Arbitrary Lists

You must have long term goals to keep you from being frustrated by short term failures. Charles C. Noble.

After my resounding but humdrum failure on Mount Shardelow yesterday, I started the drive home feeling like a complete failure. An over-reaction perhaps, but I am one of those goal oriented individuals who expects to succeed at whatever they set out to do. And, truthfully, an ascent of Mount Shardelow was easily within my technical and (arguably not yesterday) physical abilities. My first thought, in fact, was, "I should have gone for Mount Jeldness," even though one of the reasons I chose Mount Shardelow over Mount Jeldness was because the climbing promised to be slightly more interesting on Mount Shardelow.

As the years pass, either in response to getting older, becoming a better climber, or just a process of natural evolution, I have become more interested in climbing interesting routes than merely slogging up the easiest route possible. Admittedly at heart, I am still a peak bagger - one of those folks for whom the summit is the goal, the route less important - but simply checking off a new peak on the list is no longer as fulfilling as it once was.

All these thoughts were rattling round in my brain as I bashed my way down through thickets of alder. Quality had, at some point, become more important than either quantity or, more importantly, novelty. I suddenly realized that I could have gone out for a nice steep snow climb close to home and close to the road. I would have saved myself a couple of hours of driving, interminable alder thrashing, and, as I suddenly realized, actually been doing what I wanted to do, instead of being tied to an artificial "list" of peaks to climb.

The middle of the year may not be the traditional time for resolutions, but I hence forth resolved to go climb fun peaks/routes with some challenge rather than mindlessly going out to tick another name off an arbitrary project list. 

Climbing Sentinel Peak in the Adamants

Enough of Novelty

I've been working on the West Kootenay Project List since I moved to the West Kootenay 10 years ago. Overall, it has been a fun project. I have climbed over 200 of the peaks on the list, visited many beautiful areas and had many great trips. The problem I now confront is that getting a new peak requires more and more driving as the list dwindles to less and less accessible peaks. Second only to alder thrashing comes my detestation of driving.

Today, with mixed weather forecast, I had narrowed my choice to two peaks within reasonable driving distance that were also reasonably accessible - roads above about 1,300 metres are snow-bound, so access is still limited.

One peak, Mount Jeldness, is a mere 1405 metres high, and requires about 200 km of driving. I have, in fact, previously failed on Mount Jeldness, when I attempted it as a club trip in late fall/early winter. Fresh snow, poor weather, slippery rock turned us back long before the summit. The other peak, Mount Shardelow, at almost 2,400 metres, was much more interesting, and, I thought, might provide some fun snow climbing and required only about 100 km of driving. Easy choice, Mount Shardelow.

Seldom have I failed so spectacularly as I did on Mount Shardelow today. Road access has deteriorated in the past 10 years since a friend of mine climbed Mount Shardelow from Dago Creek FSR. In 2002, Dago Creek FSR was driveable to the end at about 4,800 feet, and the ascent took 3.5 hours. In 2012, Dago Creek FSR is completely non-navigable, as is the last 4 to 5 km of Koch Creek FSR (which leads to Dago Creek FSR).

I biked the final section of Koch Creek FSR, an uncomfortable proposition as I don't own a bike and had to borrow one. The bike I borrowed was far too big for me and I could barely reach both the pedals and the handle-bars at the same time. Biking, as I found, uses a whole different set of muscles which pretty quickly began to scream.

Nevertheless, with frequent lifting of my buttocks from the seat, I biked up Dago Creek FSR until I hit snow at the depressingly low elevation of 4,100 feet. On foot, the first half a kilometre was not too bad, although my legs quickly became shaky and weak from the previous days Stronglifts workout. All too soon the road I was following deteriorated to some of the thickest alder I have ever encountered. I felt depressed looking ahead at the tangle, especially given how fatigued my legs felt, how far I was from treeline, and just how far I had to go.

