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."

Ski Touring Around Railroad Pass: Locomotive Mountain and Grouty Ridge

Every year, round about the May long weekend, the Hurley Road, a dirt road that runs over Railroad Pass from the Pemberton Valley to Bralorne and Gold Bridge is plowed out after a long winter of snow cover. Some years, there are metres of snow to plow, some years less, and some years, opening is delayed due to avalanche hazard.

Walking the freshly plowed Hurley Road

2019 was a lower snow year, so the Hurley Road was plowed out a couple of days before the long weekend. I desperately wanted two more ski days before calling the season done. All I could remember of our 2019 ski trips was an endless round of sunny days, mountain tops, smoothly covered glaciers, and long corn snow descents. I had completely forgotten the difficult bushy approaches, the frozen dirt covered snow under trees, hiking through dense forest with skis on my back, and long climbs with lots of elevation gain.

Although the Hurley Road was plowed, the last several kilometres over Railroad Pass required 4 wheel drive or at least decent tires, neither of which our #van had. We ended up parked about a kilometre below the pass, which, given all the other walking with skis, we had done was super easy.

Semaphore Lakes

Once we had climbed over the snow banks, we found a decent snow bridge across Railroad Creek (which drains Semaphore Lakes) and roughly followed the summer route up to Semaphore Lakes. It was easy travel, surprisingly easy. Continuous snow, fairly reasonable angle, not too icy. It was going to be a good day.

From L to R, Locomotive, Tender, Caboose, 

Face from Sempahore Lakes

From Semaphore Lakes we followed a ridge to the east of Donnelly Creek, avoiding as much as possible getting under cornices which were obviously failing. There are all sorts of terrain choices here, we chose the easiest safest route which always seems a good default position.

Avoiding cornice falls

Up on the ridge near Locomotive Mountain, we had lunch on bare rocks and watched a group of three descend a steep colouir off the east face of Locomotive. Then, it was a relatively easy ski, with a few steep switchbacks up to the summit. Doug had been here before, when we skied the Hurley River horseshoe route, but I had been sick and had waited at camp.

Skiing up to Locomotive Mountain

Of course, I had a grand plan of doing a big circuit skiing up all the peaks around the Train Glacier, culminating with Face Mountain, which is a 140 metres higher than Locomotive, but time had moved along much faster than we had.

We skied down into the col between Locomotive and Tender Mountains with the idea of skiing up Tender Mountain but the snow was so mushy on the ascent route that it did not seem all that safe. Besides, which we were starting to tire. We had a great corn snow descent from the Locomotive-Tender col to the flats below, then a long slowly rising traverse took us back to our lunch spot.

Face on the right, Faceless on the left from Locomotive

Doug is a good ski route finder and he managed to finagle a route whereby we kept our skins off and our heels locked all the way down to Railroad Creek with minimal shuffling along flats.

Ski skating on descent

Next day we once again walked up the road towards the pass, but this time we headed east from the pass up steep treed slopes that lead to Grouty Ridge. Now, it is entirely possible we picked a very bad spot to head up the ridge, but looking at Grouty Ridge from Locomotive Mountain the day before, I am not sure anywhere is that good.

Having fun on the route to Grouty Ridge

The slope up to the ridge is really steep and studded with small bluffs and cliff bands. You need to ascend from about 4,200 feet to 6,000 feet before the terrain flattens out on Grouty Ridge. I walked, carrying my skis on my pack, Doug skied, mostly. There are unavoidable sections where you need to take skis off and kick steps up steep slopes through trees and bluffs.

Skiing along Grouty Ridge

Eventually, we both reached the ridge near a couple of small tarns. What a relief, although I was dreading getting down. It's almost unbelievable but I have skied up this ridge before, back when we attempted the Tenquille-Owl traverse and I broke a ski in half.

Skiing along the ridge was really pleasant. You could go right along the ridge crest with some ups and downs or do as we did which was follow benches and old snowcat roads along the west side of the ridge. There was one problem with skiing up Grouty Peak, however, and that was it had no snow.

Lunch time views

We skinned up the ridge to a point about 3 kilometres south of Grouty Peak and decided that was far enough. Back in the day, I would have been gunning for the peak, but older age and a weaker body has changed my philosophy and I am now just out to enjoy the day and journey, tagging peaks is nice but not necessary any more for me to consider the day/journey a success.

Grey skies over Grouty Ridge

The weather was not bluebird clear, with low cloud and scattered showers hanging about, but the scenery was fine and it was good to look out over the mountains that we had done many previous trips along.

