Willis to Buchan The Wet Way

Day 1: Willis

I am lying across the back deck of my boat, my face is banging down the rocks of the rapid like a child's ball bouncing down the stairs. "Must find my paddle and roll up," "where is my paddle?", "my nose hurts," "this is giving me a corking headache" It is amazing how quickly our twitchy brains can run on in what is really mere seconds between dropping into a hole, capsizing, and running a rapid upside down pinned on the back deck.

My typical river view

When my paddle parted company from my hand, I finally did the smart thing which was get out, roll-over and using my feet and legs as shock-absorbers bump down the rest of the rapid into the pool below. I managed to grab my boat as it floated by but the paddle was left for Wildey to scoop up. With help from Doug, I swam to the side of the river and gave my head a shake.

Kangaroos near Willis

We are somewhere downstream of Willis on the Snowy River before the planned November release has reached this far down the river so the water level is, by Wildey's guess around 0.8 metre. As it turns out, the gauge at McKillops bridge is reading 0.78 metre, so John's estimate is a pretty accurate.

McKillops Bridge

This is our easy introduction day. It has been at least 25 years since Doug and I have paddled whitewater. In that time, the entire sport has changed from the days when we all paddled long Dancer's and maneuvered cautiously down-river to the now ubiquitous stubby nosed highly responsive short creekers that have spawned a whole genre of new kayak moves - boofs, mystery moves, air screws and space godzillas - that make river running an increasingly technical and athletic endeavor.

Wildey waiting to see if any pieces need picking up

Wildey has run this river so many times at so many vastly differing water levels, sometimes solo, other times with more or less competent paddlers that he is the perfect guide. He knows all the rapids, can efficiently instruct beginners, and somehow manages to convey a general air of competence that makes you think this is a perfectly safe endeavor.

Wildey demonstrating standard paddle signals

My goal is simply to track him down-river following his route through the rapids as near to perfectly as I can. Sometimes I succeed but more often than not, John quietly says "you could have been just a little more left... or right ... or central..." - or even right side up - "on that one." My memories, which are now hazy with the dust of 25 years, are of being pushed around by the river and I tend to hang too far back from the boats ahead to really follow as diligently as I should. The other problem, of course, is that my repertoire of strokes is pretty small, and my Prijon Creeker 225 is way more boat than I am paddler.

More of my precision steering

But it is a fantastic trip. The first day, is hot and sunny, and, apart from my nose banging flip, I manage to stay in my boat through all the rapids which are easy at this water level. Many grade 1 rock races and grade 2 drops. All the rapids end in big pools so swims are non-threatening, and, unlike Canadian rivers, there are no strainers and the water will not immediately induce hypothermia.

River running

We cover 35 kilometres on the first day, and there are plenty of rapids to refine my rudimentary paddle skills in. Wildey gives me some helpful tips yet despite trying I cannot master the quick break-outs that John and even Doug manage into small eddies and mostly wash through everything to the slower moving pools at the bottom.

The view from McKillops Bridge

The river is pretty with dry eucalpyt hill-sides rising 700 metres above; there are sandy beaches, and rocky gorges. Brightly coloured water dragons plop into the water as we pass and we see many eagles in the trees lining the river. Late in the day we reach McKillops Bridge and walk up onto the bridge to admire the river valley from above. We run another couple of rapids and then make camp on a grassy bench above a small beach. A steady north wind is blowing and I have a throbbing headache from my head pounding so I rest on the grass for a while after swimming in the river.

Looking down on Dead Horse Camp

Before dusk, as the day cools down, I walk up the steep but open hill-side above camp and encounter a large rotting dead horse. As the sun sets, the wind dies and soon our entire camp is saturated with the sickening smell of rotting carrion. We call this spot "dead horse camp."

Soft evening light on the Snowy River

Day 2: Loch Ard Gorge:

Overnight the water from the dam release reaches us and the river is almost twice the height of the day before. I have some trepidation starting out at higher water, expecting pushier rapids, but Wildey has assured me that I can portage anything I don't want to paddle.