After much staggering, thrashing, creek wading, alder crawling, log crawling and, finally au-chevalling across a fallen log over Dago Creek, the bridge having long since fallen away, I reached the lofty elevation of 4,860 feet. In almost three hours, I had managed only to gain 1,200 feet of elevation. I was still at least 5 km and 3,000 feet from the summit of Mount Shardelow, the terrain in front of me was, hard as it is to imagine, even worse than the terrain I had covered, and my legs were quivering like jelly. A quick calculation of the time I might, should I survive long enough, reach the summit at my current pace seemed to indicate topping out at 5.00 pm. Although, it is dubious I would have had the fortitude to continue on for nine hours - one way.

I had some food hoping some calories - I had not eaten at all since the night before - might pick me up, but they didn't. I confess to feeling defeated, demoralized, and, more than a bit stupid as, when I had been planning this trip I knew that approaching from the east as I was, would likely end in failure. Approaching from the west, however, meant even more driving, which I truly could not face. After all, I had reckoned, how hard could walking a bit of road be?

I thought about continuing on for another hour and seeing how far I got, but, the return trip was hanging over my head like a Damocles sword, and, truthfully, thrashing around for a further hour seemed not only futile but a little too much like self-flagellation to induce comfort. So, I turned around. Returning was slightly easier as much of the alder was somewhat pointing down slope, but, I was feeling fairly tired by the time I mounted the bike and rode back to the truck.

A fairly (understatement) nasty trip, one I do not care to repeat. However, I did learn some things, and those will be the subject of my next blog. 

I hate alder

Rolling Through the High Country

Phacelia Creek FSR

Staggering up a steep cutblock alternately falling hip deep in rotten snow drifts and clambering over downed trees, I thought "Getting to Battleship Lakes sure is a battle." The day before we had driven south from Lillooet and met Captain Bivouac and Betsy at the start of the now defunct Lizzie Lake FSR just before 11 am. After the usual car shuttle debate - physics and the logistics of car shuttles both leave me glassy eyed - we had driven south to Rogers Creek FSR and managed to get the $800 Bivouac-mobile - a 1993 Subaru - up to the start of the Cloudraker Spur.

Nice Alder on the road

Returning in our truck to Phacelia Creek FSR we had only managed to drive to about 800 metres before getting stopped by boulders on the rapidly deteriorating road. Of course, in the process of getting that far we had snapped our tow strap pulling a large half-uprooted tree off the road. This enabled us to drive all of 30 metres before being irrevocably halted. In the end, backing up beyond the offending tree was the only option and we ended up back where we had started. Such is progress on BC's logging roads.

Finally getting away at 3.45 pm we thrashed our way up the deteriorating logging road with skis on our packs fighting like wildcats through the dense overlapping slide alder that infested the road bed. After about two hours we reached a dilapidated bridge over the outflow stream of Battleship Lakes. A steep nasty cutblock loomed above. Deciding to put that battle off until next day, we scratched out two marginally flat tent sites among the slide alder near the bridge.

Not the most salubrious campsite

Battleship Lakes and Bellavista Ridge

We had a sprinkle of rain in the night, but the morning was dry as we packed up and prepared for the steep 500 metre climb to the first of the several Battleship Lakes. The cutblock was every bit as bad as it looked, but we did manage to claw our way up to the old growth, which, while steep, afforded easier walking on dry ground. At 1375 metres, a metre of settled snow appeared within a few paces, but the terrain was still steep and the tree wells deep so we continued kicking steps up for a further 100 metres to a flat spot at 1470 metres.

Travel was much easier with our skis on our feet instead of our backs although the terrain was still steep. After skinning up for perhaps 15 minutes I heard a series of expletives - some new and original - issuing forth from Captain Bivouac whose skins - from which he inexplicably but infallibly removes the tail attachment system - had, predictably, fallen off, followed by the roll of hockey tape he carries to secure skins to skis plummeting downhill into Phacelia Creek. 