When it came time to descend, Doug again managed to string together enough descending that we made it back to where we gained the ridge without skins. The descent started well enough, we thought that veering skiers left a little would take us around a troublesome bluff we ran into on the way up. It didn't. Veering left took us right to the top of the bluff where traversing in either direction to get around the bluff was difficult if not a bit dangerous.

Looking over the Locomotive Group

As it started to spit rain, we had to take our skis off and kick steps back up the steep slope we had descended to traverse to skiers right (north). Once we found a likely spot to descend, we put our skis back on and started skiing down. I had to take my skis off one more time at a particularly steep descent, but otherwise, we slowly picked our way down and the terrain gradually got easier and easier and we could see the Hurley Road. I made a mental note never to ski up Grouty Ridge again. Twice is enough, three times would be tempting disaster.

Tenquille to Owl Redux

Preamble:

It really is amazing what you can forget. Apparently, I've done 22 different ski traverses, 23 if you count the one I am writing about now; and at least 28 if you count my multiple trips along the Bonnington Range. And yet, I always seem to forget how painful the access, and often egress, can be.

Looking out over the Valhalla Mountains from the Bonnington Range

Among the most notable for suffering must be our attempted Southern Purcells traverse when our entire food cache for the second half of the trip sank into a lake leaving us with no food or fuel as a Pineapple Express pushed out the fiercely cold Artic outflow conditions with consequent extreme avalanche hazard. The snow changed to rain and we skied for days soaking wet with no food. On a smaller scale, was the three day traverse I did with the redoubtable Rick Collier in the Rockies in February in freezing conditions with a snow pack that ranged from 0 cm to 100 cm of facetted rubbish. We walked almost the entire distance carrying our useless skis. The effort was so intense my dog almost died.

Brian desperately trying to save himself from 

Rockies isothermal snowpack

On the Bonnet Icefields traverse, also in the Rockies, the snowpack fell apart half-way through the trip and our speed of travel deteriorated to less than a kilometre per hour as climax avalanches roared down around us. Then, there was the McBride traverse, stunning and terrifying at the same time. Or, the MistyIcefields when it was so misty we couldn't actually find the Misty Icefields and had to retrace our steps, or perhaps the Hurley Horseshoe when we walked 14 kilometres at the start because there was no snow. Let's not even talk about the Cariboos when in one day, the bridges across the capacious crevasses of the Gilmour Glacier collapsed.

Robin enroute to the Misty Icefield 

before it all fell apart

There have been broken skis and broken feet, ripped tents, and shredded clothing. But there have also been stunning mountain vistas, sunrises and sunsets, mountain tops and alpine lakes bathed in alpenglow, cosy camps shared with good friends, powder runs and corn snow descents, and above all the wonderful sense of adventuring in Canada's stunning wilderness.

Ski traverse feet

A decade previously, Robin Tivy, Betsy Waddington, Doug Brown and I had attempted the Owl-Tenquille traverse accessing the main divide from the north via tiny Opal Lake. We got as far as Tenquille Lake before one of my skis snapped in half and we had to abort the trip and exit via the usual Tenquille Lake summer track. My recollection of the exit is that, with two decent skis instead of a ski and a half, the egress would not have been too bad.

What spring ski trips are really like

So here we were back for round two, only this time we packed 5 days of food, brought an old friend from Golden along, and planned to ski in and out via the normal summer access routes. Although we were all ten years older, we thought we would have loads of time for climbing peaks along the way and enjoying endless corn snow ski runs.

Skiing corn snow on the Hurley River horseshoe

Day 1: In Search Of The Tenquille Trail

The car shuttle complete, we drove up the Hurley Road to Branch 12. As usual, a small patch of snow near the start blocked the rest of the road which was almost entirely snow free. So we walked Branch 12, about 5.5 kilometres to the trail-head where there is a map and signage attempting to discourage mudders and sundry other low-lifes from destroying the environment.

Meadow full of glacier lillies beside Branch 12

Not a good sign if you are out skiing

The trail is hard to follow with snow cover, but, if you can find it, the foot-bed helps immensely as the track basically contours while climbing gently around the hillside until it enters the Wolverine drainage where the terrain and forest open out.

"Might" be causing environmental damage, WTF?

Despite trying hard to follow the track, we lost it several times, each time necessitating either a steep ascent or steep descent - frequently both - through thick trees, into and out of creek gullies, dipping around melted out tree-wells and climbing over downed trees. Travel was slow.

Not sure if this is a smile or a grimace

Eventually, near Mowich Creek, which is in a deep canyon, we found the track again. As we were skiing into Mowich Creek to cross on a snow-bridge, Robin slipped off the track, went down and immediately began sliding, slowly but inexorably towards the depths of Mowich Creek. It wasn't funny, but, you know, it was funny, as Robin's eyes kind of rolled back in his head the way my old dog's did one day when he got caught in a small slab avalanche.