Warm-up rapids

Below us is the most popular section of the river, with the highest concentration of grade 3 rapids where the river runs through the scenic Loch Ard Gorge. The A Frame rapid marks the start of the gorge and Little Annie the end. In between are George's Mistake and the Washing Machine, as well as a plethora of other rapids.

Water that looks big to me

We are glad to leave Dead Horse camp behind and paddle downstream to fresher air. The rapids come quickly and are engaging. My favourite is the Boulder Garden, a roughly three kilometre section of river which requires some maneuvering around the rocks as the river winds around Campbell Knob.

The Creeker in bigger water

In the last rapid before the Compressor, I stall in a hole and flip again. No nose bumping this time, as the water is deep and forgiving, but I blow my two attempts at a roll, the first by rushing, the second as the blade orientation is wrong. By the time I bail, I've got so disoriented that I think Doug and John are trying to shepherd me back upstream.

Wildey below the Compressor

The next rapid is the Compressor, big water right now, but straight-forward if you paddle the right line. My confidence has been damaged, however, and I opt to walk around while Doug runs it twice, a second time in my boat, saving me a boulder strewn portage.

Doug running the Compressor

Soon we are running the final rapid above the A Frame where we break out into a small eddy on river right. I am a bit nervous of this rapid as the usual route, to river left involves running a narrow shoot and a rapid right turn. It would be easy to get pushed against the small cliff river left or miss the right turn and impact the rocks at the bottom.

The Creeker pointed correctly for a change

Doug and John take the left hand route while I manage to sneak down a similarly narrow chute - the chicken chute - to river right. In lower water this would be non-navigable as only a small amount of river flow runs down this side and I do have to bump over a boulder in the middle of the channel.

Wildey lining up for Georges Mistake

Soon we reach George's Mistake, a two stage rapid of two larger drops with various rocks and holes in the rapid. It is easy to land river left and clamber over big boulders to inspect it. Apparently, if you blow the first rapid there is insufficient time to recover before the second rapid. I am a bit intimidated by the volume of water and the size of the holes so portaging is a no-brainer for me. Wildey expertly runs both drops while Doug portages the top and runs the bottom.

Doug just visible above Wildey 

and buried in whitewater

The portage is safe but hard work as the loaded boats have to be lifted over big boulders and through thick blackberry which wraps spiny tendrils around our legs.

Portaging takes a long time and the day is lengthening when we reach the Washing Machine. One more big rapid (Gentle Annie) after this and we will have paddled Loch Ard Gorge. The forecast for the next day is for heavy rain so we want to get through the gorge before the rain starts. Trying to portage wet slippery rocks in heavy rain will be no fun.

Wildey in his element

We pull into a small eddy above the Washing Machine. I am last in and nervous of being washed out and don't quite understand John's instructions on how to run this rapid. He says something about "boofing" off a rock in the middle of the rapid, but I am not sure which rock I am supposed to boof off and really what is boofing anyway?

Experts always make everything look easy

But, I have such faith in this crazy Wilde by name Wilde by nature guy that when he takes off and sails down the Washing Machine and holds his paddle up for me to follow I do so without thinking. Of course, I am too far right and hit the biggest hole on the rapid. My entire boat sinks, apparently this is a mystery move. It's a mystery to me, as the next thing I remember is a strange sensation of air flying by my face as the boat backflips from bow to stern - a reverse loop according to Wildey. It would be impressive had I done any of this deliberately. I have a brief but violent tumble in the Washing Machine before getting washed out the bottom. This time I am too disoriented to attempt a roll and bail out for a long swim to shore. Doug boofs down calmly behind me.

Wildey getting some air time

Finally, we reach Gentle Annie, the last big rapid that marks the end of Loch Ard Gorge. It has been a fun, wild, scenic ride, and, despite two swims, I have enjoyed it immensely. Gentle Annie is a large powerful rocky rapid with big holes and nasty spots for beginners to get trashed so while Wildey runs it confidently, Doug and I portage around on river right.

