Living and Dying

I have an old file on my computer, which runs to almost 20,000 words, on lessons learnt while leading groups and recreating with friends in the Canadian backcountry. This document covers dozens of trips with multiple different groups, some friends who I knew well, others participants on trips I was leading who I met for the first time on the day of the trip. There are common themes that repeat again and again: communication, navigation and expectations are the three most frequent. Some mistakes I repeated again and again no matter how many lists and plans I made to avoid them.

On multiple occasions, we skied back to the cars in the near dark when we had either got turned around (aka a little bit lost), or, more commonly, my plans had been too ambitious for the group. These trips I remember well, chivying along the slower members of the group to keep moving even when they wanted to rest. Trying to impress upon people who just wanted to put their packs down and sit for a moment that doing so was not going to make an increasingly dire situation any better. I hated the fact that I made the same mistakes again and again, and the only way I could see for those errors to not be an indictment on my character was if there was a lesson, however small or seemingly unimportant, which I could prise out of these mini-epics.

I’m older now and more forgiving of myself and have been dragged, unwillingly, to a grudging realisation that simply living means making mistakes, some of which you may repeat multiple times despite your most fervent affirmations to “never do that again.” I might accept mistakes more easily, but I still want them to count for something, for there to be some lesson, inspiration or enlightenment that comes from encountering troubles that could have been avoided had you heeded the lessons of the past.

These days, as more people I know battle with incurable illnesses and walk hesitantly and despairingly towards death, I want there to be lessons we learn from the dying. I do not want these to be random events, unpredictable, unknowable, meaningless passages from all that was to what will never be again. There must be something the dying can teach us about living, or at the least that is what I want fervently to believe.

When my friend Rick died in 2012 in a massive rock fall on Mount Geike¹ there was no time to learn the lesson of a life lived large and without compromise. One moment Rick was there, the next he was gone. But Rick’s life was a lesson to all of us. Walk your own path, even if it is lonely, have strong opinions, but don’t push them onto others, when everyone else steps back, step forward – you are as strong as you believe yourself to be; if your joy comes from movement and exploration, as Rick’s did, keep moving, no matter what, it will be risky, but there is no reward without risk. If you can find companions for the journey, welcome them, but do not cede your goals simply because you must travel alone.

G passed at a time of her own choosing in early 2025. Not long before, we had walked the Munjip Track together. It was Anzac Day, and we talked the entire way, unusual for me as a confirmed introvert. But you could talk about anything with G and we did, our topics ranging across health and sickness, world politics, and local movements. We agreed on little except our determination to treat others with respect. G went gracefully, as deliberately and intentionally as she lived in life, the great lesson of her life was simply that: intention.

When I was young, like the young, I was swayed by motivational posters and self-help books. “Live every day as if it is your last,” a popular mantra of the late 20^th century. It was only as I got older that I realised that a life well lived can not be lived as if each day is your last. Eating chocolate chip ice cream for every meal and blowing all your money on one big trip is not commensurate with a life blessed with meaning and courage. We must forgo some pleasures, embrace some difficulties to truly live a life that brings joy. And, although I want to find meaning in every challenge faced and pain endured, I’m no longer sure every dying has a grand meaning that reaches beyond the end. Perhaps we can only truly find meaning in how a life was lived, from beginning to end, the pattern, rhythm and flow of a life, brushed broadly across a lifetime, long or short, sweet or sorrowful, with eyes wide open or firmly closed. Maybe, in the end, how you live is how you die. Like Rick, on a crazy wild adventure, or simply moving forward with blind tenacity.

1The editors of Accidents in North American Mountaineering classified Rick’s accident as “inadequate protection, failure to test holds” which makes it seem as if Rick was reckless and blasé. Rick, at 71, and a veteran of five decades in the mountains – much of it in the notoriously loose and rubbly Rocky Mountains, was anything but reckless. He was bold, driven, opinionated, strong, courageous, and forthright, not always easy to like but always the best man to have on a big trip. The reality is that Rick was in terrain that is notoriously difficult to protect and the block that released was the size of a small car. Sometimes, accidents are just that, accidents.