Robin tangled in a tree, Marvin comes to the rescue

In any event, Robin came to rest, somewhat precariously stuck by his skis in a small fir tree above a minor cliff. His hat sailed off the bluff and I am not sure what caused him more consternation sliding off the trail or losing his hat. Eventually, with Marvin's help, Robin was extricated and the hat retrieved. We continued on crossing Mowich Creek and finding a good sized level spot not much further on for camp.

Crossing Mowich Creek

Day 2: Up and Down Again: Tenquille Pass, Mount Macleod, Tenquille Lake

We were about as inefficient as you can be on this section whilst still making forward progress. We had another kilometre of steep contouring in the morning before we arrived at some large avalanche slopes below Goat Peak. Here the trees opened out, the terrain flattened and travel was much easier. After a lunch stop near Tenquille Pass we carried all our gear up through Fossil Pass and onto the summit of Mount McLeod.

Crossing avalanche paths below Goat Peak

The map made it look easy to ski off the east side of Mount McLeod down to a small tarn in a col and this is what we prepared to do. Blithely taking off our skins and storing them away we began skiing down. But, the east side of Mount McLeod is actually all rock bluffs and there was no way down. We looked about for quite some time without finding anything promising.

Turns out the east side of McLeod is not ski terrain

Back up to the top of Mount McLeod but we still wanted to get to the little tarn to camp. I had visions of this glorious scenic camp that got both morning and evening sun. The contours on the north side were quite tight, and the south side had melted so much we were concerned there was very little snow. And distantly, we could all remember that a decade ago, Robin and Betsy had set off to ski around the south side of Mount McLeod without success - we just could not quite remember why.

Copper Mound behind, skiers enroute to Mt McLeod

We discussed and discussed, worked our way down northerly slopes but no matter where we skied to we could not quite see if the route would go all the way. There was always a crucial roll-over or break point in the slope that defied clear vision.

North side of Mount McLeod

Like children, we were all getting a little tired and fractious, and eventually we decided to ski back to Tenquille Lake and camp there. So we set off skiing some very steep northern slopes while trying to remember where the Tenquille hut was. At one particularly sharp roll-over, while following Doug and Marvin down a steep pitch, I kicked off a wet slough that entrained my skis and carried me down. I tried to ski out of it, but my skis were buried too deep. All I could think was "I don't have insurance for this." When I finally toppled over the slough moved past leaving me a metre down below the surface of the snow. None of this inspired confidence in Betsy who was following behind.

My small slide at far left

It took very little thought to decide to sleep in the hut for the night and get drinking water from the lake.

Day 3: Along the Divide to Mount Barbour

Night brought a very light freeze and some real concerns about destabilising snow and rising avalanche conditions. We got back on what is the normal winter route (although none of us knew this at the time) and skied up a narrow valley south of Tenquille Lake to arrive at the col we had tried to access the day before. It became obvious that either route around the summit of Mount McLeod (north or south) would have worked if you followed ramps and benches down.

Skiing up to the pass east of Mount McLeod

The small 6,900 foot peak immediately east of Mount McLeod proved difficult too surmount although it looks easy on the map. This was pretty much the motif of the trip. Anything that looked easy on the map was difficult, and anything that looked difficult was quite possible. We were able to skin about 30 to 40 metres above the col before the angle steepened so much that skinning, even with ski crampons felt precarious. Somehow Marvin teetered all the way. When I asked later how he said "first, pray to God." This is a bit hard for an atheist to stomach.

The slope in shadow was tough to get up while frozen

The rest of us took our skis off, but I managed to slip while trying to get my skis off and was only prevented from sliding to the bottom by getting impaled on a small fir tree. Suddenly, it was not nearly so funny as when Robin slipped. I dare not move for fear of going further, and had to wait for Doug to kick steps down and hand me an ice axe.

Ridge top rest, this is why we do these trips

Betsy did a tremendous job kicking steps up this slope which was either diamond hard or breakable up to the thighs. Half way up, Marvin came down from above and kicked some good steps and we all finally dragged ourselves up to the 6,900 foot contour. In softer conditions this would be a reasonable route.

Overlooking Mount Barbour

The next obstacle on the divide, a 7,100 foot bump went easily and then we were looking at Mount Barbour. The best route appeared to be over an expansive 6,700 foot saddle on Mount Barbour's north ridge. There was some overhead hazard on this route but by staying far to the north we managed to avoid being under the worst of it.