Wildey running Gentle Annie

Just as we finish our portage, the cold front arrives with strong winds and clouds scudding across the sky rapidly coalescing into a solid grey ceiling. About 500 metres downstream is a good campsite by Mountain Creek with clear fresh water draining out of the hills and protected grassy camping.

View up river from camp

As the rain starts, we quickly unpack, make camp, get out of soaking clothes and into dry ones and dive into our tents for the night. We have now paddled almost 70 kilometres down river and I have lost count of all the rapids we have run.

View from camp

Day 3: Buchan River

The mist lying over the river gorge is pretty in the morning and the sky looks to be brightening a little. However, as we take the tent down, the rain begins and continues heavily, with thunder and lightening for the next several hours. There are still lots of rapids to paddle and the river remains high. There are only two or three bigger rapids however where we need to be careful to avoid smashing into rock walls or being engulfed by wave trains.

Running rapids in heavy rain

My goal for the day is to avoid swimming which I manage, but towards the end of the day I think only just. The longer we sit in the teeming rain, the colder and stiffer I get and lining up to hit the rapids right behind Wildey seems to get harder and harder. There are a couple of bigger rapids with long wave trains which are fun, but when the rain is really heavy it is hard to see well enough to avoid rocks and I bump more than a few.

Gorge scenery along the river

This section of the river is really scenic as we paddle under the huge New Guinea cliff and through yet another rocky gorge. At times however, the rain is so heavy it is hard to see. At Jacksons Ford we pull out for a short break and then continue down river. The side creeks are all running now and we paddle up a short distance up Basin Creek to see the falls.

Doug and Wildey paddling past New Guinea

As we paddle down river the rapids get more widely spaced and the slower moving pools more prominent. Beyond the narrow gorge we start to catch glimpses of farmland above.

Wildey deliberately facing upstream, 

Me, more inadvertant

Just after a sharp bend in the river, John turns abruptly to river right and disappears. We have reached the confluence with the Buchan River and the great Snowy River trip is over.

Wildey giving us a wave after 

expertly running Gentle Annie

This trip would not have been possible without the expert guidance and fulsome encouragement of John Wilde. Wildey, I owe you an entire cellar of Green Ginger Wine.

I owe you Wildey

View the video here. 

Mount Baker On Skis, Or Perspective Is Everything

Snow is falling in Canada, which  made me think it was time to write up our ski ascent of Mount Baker in Washington State. Done as a day trip from the road, the elevation gain is significant, about 2200 metres, and, the elevation gain is about the same whether you take the west side route - the Coleman Demming Glacier - or the south side route - the Easton Glacier. The Easton Glacier route is about 6 kilometres longer and being on the south side of the mountain, one would expect the approach to melt out sooner.

Early morning near snow line

Right up until we headed south across the US border the day before our ski ascent we were debating which route to take. Both ascend the Roman Headwall, both would involve carrying our skis at the start and end of the day, and both have some crevasse hazard. The Coleman-Demming route also has some serac hazard, and some reports indicate the crevasses tend to be bigger.

I think this is the Picket Range

In the end, we opted for the Coleman-Demming route. When you have 2200 metres of elevation gain and almost 20 kilometres of distance to cover in a day, it makes sense to choose the shortest route. We also thought the west side route would offer more skiing and less walking making the day just that bit faster.

Seracs on the Coleman-Deming route

We parked our hashtag van in a very scenic location the night before, pretty much overlooking the route. This gave us plenty of time to worry about how well bridged the crevasses would be, an important consideration as we were going without a rope, harnesses or any method of extracting ourselves from a crevasse should we fall in.

Climbing volcanoes in the Pacific Northwest is a popular past time. In addition to private parties, there are guiding companies whose entire business is trundling people up and down glaciated volcanoes in the Pacific Northwest.