Mount Cavalier

All photos:  Bob St J

On the eighth day of our Dais Glacier ski camp, Doug, Sandy and Bob set out to climb Mt. Cavalier from the Cavalier Halberdier col. The day dawned clear but very windy with some blowing snow. As the morning progressed, the wind began to die, and by 10:00 when we set off the wind was calm with occasional gusts to 40 km/hr at camp - by the time we summited, it was virtually dead calm and very warm.

This was our second attempt on Cavalier; the first attempt was on day 2, where we approached from the north, climbing the crevassed glacier to the Cavalier-Jester col and then attempting the east ridge. We were stopped less than 100 vertical meters short of the summit by an exposed traverse and steep, exposed slope with not-so-stable winter snow conditions.

From camp (GR375925 92N/6, 2080 m) on the Dais Glacier, we skied south across the glacier and gained the glaciated west ridge of Cavalier. We ascended the ridge (short section of step kicking due to frozen snow) to about 2300 m and then left the ridgeline and skied up the centre of the glacier and through the col to the SW of Cavalier (GR383900) to gain access to the south slopes of our objective.

The south face of the peak is a reasonable snow route that is probably 40-45 degrees at its steepest. Due to our late start and the very warm day (now that the wind was gone) we deemed the avalanche hazard on these slopes to be rather high by the time we reached them. After considerable diddling and skiing hither and tither, we decided on using a rock step to gain the lower angled ridge that separates the south and east faces of the peak. Bob easily led the 10 m of solid rock (slinging two horns along the way), and then we all kicked and wallowed easily to the summit (very wet snow with boot penetration from 30-100+ cm).

We basked in the hot sun and rubber-necked at the views for well over an hour before begrudgingly returning to camp. After reversing the wallow, we rappelled the rock step and skied roped until past the bergshrund found just NW of the Cavalier-Halberdier col. After passing the 'shrund, we unroped and skied down the ridge in increasingly soft and wet snow.

Mount Romulus

On Sunday October 15 three of us headed out to scramble Romulus via the route described in Kane's Bible of Scree. We picked up an excellent trail as soon as we had crossed the Elbow River at the Romulus campsite. Assuming it to be a "Kane Effect" trail, which would deliver us speedily to the summit avoiding any annoying scrambly sections or exposure, we tightened our pack straps and strode on. In our haste to hit the scree, and speeded by this most excellent trail, we completely missed the first drainage exiting the south slopes of the mountain and went on to the second.

Part way up the second drainage, even with our blind route finding, it became obvious that we were one drainage to the west. Not to be deterred, however, we continued up meadow and gained the southwest ridge of the peak, which we followed to its join with Kane's south ridge. The terrain along the ridge was actually very good, with some pleasant scrambling on firm (yes firm) rock. Scree devotees could, however, turn anything that could possibly be perceived as difficult or exposed on the left.

From the ridge, I was able to point out Rick's and my route over Evan Thomas Pass to Highway 40 in the winter of 1998 (I think) to the others in my group. I was also able to describe in detail the bottomless snow, complete lack of any trail through the bush, and the particular spot where my dog's heart almost gave out (his tongue was purple). Apparently, this also courtesy of Collier, dogs have very small hearts. But I digress.

Too soon our southwest ridge dumped us unceremoniously onto the talus of the south ridge, and from there it was a simple plod to the summit. From the minor bump along the ridge to the top we saw one other party of two on the southeast ridge (similar route finding skills?), but they apparently grew weary of the toil and turned back long before the summit.

The views from the summit are actually quite fine, and this really was a fairly pleasant route to the summit. The front ranges are very dry, but there did appear to be more snow to the west, although the cloud level to the west was really too low to be sure. We noted that the summit register had been placed by the old goat himself on the occasion of his 500th summit! As we were feeling a little scree deprived, we followed the south ridge down to a particularly grotty looking gully, which we descended to the creek below. This provided the obligatory knee bashing and rock dodging one comes to expect on scree grovels.