An hour or so of steep skinning allowed us to ski out of the trees and we reached the lowest Battleship Lake. Robin, who arrived last, had managed to skin up with one skin on and one skin off, something I guess you can do if you never apply glide wax to your bases but allow season after season of skin glue to accumulate. We found a bare clump of rocks for a snack, but it was cold, breezy and cloudy and we were all anxious to start "rolling through the high country" as Robin was lyrically describing this trip.

Skiing across Battleship Lake

Easy terrain led to the broad pass to the east of Bellavista Ridge. We dumped our packs here and skied easily to the top of Bellavista Ridge site of Steve Grant's famous "So You're Not Afraid Of Cornices" photo, the location of which was easily recognizable. Some nice turns on corn snow took us back down to our packs, and then down a further 100 metres to a campsite by a tarn. While the others lounged in camp, I skinned up the southwest facing slope above camp to a viewpoint overlooking Priory Peaks, Lindisfarne and Meditation Mountains, Meadow Dome, and Bellavista Ridge. Some nice, but slightly sloppy turns on overcooked corn brought me back to camp in time for dinner.

Captain Bivouac on Bellavista Ridge

Cherry Pip Pass, Tabletop Mountain, Iceberg Lake

A clear night allowed a solid freeze and we had a somewhat icy descent into the headwaters of Rogers Creek where we intersected a logging road at 1500 metres. This descent was straight forward apart from the last 50 metres through an over-planted cutblock riddled with skier swallowing tree wells which necessitated some interesting ski techniques to avoid. The climb up the northwest facing slope to Cherry Pip Pass is straight forward but threatened by huge overhanging cornices, so we skinned up as fast as one can when carrying a big pack. At Cherry Pip Pass we had great views into all the high alpine terrain of this area including the route of the Stein ski traverse.

We debated contouring around the east side of Tabletop Mountain but the snow was dangerously soft and the terrain steep, so instead we skinned up the east ridge of Tabletop, also on mushy snow, to a broad plateau at 2100 metres. We found a deluxe lunch spot with dry rocks and heather overlooking Rogers Creek valley about 1.5 km northeast of Tabletop Mountain.

Doug skinning up to Cherry Pip Pass

After lunch, Doug and I skinned up the southeast ridge of Tabletop Mountain kicking off innumerable wet avalanches that quickly over-ran our uptrack. Captain Bivouac and Betsy wisely stayed out of the way on a rock promontory overlooking Anemome and Table until we had descended. Together again we skied easily down to Iceberg Lake and made camp near another patch of bare rocks and heather perfect for a "leisure (pronounced to rhyme with Cesar) centre".

While the others lounged about like lizards in the sun, I rolled through the high country to the long ridge leading southwest from Arrowhead Mountain where I had good views of Tynemouth Mountain, Long and Diversion Peaks and the beautiful Cloudraker Mountain. On the way back to camp, I also skinned up a ramp to the west ridge of Arrowhead and got within 40 metres (I later discovered) from the summit before collapsing snow on the ridge and the lateness of the hour turned me back.

Looking down on camp near Iceberg Lake

Arrowhead and Tynemouth Mountains, Tarn Peak and Sapphire Lake

Our fourth day started sunny but quickly clouded up and became gusty and cool. We cruised on frozen snow to the base of Moraine Pass, skinned up and through the pass and dropped our packs on a patch of dry rocks between Tynemouth and Arrowhead. We skied to the top of Arrowhead via the east ridge and lounged for a while on top planning the route up Tynemouth, before a pleasant, but too short corn snow descent back to our packs. 

After snacking, we skied up a ramp to the northeast ridge of Tynemouth. Skiing southwest along this ridge was incredibly scenic and four cameras were wildly clicking off pictures and video. Doug and I skied to the summit of Tynemouth via the southwest ridge after steep, icy traverse - ski crampons reduced made this traverse much easier - of the north face. Betsy ambled along the ridge to the northeast, while Robin got within 20 metres of the summit kicking steps up the north face close by the northeast ridge, before a steep exposed section turned him back. The corn snow descent back to our packs was excellent, but, again way too short. Clouds were thickening and the wind was increasing as we cruised the corn southwest past a series of lakes to Sapphire Lake where we hunted out a relatively sheltered campsite.

