky and a hot sun. David was awake beside me.We knew that it was time to begin our rappels down the east face, and begin our journey home. While he rolled the sleeping bag and organized gear, I quietly walked over to where the summit overlooks the steep west face with a ziploc bag of Carl Hawkins' remains in my pocket. In all the other places which I held these ashes in my hands and thought about scattering them, I just wanted to rid myself of this sadness, of this loss; an act of hastily moving on but not going forward. A part of me didn't ever think I'd actually end up here. Here in this place of ultimate wilderness, a place that was kindred to the spirit of Carl, it was a wonderfully underwhelming act. Handful by handful I released his remains. My eyes were watery and I got a little bit of ash on my jacket. The actual act of scattering ashes  is a lot harder than people make it out to be! 

There was no ridding of sadness or loss and I now know that this is not the way forward: "Do not let sorrow die for it is the sweetening of every gift." -Cormac McCarthy. It was not what have I rid myself of, but what I gained through this quest: an understanding of peaceful continuity; glimpses into the mysteries of the universe; a deeper understanding of the spirit, and love and life and death. I gained gratitude for the people that are here now and the love we share, and the possibility that there is magic around each corner if we are willing to summon the courage to look.

David and I rappelled, unfreed a stuck rope, drank water, hopped over the bergschrund, and stumbled back to Applebee with our cups very very full. We were greeted by a strong force of community. Hugs, relief that we had returned, congratulations on our adventure; even a note stuck to a borrowed cam read aloud by our friend Rhys as we caught him and another friend, Tony, on their way out of camp. We all shared stories of the last few days' adventures. Everyone was getting it while the getting was good; the joy of weather windows in the mountains! It was overwhelming, humbling, and happy.

And it all began two years ago, with two friends merrily drinking whiskey in a cave in the same camp, dreaming about what it would be like to one day climb All Along The Watchtower.