Smith Dorrien to Highway 40: The Long Way

On the map, it seemed a really good idea. Start at Sawmill parking lot on the Smith Dorrien Highway and trek over to Highway 40 via unnamed (9,600 feet), Inflexible and Lawson. In practice, it's a very long trek and the rock is very loose. Nevertheless, we six and my much abused black Labrador, Kumo, left the Sawmill parking lot at 8.00 am on Saturday July 14 enroute to Highway 40. Almost immediately, we took the wrong trail and zigzagged through the forest for a time before deciding to head up a cut line to the open meadow. I knew, or thought I did, exactly where the trail descended from 9,600 having come down it just last spring after traversing the Mount Kent ridge. However, aluminum pots have taken their toll and nothing was recognizable. Maybe Kumo's idea of scent marking isn't so dumb after all. Soon enough we broke out of the trees to a wildflower dotted meadow. A slight 200 foot loss of elevation brought us to a small col, however, we still had a long way to go, so pressed on sans refreshment.

More meadow and talus slopes brought us to the summit of 9,600. There are good views over to James Walker, an infrequently climbed peak whose talus slope is every bit as loose as it looks. J ust two years ago, Kumo had steadfastly refused to go an inch higher on the talus of James Walker and I had been forced to abandon him on a large boulder to pick up on my return. We stopped for a short break and added our names to the summit register before pressing on.

On the map the slope down to the col to the west of Inflexible appears straightforward. However, after picking our way around numerous gendarmes we were forced to descend south east facing slopes to get around some intractable cliff bands. A short but loose climb brought us back up to the col below Inflexible. Another quick bite, and we were off again, this time easily climbing up sound slabs and talus to the summit of Inflexible. The summit register on Inflexible is a worthwhile read, mostly consisting of expletives against Alan Kane and his supposedly "straight forward connecting ridge to Mt. Lawson." Some went as far as to decry the honesty of all climbers!

We were undaunted however, and soon started off again for the final summit in the trio. In truth the connecting ridge to Lawson is not overly difficult. Coming from Inflexible there are a few short down climbs, and some stretches of hideously loose rubble. Conversely, there are also some nice solid slabs you can walk down. At one point we were forced to descend below the ridge to surmount a cliff band, and then strained back up dreadfully loose rubble in a two steps forward one step back fashion. Finally, we reached the last ridge to Mt Lawson and strolled to the summit. One last summit register to sign and we were off looking for the route down Mt. Lawson.

Unfortunately, we were a little to the north of the standard scramble route, on the wrong side of the snow gully. I'm not sure whether or not this made any difference as the entire face seems to be made up of precariously balanced boulders ready to hurtle down slope at the slightest provocation. There were definitely many "remote triggers" as boulders crashed down before we even approached them. Needless to say it was a trying descent at the end of a now 10 hour day. Eventually, we did reach the steep meadow at the base of the face. I had lost my watch on descent (a very old and battered but still functional Seiko dive watch, if you find it, please return it), there had been a minor hand injury from falling rock, and Kumo had whimpered like a poodle the entire way (or was that me?).

There are some minor waterfalls and cliff bands to scramble around as you head down the drainage, some how they felt very tiresome as I now just wanted to plod. Once the drainage became too choked with vegetation to be passable we found an excellent flagged trail, but continuing the theme of the day we soon lost it and were forced to blunder haphazardly through the bush. Twelve long hours later we emerged on the Fortress ski area road and staggered back to the cars. The most positive comment I had from the others was "Well, it was a very different trip with lots of exploration."

Canyon Creek To Wasootch Peak

We three, and a dog, left Canyon Creek off Powderface Trail at about 7.45 am on June 9 planning to traverse all the ridges and peaks between us and Baldy Pass. About two kilometres up Canyon Creek at the first major fork we turned right. Here our paths diverged somewhat, with Marc and I heading straight up the ridge to our right, while Doug, whose knees were paining in anticipation of a lot of scree bashing, continued up the drainage. Marc and I hiked up to a minor summit on the ridge (82J10, GR436422) and then followed the ridge first north then west to meet up with Doug on another minor summit (GR413443). The only difficulty we encountered was a series of gendarmes on the ridge at around GR421440. We got around these by dropping down a couple of hundred feet, traversing across loose slabs and then regaining the ridge. Doug meanwhile turned right at the next forks on the creek and followed this valley all the way up to the col at the head of the valley and met up with us on the 8,300 foot summit (2530m).