Doug skinning towards Tynemouth Mountain

Captain Bivouac and Betsy built a rudimentary wall around their tent then went for a tour to Tarn Peak - a low lying ridge with high quality views - and further west to get a view north down the valley to Lizzie Lake. I left Doug excavating snow blocks and also skied up Tarn Peak before rolling through the high country to the west towards Mount Shields. When I returned to camp an hour or so later, Doug had constructed a sturdy compound around our tent complete with kitchen and shelving units and was busy filming our estate compared to the Waddington-Tivy establishment. It was a cold windy night and people retired early to their tents.

Exit to Cloudraker Spur

Our good weather disappeared, as we feared, overnight and we woke to low lying cloud, fog and drizzle. In a dry break, we darted out of tents and packed up. We skied west through corridors between bluffs and tarns to reach a broad saddle east of Shields Peak where an easy descent down alpine terrain led into open timber. Continuing easily down through trees brought us to a prominent marsh and y staying on the west side of the creek draining the marsh on increasingly dirty snow we skied out into a cutblock above the Cloudraker spur. Cloudraker was solidly in the clouds and little of the ascent route could be seen. We skied down the spur road to 1200 metres where the snow abruptly disappeared and the trip ended, as all Coast Mountain adventures do, with the usual hike down a logging spur. 

Back at the Lizzie Creek FSR, Captain Bivouac urged the Bivouac-mobile perhaps a kilometre up Phacelia Creek FSR before being defeated by a deep water bar. With my MP3 player blasting tunes, I hiked up the road to retrieve our truck frequently hooting "yo bear" as I was following large fresh bear tracks and scat the entire distance. However, no beasties were encountered and our truck was unmolested. Driving south to Squamish, where we stopped for a curry dinner, Doug commented that he could now shave off his beard as his last ski trip of the season was now complete.

Rolling through the high country

Remembering Big

In the mountains there are only two grades: You can either do it, or you can't. Rusty Baille.

For climbers, the term "classic route" is frequently taken to mean a poorly protected underrated route with death fall potential. Sandbagging, the act of underrating the difficulty of a route, used to be a common phenomena among climbers who didn't want to appear frail, fearful or feeble on a climbing route or mountain.

These days, and I know I'm dating myself - in the chronological not the romantic sense - overestimating the difficulty and danger of a climb seems more common than ever before - at least for some folks. Never before have I seen so many "if you fall you die routes" that are actually little more than easy snow climbs or scrambles.

The corollary to overestimating difficulty is the protection and gear racket. This schema involves extorting people to wear crampons, use two tools, protect the route, and/or belay each pitch. Failing to employ any one of these techniques will result in certain death or, at a minimum, dismemberment. Maybe I'm a lazy climber, opposed to carrying extra gear, as I find there are actually all sorts of routes you can climb without ropes, protection, crampons, or fixed belays, if you simply haven't carried that stuff along with you. You learn to kick steps, use poles for ice axes, and solo safely if you really don't have any other choice.

The irony is, in the past, we underrated difficulty to veil ourselves in a miasma of experience, expertise and exceptional bravery. Now, our climbs are characterized by hyperbole and hubris, and, instead of appearing courageous, competent and capable, we emerge as insipid, incompetent bumblers.

Descending Escalade Peak in the Selkirks

Invidia

The few who do are the envy of the many who only watch. Jim Rohn.

British philosopher Bertrand Russel called envy "one of the most potent forms of unhappiness." Without doubt, we've all met people who seem eaten up by envy. Perhaps, if we are honest, we can even admit to the times we too have found ourselves in the invidious position of wishing we had the house, car, looks, money or achievements that belong, in truth, to others.