Van life with a view

Very late May must be low season guiding however as we did not see that many guided parties on our ascent on the last day of May. We left the parking lot wearing approach shoes with skis and boots on our day packs and started walking up the Heliotrope Ridge trail around 5.15 am, a time that many people would consider ridiculously late. Almost immediately we had a slight delay as Doug's ski strap fell off and he went back to look for it which meant I went back to look for him.

Morning light in the Pacific NW

Away again, we got to the only fork in the trail, left goes to Glacier Lookout over Mount Baker while right is the climbers track up to "the hogsback" which is the crest of a moraine and a campsite for many people climbing the route. At this junction we were able to walk west to a gully with sufficient snow cover for us to switch from shoes to ski boots and start skiing.

Small waterfall on the lower trail

At the top of the moraine we passed a number of climbers hanging around tents and got a view down the valley which was filled with early morning cloud. We had very good firm spring snow conditions which made for fast and easy travel and after the one slightly steep slope directly uphill from the Hogsback camp, it was easy skinning all the way up to the col to the east of Colfax Peak.

Morning valley fog

There is a pounded in yak track from all the climbers going up and down the peak and we stuck close to this to avoid crevasses, and although we skied across a couple of small cracks, everything was well bridged. There is also one section where we skied past some fallen seracs but compared to skiing up the Athabasca Glacier under the seracs of Snowdome to access the Columbia Icefields, the Coleman Glacier is a doddle.

Pounded in yak track

We passed a number of parties descending - on foot - all of whom appeared to be dead beat. Sadly for them, we passed one party twice as they descended, once as we were going up and then whizzing past them again on the way down.

Near Colfax Peak

Past Colfax Peak, we put ski crampons on for a short steep section that led to a ridge beside the Roman Wall. I kicked about 10 steps but Doug managed to ski all the way up, and then we had only to ski up the final steeper slope to the summit plateau which is known as the Roman Headwall. Apparently most people kick steps up but with ski crampons it was skiable all the way.

Doug with the Roman Wall behind

The inauspicious peak of Mount Baker is a little rounded snow bump on a big plateau and perhaps a kilometre away across the flat summit area. It was here that we really felt the altitude as we started skiing across at our normal "flat terrain" skiing pace and were soon gasping for breath.

Skiing across the summit plateau

The view is amazing. Mount Baker is the biggest peak around and the panorama of the Cascade Mountains is simply stunning. The weather was amazing, sunny and calm on top. Not warm, it is only May and we are at almost 3300 metres, but really pleasant for sitting around enjoying the view. All up, we were 7 hours to the summit, and, as it is only noon, we don't feel we need to rush.

Yep, views for ever

After an appropriate amount of time on the summit, we pant back across to the top of the Roman Headwall where we take skins off and tighten our boots for the 2200 metre descent. Well, not quite 2200 metres as we did have to walk the first bit through forest.

Looking down on everything

What a ripping run it is. The Roman Headwall is a bit challenging as it is pretty steep and I have to jump turn, but then it is spring corn all the way. We managed to ski all the way back to our approach shoes in one hour from the summit!

Colfax Peak

We snack and drink where the snow runs out, then change into approach shoes and strap our skis and boots to our pack and stroll happily down the track. Ten hours round trip and we feel great.

It's All About Mass, Muscle Mass

A couple of days ago, while out paddling with friends, someone asked me if I was still on "that low carb diet?" I had to think about that. In our modern culture, "diet" implies a short term change in regular eating patterns to achieve a desired outcome - generally weight loss (importantly, not fat loss). There is also some nuance of faddishness about a "low carbohydrate diet." Faddishness implies a way of eating that is not merely unsustainable but also unhealthy.

Ski hut bacon and eggs breakfast

Of course, the answer was yes. And after some thought, I realized that I had been on this "low carb diet" for a decade. Although if asked, I would describe my diet as avoiding grains, seeds and industrial seed oils. But it is true, I also avoid starchy vegetables and only eat a very little fruit. Insulin resistance in older women is a thing - look it up 

Bridge pull-up anyone?