Unfortunately, the terrain between this summit and the next peak along the ridge to the northwest is bristling with cliffs. We were stopped a short way down from the peak by a cliff band, and it appeared that the only way to continue towards Baldy Pass would be to drop right down into the valley to the west and grovel back up on the north side of the next summit. This really did not seem like much fun, so we decided to turn south and head towards Wasootch Ridge instead. We hiked along the ridge and over another small 8,400 foot summit and then dropped down snow slopes to the head of the valley on the west.

Then it was back up again to a short northerly trending ridge above Porcupine Creek, which we followed to a small blip on the ridge to the east of Wasootch Ridge. From here we saw that we could have stayed high and got to the same location by going over the next minor summit to the south. In deteriorating weather we descended to a col, then scrambled the final 600 feet up to the summit of Wasootch Ridge. Hiking out down Wasootch Ridge we were treated to horizontal rain, snow, graupel and howling winds. We got out to the road at about 6.00pm and staggered down the road to our second car at Baldy Pass trail head.

Mount Howard: Southeast Ridge

We had a 9.15 am departure on a warm spring day and cycled the first few kilometres up the Little Elbow River to the Nihahi Creek trail. Although we attempted to cycle up the Nihahi Creek trail, at my insistence, the trail is way too steep. For the first couple of kilometres up Nihahi Creek, the trail climbs over a forested ridge to avoid a canyon. After a couple of kilometres, the trail drops into the Creek and soon disappears. Nihahi Creek is quite broad and travel is easy to the forks (about one hour). We took the left fork (west) and soon passed the ascent ridge for Mt. Fullerton (still a fair bit of snow). Two kilometres past the forks we gained a small subsidiary ridge running off the main south east ridge of Mt. Howard (GR433333). This is a bit steep and treed at first but soon climbs above treeline and gains a broad shoulder which is followed to the main south east ridge at GR436340. We followed the south east ridge (broad and easy going) to some easy scrambling a few hundred feet below the summit. When the terrain became too steep we contoured easily around to the south ridge which is followed on blocky talus to the final summit ridge and an easy stroll to the summit.

After spending an hour scanning nearby peaks for other climbers we headed off the west ridge to a col (GR418349) then gained the curving north ridge in a descending traverse down snow and easy scree. The north ridge soon turns to the east and we strolled along this pleasant broad ridge in increasing wind to a col at GR435361. At this point we had completed a U shape with the summit of Mt. Howard at the base of the U. The descent from the col into the valley was easy on our knees as it is not very steep. In the upper valley we found a seasonal tarn among pretty meadows. Nihahi Creek is then followed back to the forks. A canyon in the Creek just above the forks requires a traverse high along the east bank on an animal trail. The walk out down the creek bed seems long on tired feet. A pleasant rambling ridge traverse with a multiple of route possibilities. No crowds.

The Bivouac Files

For years I put all my trip reports on Bivouac.com (The Canadian Mountain Encyclopedia). These days the site looks clunky, particularly compared to flash “influencer” pages, but true to its mission, Bivouac.com has always been the definitive source for mountaineering, climbing, hiking, ski touring and even a little bit of sea kayaking information. My friend, Robin Tivy, runs the site, but Robin is getting old, and one day, I fear, Bivouac.com will disappear.

Robin demonstrating impeccable creek crossing technique

on a ski traverse through Manning Provincial Park in BC

In addition to dozens of trip reports which exist on Bivouac.com and nowhere else, I’ve also contributed dozens if not hundreds of route descriptions. I don’t want to completely lose all this information so I am going to endeavour to repost all my Bivouac.com trip reports here. This means lots of trip reports with few photos (digital cameras did not exist when I started climbing, and I don’t have access to a high quality slide scanner – plus I’ve got thousands of unlabeled slides) most of which are from Canada. Skip ahead if you want.

Robin delaying the inevitable exit from a warm tent 

on a cold morning, Maligne Range ski traverse, AB