Post by Ken Corbett on Nov 20, 2006 22:02:52 GMT -5
I was visiting my brother in Alberta last month, and got a chance to climb a Rocky Mountain at last.
I confess it was not one of the truly lofty snow-clad peaks of the Canadian Rockies, but it was a strenuous climb all the same, Mt. Lady MacDonald in Canmore. I know many of you have climbed mountains much higher and steeper, even for a lark. To a flat-lander like me, though, this hill was a majestic brooding giant.
The ascent followed a well-worn hiking trail, and did not require any special gear except a good pair of shoes. We met many other hikers, some young, others not quite as young, some dressed in jaunty Tyrolean outfits, and others in tank tops and short pants. We met folks from Korea, Germany, and the U.S. too, enjoying a balmy Indian Summer’s day on the mountain.
Although it was mid-October, and there was a thin trace of snow in the shade near the summit, the day was warm, and the dry breeze wicked the sweat from our frames as we trudged up.
At one point not too far up the slope, I noticed a faint trail leading off the well-worn hiking route, and decided to check it out. After ten steps, I came to a sheer drop of unfathomable height, slicing straight down to pitch-dark infinity in a canyon where sunlight never shone. It was right under my toes. Carefully, I leaned back, and gingerly regained the comparative safety of the main trail. I didn’t leave the path again for the remainder of the ascent.
At other times, the trail narrowed to a steep slope along the edge of the mountain, with loose rock underfoot as it described hairpin turns leading ever upward. A false step or slide would send me tumbling and careening down the rock face of the mountain. Often, I went up on all fours, trusting to a root or rock for support. Thankfully, these sections were not too long, and the path once again found a more secure footing for the push to the summit.
When we reached the first summit, high above the tree-line, the villages far below were postage-stamp size, joined by narrow lines of concrete snaking along the valley floor.
We found on the summit a helipad made of lumber, and the footings and first floor of a sizeable lodge were balanced on the promontory.
However, it was apparent that vandals had smashed all the windows, sacked the interior, and scrawled graffiti on all the walls. The huge effort to transport materials and workers so high up was spoiled by jealous cowards.
Maybe it is true, you can’t really own anything, there are always shitheads who will ruin it for you if you give them half a chance. Still, you can't let them get to you, that is what they're after, and you can't give in to despair, for then they have defeated you.
We could have pushed even higher, but the day was getting on into late afternoon, and the last leg of the trail up to the ultimate crest of the ridge was steeper again and crossed a slope of unstable scree and slide rock. We didn’t want to risk having to go back down in the dark. We enjoyed a meal of sushi, granola bars, beer and water, and drank in the glorious views.
On the way back down, I decided to damn the torpedoes, and walked casually and erect along the track, as if there were no bottomless chasms flanking me every two or three minutes. I found this to be far safer than crawling down the steep stretches holding on to rocks and roots for balance.
At one point, along a particularly narrow ledge on a cliff face, I encountered a fellow climber on her way up. As there was only room for one person to pass cleanly, she took up a stance on the outer edge of the trail, with her toes pointing in and her back to the drop. I guess that’s the protocol in comparable situations.
I did my best to slink past against the side of the mountain, and give her as much room as I could. However, in doing so, I tripped on a root sticking out from the scuffed-up path, and nearly lost my balance as I went by in front of her, momentarily out of control.
I’m sure I gave her quite a fright, even more than I frightened myself, as her situation was far more precarious than mine. No harm done to either of us, but it still gives me goose bumps just thinking about it. I should have stuck with my original plan, just walk along normally and everything will be fine.
We made it down to the valley floor late in the afternoon, and hiked for another hour into town to meet our wives at an outdoor beer garden. Man, that beer was good and cold, and went down smooth as silk. We were able to sit back and gaze up at the lofty summit we had just climbed, and marvel smugly at our accomplishment.
My brother says that the mountains hold canyons where no man can penetrate and no chopper can reach. Hikers have vanished into thin air and never been found again. After my brief venture off the beaten trail on this day, I can appreciate how this could happen, in one moment of careless curiosity.
In spite of my mountaineering achievement, I still feel I’m better off on the flat valley floor, and I can’t say I’m eager to take up alpinism as a regular hobby. For one thing, I live on the Atlantic coast, several thousand kilometers from the Rockies.