But these days I am much more obsessed with strength and building muscle mass to reflect too much on the nuances of diet. We all know, or should by now, that you can't out exercise a bad diet, which is why you see so many amateur athletes with less than ideal body fatness. And certainly, being over-fat is not a good thing in terms of long term health outcomes, but, if you were to pinpoint one thing that leads to living not merely a long life, but a healthy and functional long life - i.e. staying out of the nursing home and continuing to do activities you enjoy - it would be muscle mass and overall strength.

Doug cranking pull-ups on a mountain

Which makes it all the more perplexing that strength training remains very much a fringe activity. Among my circle, which now spans two countries and is made up almost exclusively of people who enjoy exercise, virtually no-one strength trains with enough consistency, resistance or quality movements to be considered serious weight lifters. And yet, the older you get the more vital it is to protect and preserve muscle. By the time you reach the point where getting off the floor unaided is impossible, it may very well be too late.

It is a shame that strength training, which is itself relatively simple conceptually - pick up increasingly heavy objects and put them down - is so poorly understood. Not just among the general public but also among sports coaches, trainers, and exercise physiologists. Virtually no-one, outside the power or Olympic lifting scene programs for pure strength. A maxim that endurance coaches would do well to have branded on their chests is "there is no endurance without strength."

Doesn't everyone do overhead 

squats with their ski pack?

There are as many arcane and complicated workouts on the interwebs as there are varieties of donuts at a Timmy Ho's. Novices and experts alike are susceptible to the allure of esoteric programs featuring dozens of exercises. But, at the end of the day, programming for strength training is simple. Perform the four basic human movements: push, pull, hinge and squat. Throw in some loaded carries for all round utility. Do 15 to 25 repetitions, spread over 3 to 8 sets with a couple of minutes rest between repetitions and gradually increase the load.

That's it. It's not fancy, it's not particularly fun. It certainly isn't sexy or even 'gramme worthy but it works.

Sea Kayaking the Broughton Archipelago

Tom: "I have three dry bags." In a string of emails planning this short sea kayak trip on the east coast of Vancouver Island, this one catches my attention. How exactly does one paddle on the ocean with just 3 dry bags? I consider myself a minimalist yet, between Doug and I, we probably have 10 times 3 dry bags. Perhaps Tom has three enormous dry bags? One of each fills the bow, stern and central compartments of his massive Seaward Passat double kayak.

Doug and I are on an extended trip back to Canada, but we have not come equipped to kayak. Back when we lived in the land of snow and ice where summer came on a Tuesday and was gone by Wednesday; for a dozen years, we spent one week a year paddling somewhere on the west coast. We paddled a double Feathercraft, a skin and frame kayak made in Canada, and, at the time one of the best "folding boats" on the market. But, it was a wet boat. Not like a wet bar, where drinks with umbrellas and olives are readily available, but wet as in we sat in a pool of ice cold sea water the entire trip as the deck and spray skirts dripped steadily.

The Feathercraft in shallow water in the Palau Islands

In hindsight, there were perhaps some other weird email conversations surrounding gear for our upcoming trip: "I could find a whistle, if I had to," and "I have a bicycle light but it doesn't like sea water", and even, perhaps most concerning "I don't have a map." But what is a sea kayak trip without a little adventure?

In the end, we did procure a map. And, by scrounging through our relatives recycling bins we managed to scrape together enough water containers to ensure we did not die of thirst while out on the water. British Columbia, despite being awash in water (rain) most of the time does not give up drinking water easily on the small islands kayakers usually visit. The plan,however, should a kayak paddle break was, and I quote Tom freely: "paddle with the non-broken half like in a canoe."

Flashback to kayak camp in Desolation Sound

The black blob is our 32 kg Labrador who came with us

Our destination was a group of closely packed islands known as the Broughton Archipelago on the protected east coast of Vancouver Island and on the edge of British Columbia's fjord country where deep inlets run east up towards some of British Columbia's highest and most remote mountains.