We tend to think of envy as an emotion that is directed towards some other persons possessions, but, in the outdoor community, I find envy is more frequently directed towards some other persons achievements. Often times, achieving things in the outdoors - such as climbing a specific route or mountain, skiing a demanding line, or completing a traverse - requires, along with all the technical skill, some personal sacrifice. This sacrifice may be as simple as getting up early and missing a few hours sleep, or it may mean a season of training and skill development, exposure to significant risk, and a rigorous diet and exercise program.

So many times, the people who are clearly envious seem to be the ones who are unwilling to make the sacrifices necessary to achieve what others have. But, I'm not sure that envy, at least in some people, doesn't go deeper than just a lack of motivation to a more profound sense of inferiority. After all, for many people envy is a significant motivator to get engaged, work hard, and achieve that which they envied. In others, however, rather than motivating achievement, envy results in anger, bitterness and resentment. Sadly, these folks never seem to recognize their own envy and never learn to use envy as a positive motivational tool rather devolving into schadenfreude.

Envy, like everything else in life, can either help you grow or stagnate.  As always, you get to choose. 

Big Smiles at the top of Satoria, Portero Chico

Too Much Gear, Too Little Skill

What is with all the gear people haul about with them these days? Lately, I've seen people on simple snow climbs wearing helmets - whaddya think, the sky's gonna fall on ya?, carrying half a dozen pickets - useless in May snow, and really, learn to climb snow without them, hauling around a dozen carabiners, ice screws, snow flukes, slings, prussics, all manner of useless gear to kick steps up a 45 degree snow slope.

All these people have two things in common, their technical ability sucks, and they are trying to make up for their lack of skill with a surplus of equipment. Ninety percent of the time, the equipment is incorrectly employed, making them less rather than more safe, and, they either don't make their objective, or take so long to make their objective, that they increase their risk of being involved in an epic.

What to do? Dump the gear, pull back on the bigger objectives, get your skills honed and dialed, and go back to tackle the more technical routes when you can climb them safely and cleanly. 

A simple snow climb, an ice axe is all you need

The Mistakes Climbers Make

Sometimes I'm surprised there are any climbers left alive, or, at least, that there aren't way more accidents than there are, mostly when I see videos like this one.

Watch it for yourself and see how many egregious errors you can spot. Oh, I can't help myself, I'll give you some hints.

• Look for the dude belaying the leader directly off the one piece snow anchor. In May, in what is obviously soft snow. Ask yourself, how the heck he will hold any fall that occurs, if, and this is a really big if, the one piece snow anchor doesn't fail first. Somehow, he'll have to wrap his brake hand up around the back of that snow anchor towards the uphill side of the slope. A good position for a contortionist, a bad position for a belayer.
• Check out the dude in yellow leading. He crosses to the far side of the ridge. If he falls now, he's going to put an upward pull on the anchor that he is being directly belayed off. Wonder, as I did, how a one piece snow anchor is possibly configured for both an upward and a downward pull. Oh, I guess it don't matter, it's clearly a piece of shit anchor anyway.
• Keep watching, because you will see a two piece snow anchor later, but, really, it's a one piece anchor again, as the ice-axe that is jammed (vertically) into the snow as a backup is obviously useless. The snow is way too soft - no attempt to even compact the snow has been made - and the pull is off the top of the ice-axe which will simply lever the ice-axe out in the event that any force is applied. Oh, yeah, I'm sure you picked this up - that shovel is in danger of flying down the mountain.
• If the dude approaching the summit rocks falls, the belayer - she does appear to be at least belaying off her body this time - is going to get to whipped right around in a 180 degree arc, while trying to hold the fall, off a useless snow anchor.
• The sling over the rock at the summit is supposed to be the main solid belay. Ask yourself how solid it really looks and how well a rock, covered with snow and, possibly loosely held in place by a minor freeze, really is, or at least, how well these dudes have tested it.
• Finally, cornices pull back when they break. Cornices break on hot sunny days in May.

Points however, for getting an early start.

Safest way to climb snow is to be competent and climb solo