And for another thing, my quads were stiff and sore for several days after, as I'm not used to walking downhill for so far and so long. But never say never.
I confess it was not one of the truly lofty snow-clad peaks of the Canadian Rockies, but it was a strenuous climb all the same, Mt. Lady MacDonald in Canmore. I know many of you have climbed mountains much higher and steeper, even for a lark. To a flat-lander like me, though, this hill was a majestic brooding giant.
The ascent followed a well-worn hiking trail, and did not require any special gear except a good pair of shoes. We met many other hikers, some young, others not quite as young, some dressed in jaunty Tyrolean outfits, and others in tank tops and short pants. We met folks from Korea, Germany, and the U.S. too, enjoying a balmy Indian Summer’s day on the mountain.
Although it was mid-October, and there was a thin trace of snow in the shade near the summit, the day was warm, and the dry breeze wicked the sweat from our frames as we trudged up.
At one point not too far up the slope, I noticed a faint trail leading off the well-worn hiking route, and decided to check it out. After ten steps, I came to a sheer drop of unfathomable height, slicing straight down to pitch-dark infinity in a canyon where sunlight never shone. It was right under my toes. Carefully, I leaned back, and gingerly regained the comparative safety of the main trail. I didn’t leave the path again for the remainder of the ascent.
At other times, the trail narrowed to a steep slope along the edge of the mountain, with loose rock underfoot as it described hairpin turns leading ever upward. A false step or slide would send me tumbling and careening down the rock face of the mountain. Often, I went up on all fours, trusting to a root or rock for support. Thankfully, these sections were not too long, and the path once again found a more secure footing for the push to the summit.
When we reached the first summit, high above the tree-line, the villages far below were postage-stamp size, joined by narrow lines of concrete snaking along the valley floor.
We found on the summit a helipad made of lumber, and the footings and first floor of a sizeable lodge were balanced on the promontory.
However, it was apparent that vandals had smashed all the windows, sacked the interior, and scrawled graffiti on all the walls. The huge effort to transport materials and workers so high up was spoiled by jealous cowards.
Maybe it is true, you can’t really own anything, there are always shitheads who will ruin it for you if you give them half a chance. Still, you can't let them get to you, that is what they're after, and you can't give in to despair, for then they have defeated you.
We could have pushed even higher, but the day was getting on into late afternoon, and the last leg of the trail up to the ultimate crest of the ridge was steeper again and crossed a slope of unstable scree and slide rock. We didn’t want to risk having to go back down in the dark. We enjoyed a meal of sushi, granola bars, beer and water, and drank in the glorious views.
On the way back down, I decided to damn the torpedoes, and walked casually and erect along the track, as if there were no bottomless chasms flanking me every two or three minutes. I found this to be far safer than crawling down the steep stretches holding on to rocks and roots for balance.
At one point, along a particularly narrow ledge on a cliff face, I encountered a fellow climber on her way up. As there was only room for one person to pass cleanly, she took up a stance on the outer edge of the trail, with her toes pointing in and her back to the drop. I guess that’s the protocol in comparable situations.
I did my best to slink past against the side of the mountain, and give her as much room as I could. However, in doing so, I tripped on a root sticking out from the scuffed-up path, and nearly lost my balance as I went by in front of her, momentarily out of control.
I’m sure I gave her quite a fright, even more than I frightened myself, as her situation was far more precarious than mine. No harm done to either of us, but it still gives me goose bumps just thinking about it. I should have stuck with my original plan, just walk along normally and everything will be fine.
We made it down to the valley floor late in the afternoon, and hiked for another hour into town to meet our wives at an outdoor beer garden. Man, that beer was good and cold, and went down smooth as silk. We were able to sit back and gaze up at the lofty summit we had just climbed, and marvel smugly at our accomplishment.
My brother says that the mountains hold canyons where no man can penetrate and no chopper can reach. Hikers have vanished into thin air and never been found again. After my brief venture off the beaten trail on this day, I can appreciate how this could happen, in one moment of careless curiosity.
In spite of my mountaineering achievement, I still feel I’m better off on the flat valley floor, and I can’t say I’m eager to take up alpinism as a regular hobby. For one thing, I live on the Atlantic coast, several thousand kilometers from the Rockies.
And for another thing, my quads were stiff and sore for several days after, as I'm not used to walking downhill for so far and so long. But never say never.