We drove north up Vancouver Island for hours crammed with a week's worth of kayaking gear in Tom's small car, occasionally stopping to reattach the kayaks to the car roof after various parts of the roof rack flew off and landed in the road ditch. Luckily, each time a piece of the roof rack was ejected there was a loud thud as it hit the car on the way past so we could pull over, retrieve it and reinstall the part back on the roof. The rain fell in sheets the entire time, but some how, miraculously cleared when we reached Alder Bay.

Alder Bay is a little further west than the better known Telegraph Cove which throngs with tourists during the short summer season, most of whom come to see the resident Orca Whales that summer in Johnstone Strait. The caravan park at Alder Bay charges a small launch fee and fee to park a car, but in exchange provides an easy kayak launch, drinking water, garbage facilities and showers after the trip.

Does this paddle make me look short?

We had no dry bags, Tom's three dry bags understandably being in use, so our system involved stuffing everything into plastic bin bags tied in knots then stored in Woolies-type reusable shopping bags. Somehow it worked, although this packing system made for an annoying week of continually opening and retying bin bags searching for the one item we needed right now from an array of indistinguishable bags.

Our kayak, kindly provided by Tom, was a monster of a boat. Nearly 3/4 of a metre wide and almost 7 metres long, the Seaward Passat certainly inspired confidence in its stability, although the marketing literature which described the boat as an "extremely fast racing tandem" did seem a bit hyperbolic. Doug and I were both equipped with 220 cm paddles, which necessitated a rather interesting paddle stroke much more like rowing a Viking long ship than paddling a sleek kayak.

It was late afternoon by the time we launched the boats and paddled out to Broughton Strait. Our current charts, which we were inexplicably organised enough to have (maybe as they were free), indicated we were starting out right at maximum flow through Weyton Passage, so we decided to make our destination for the night the Pearse Islands. Sometimes, I feel just getting away from the car on the first day of a trip is success enough.

First camp at the Pearse Islands

There was no wind, and, of course, no swell, but there was a tidal stream near the southwestern tip of the largest Pearse Islands, although once nearby, the current seemed to amount to little more than surface riffles. I've certainly been swept further off course when crossing to Montague Island from Narooma.

There are almost 10 little islands squashed together in a couple of square kilometres at the Pearse Islands and it was pleasant paddling through them. The current didn't seem to matter. If the tide was flowing the wrong way, we simply paddled in eddies along the shore line. We found a pretty little camp-site on a small peninsula and set up camp for the night.

Tom

Next morning, we got up early, 5.30 am, to catch slack current as we crossed Weyton Passage heading east. We managed to breakfast and pack in a lull between rain storms, and admittedly felt quite smug passing by another group of kayakers camped at the Plumper Islands and looking miserable in the steady rain.

We paddled perhaps 20 or 25 kilometres that day. After lunch the weather cleared and a watery sun came out. There were seals and sea eagles, tiny rocky islands covered with evergreen trees, bouldery bays, narrow passages. As we paddled north through Swanson Passage we entered into an ocean amphitheatre of small islands that had the most amazing echo. This kept us entertained for a full half hour as each cat-call was bounced back around half a dozen times, the volume gradually fading away with each bounce.

Misty Morning

Our camp that night was on Sedge Island tucked deep into a heavy dark cedar forest. It was a bit of a tough carry bringing the boats up from a dead low tide through slippery tidal rocks. There are no sandy beaches to land on when paddling the sheltered waterways of British Columbia. The bays, which Canadians call "beaches" are all rocky and hard on composite boats.

The weather next morning was gloomy with low cloud again. Somehow Tom managed to fall out of his boat and into the water when launching in the morning. It turned out that, despite his three monster dry bags, he only had one set of clothes, so he sat in wet clothes all day. We were heading south to Hanson Island area. Again, we paddled through passages and channels passing many small islands. Tom, who loves to chat, had discovered that we were perhaps too taciturn companions for him and engaged any and everyone we passed in long conversations. His opening gambits ranged from the common "Catching any fish?" to the desperate "That's a flat bottomed boat you have."

Tom, in search of more loquacious paddling partners

As we were crossing Blackney Sound we come upon a pod of Humpback Whales and a separate pod of dolphins. The dolphins are smaller than we species we commonly see around NSW but they were just as frisky, following along beside our kayaks for a long time. Tom had not seen either whales or dolphins from his kayak before so it was a real treat for him.

Gratuitous shot of False Killer Whales really close 

to my kayak on the south coast of NSW

We found a delightful camp-site on Little Hanson Island sitting up on a promontory overlooking Johnstone Strait. It was our last chance to see the resident Orcas before finishing the trip and this was a good spot to watch from.

It was hard to get the boats up as we had to land in a gulch between two small islets that are connected at low tide. While we were carrying loads, we took our eyes off the boats and the Seaward Passat gently glided out into the channel on the rising tide and, once in the current began swiftly slipping away from us bound for the middle of Johnstone Strait.

Another gratuitous shot, this one taken a 

couple of kilometres from our local beach

My intention to be the heroine of the day by striding out into the water to save the boat was quickly quashed when I saw that I would have to swim after the boat, not merely wade. BC water is cold! So while Tom and I watched wistfully from the shore, Doug, looking like a pallid, albeit skinny, David Hasselhoff stripped off his shirt and plunged into the water after boat. Any resemblance to Baywatch quickly disappeared, however, when he emerged white with cold and shivering from the water, but, with the Passat in tow.

This was our best camp as the sun came out and we spent the evening sitting on logs watching Humpback Whales in the current in Blackney Passage.

Excellent camp on Little Hanson Island

Our last day, we paddled west along the south side of Hanson Island to look at the sea kayak glamping sites. These are run by commercial sea kayak tour groups and the camps are pretty nice, situated on rock platforms with rain shelters. Sea kayaking is a really big thing in Canada.

Finally, we crossed to the south side of Johnstone Strait, paddled a lap through busy Telegraph Cove and ended up back at Alder Bay, just before the next round of rain set in.

Cypress Ski Area to Lions Bay: St Marks Summit and Unnecessary Mountain

The day before we are to leave for a three day trip, I think an easy stroll is in order. I've been down in the valley for two whole days, missing mountain time, the entire while. Walking from Cypress ski area (elevation 1000 metres) to Lions Bay, where I can catch a bus back to West Vancouver should be easy, right? And it was, kind of.

The catch is, the North Shore Mountains, as this sub-range of the Coast Mountains is known are steep, perhaps unimaginably steep if you have not done much hiking, climbing or skiing in this area. While the summits don't reach much more than 1800 metres, the rise from sea level is abrupt and rapid. The western slopes of Unnecessary Mountain for example, rise over 1500 metres in just under three kilometres.

Nearby Black Mountain trail:

Typical North Shore mountain track

I don't have any pictures to illustrate the "trail" that descends from Unnecessary Mountain to Lions Bay. You can, however, take a gander at this selection of the relevant topographic map (the contour interval is 20 metres and blue UTM grid is 1 km) to get an idea of the terrain I descended. But, I am getting ahead of myself.

It was supposed to be a sunny day, at least that was the valley forecast. However, when Doug dropped me off at the base of Cypress ski area, it was foggy, damp, and destined to remain that way until I reached Lions Bay, way down at sea level. I suspect the mountains stayed socked in all day. That is the way of mountain weather.

From a previous trip, I knew a quick way to get to the Howe Sound Crest Trail which is what the rooty, muddy, scrambly foot pad that runs along the crest of the mountain ridge above Howe Sound is called. Apart from the trail moniker, it is an apt name.

West coast trail goodness

Perhaps 20 minutes from the ski hill where the trail is a broad and pleasantly graded walkway, an information booth is reached. I've been past this booth a few times now, both on skis and on foot, and, as I knew my way, I really did not need to stop. But, a new sign had appeared, courtesy of BC Parks. 

Well, OK, kids, don't try this at home as you will surely need hospitalization, possibly a coffin, for the subsequent water intoxication (aka hyponatreamia) which will surely result. I guess BC Parks does not realize, in their arse covering way, that there have been fatalities from water intoxication as a result of such imperatives. Yes, "people have died" (to quote the statin lunatics).  It's also not clear to me, given the average time to traverse the Howe Sound Crest is upwards of 12 hours, how people are supposed to carry 24 plus litres of water.  Governments can be inexplicable.  

In any event, about 30 seconds past this sign, I crossed the first of several creeks that were running with lovely clear mountain water. Thereafter, I sloshed through so much water for the rest of the hike that my shoes and clothes were soaked.

Water is everywhere in the BC mountains

After the information booth, the trail crosses several gullies that are avalanche prone in winter and soon arrives at a forested saddle between Montizambert and Lempke Creeks. This is the jumping off point for Christmas Gully, or, if you do that trip more sensibly reversing the route we did, the base of Christmas Gully. In summer, the gully is not appealing, full of head high wet greenery.

Christmas Gully in spring

After this, the track heads up to the Howe Sound Crest and pretty much stays right along the ridge top, the entire way. In the Olympic year (2010), some work was done on the trail making it an actual trail, but, this runs out soon after leaving the saddle and the track turns into the usual West Coast narrow foot-pad criss-crossed with tree roots and mud-holes.

At some point, I passed St Marks summit in the gloom. There were really no views, although on a clear day, the islands of Howe Sound glitter in the ocean. Continuing north I followed the foot-pad, trying to stay on the main one, but in the fog and with many braids in places, I kept leaving and joining various alternatives.

Looking down on Howe Sound from near St Marks

After about 3 hours, when I was quite turned around in the fog, I came to what seemed to be a summit, with an area clear of trees and falling off in all directions. What one normally considers a summit. Here I stopped for a quick bite to eat and checked my location on the map. I was not quite on Unnecessary Mountain, instead, on a little bump on the ridge perhaps a kilometre south.

So some more up and down, scrambling down some rocky sections, feeling my way along in the gloom. Unnecessary Mountain is marked by a wooden sign delineating the Howe Sound Crest trail continuing north and the Unnecessary trail descending to the west. I was about 4 hours into my "easy stroll" and thinking it was time to head down to the valley and catch the bus back home.

I should have had stunning views of the Lions, Howe Sound, and all the cliffs that bristle along the spine of the ridge, but instead I sat in a dank fog, ate my lunch and considered my options.

Howe Sound Crest in fog

On a previous trip to climb West Lion, we had walked up and down the trail that descends from the ridge between Unnecessary and West Lion so I knew that trail. It was steep at first, all the trails are steep, but then it had a lesser angle as it headed north to join old logging roads. However, I could remember that the logging road section was hard and stony underfoot and overall it is not a particularly scenic trail. So, I decided to head down Unnecessary trail.

There is no getting around this trail is steep, but I enjoyed it more than other trails in the area. The first part of the descent is on a spur ridge that points west. The ridge is narrow and to the south there are a series of cliffs and buttresses. Along the ridge itself there are small tarns and meadows. Walking down in fog, however, is an eerie feeling as the terrain ahead is so steep it feels as if you are about to walk off a cliff. It is too bad I have no photos of this section as it was quite impressive.

Where the spur ridge merges with the west slopes, the trail just goes straight down, and so did I. Glad of a hiking pole but also grabbing trees and branches, rocks and roots, anything to keep my descent under some kind of control. The foggy light filtered through evergreen trees was really pretty.

Unnecessary Mountain in spring

Near the bottom, when I was beginning to wonder if I would ever reach flat ground, I passed a young couple hiking up with overnight packs. They looked comparatively fresh and happy, but I couldn't help but wonder how they would feel higher up after a few hours of uphill struggle.

Eventually, I heard the noise of road equipment, saw light through the trees and emerged on a dirt road that quickly became paved. Still, it was two more kilometres to the bus stop and then another two kilometres at the other end of the bus ride. By the time I walked up the driveway, one of my knees had seized up and my feet and body were feeling battered about. So much for an "easy stroll."