Near Mount Barbour

There is a straightforward, but steep, southeast facing gully that leads down to two small tarns and we spent some considerable time looking at this before deciding that it was too mushy to safely descend.

Easy pass beyond Mount Barbour

Instead, we contoured around a castle like rock feature on Mount Barbour's north ridge and found a series of ramps that led down through light trees to the same location. We skied this carefully, one at a time, and still managed to kick off another wet slough.

Heading out to scope the next days route

We made camp by the lakes. A delightful spot only plagued by cool outflow winds. Doug and I read ahead and skied around steep slopes under Mount Barbour to confirm that the next part of the route would go. We skied in a nice flat track so that even in icy conditions the travel would be easy.

Day 4: Ogre Lake and Mount Ronayne

Our track from the previous day meant we had easy travel up to the pass southeast of Mount Barbour. Then a gentle ski down that gradually steepened as we neared Ogre Lake and ended in slide paths below Seven O'Clock Mountain. We took the first narrow gully that leads south from Ogre Lake instead of the more easterly one that Baldwin recommends. There is overhead hazard on both these routes.

Easy travel next morning to the pass south of Barbour

This is fabulous country and easier to travel than the more northerly section of the route. There are a multitude of routes to the small tarns south of Mount Ronayne. We went west around a bump in the middle of the valley and up a surprisingly steep slope south of Mount Ronayne (more overhead hazard) but a safer route would be to ski up the southern shoulder of Mount Ronayne.

Camp near Mount Ronayne

We found some flat slabs for a camp kitchen and set up camp in the upper cirque. Next day, we would have the steepest descent of the trip down to upper Fowl Lakes via a steep headwall known as "Fowl Wall." There was some lingering concern about this descent. If there was no freeze avalanches would be a concern, if it froze hard, slipping would be a worry.

Overhead hazard on the route to Mount Ronayne camp

Strangely, despite the fact that we all cumulatively spent hours looking at the map and trying to imagine the slope, we ended up going the wrong way. We went so far as to discuss a series of signals that the first person down would use to communicate with the rest of the people. You know, signals like "don't come, too dangerous," or "wait one more hour for the snow to soften." What we omitted from this was a signal for "we are going the wrong frigging way."

Skiing up Mount Ronayne

But first, Doug, Marvin and I skied up Mount Ronayne. From camp, we curved around a gentle ridge and skinned up to the big flat summit plateau. The very summit was accessible on skis via a narrow ridge which had just enough snow.

The summit ridge of Mount Ronayne

Day 5: The Wrong Col and Owl Lake

There are three small lakes that drain into Owl Lake and we had identified this valley as a possible exit route should Fowl Wall be too hazardous. However, our carefully timed preference was to ski down the normal route around 9 am when the slope should be soft but not mushy. In theory, that sounds good, but in practice, there was no overnight freeze and we all confidently skied down to the wrong descent slope.

Looking down at the wrong descent route

Standing at the top we were all devilishly relieved to see that it was not near as steep as we imagined. There was almost a clamor to go first rather than a carefully choreographed deferment meant to save face. We did not even bother reviewing our signals from the night before.

Heading down the wrong exit

Marvin went first, followed by Robin, while the rest of us thought about how something was just a bit off about the whole thing. There was no large lake below, the slope was not in the sun, and the descent did not seem nearly long enough. Betsy pulled out her mobile phone and it became clear that we were taking the alternative descent.

Back down into the trees

With no signal for "we've f**ked up" we felt committed to go down, so we skied down one at a time to communicate the bad, or good, depending on how you view it, news to the lead team. There is a fair bit of overhead hazard in this valley and a cornice fell while we were there, so we saved looking at the map until we had skied down to a safer area.

Way down the Owl valley

The standard 1:50K topographic map shows only two creeks which merge draining into Owl Lake while in actuality, there are at last half a dozen. Descending became a matter of trying to stay out of gullies and on skis. A couple of places were so slow on skis that I simply walked, and it was devilishly hard to avoid being sucked into steep creek gullies, but we did eventually slide out onto the flats near Owl Lake.

Past difficulties around Owl Lake

It is obvious from the map, which is correct in this instance, that it is easier to ski along the south side of the lake than the north, but that leaves you on the wrong side of Owl Creek. We were forced to take the north side. This was truly bad travel. Very steep, brushy, bushy, cliffy, with added blow-down and alder. Somehow we managed by combining skiing, walking and crawling to arrive at the southeast end of the lake.

Water filled valley

Here we found a cabin under construction and straight forward travel. I might even go so far as to call it easy travel if not for all the creeks that needed to be crossed. Most were manageable on deteriorating snow-bridges but one demanded we remove boots - and even pants for some - and wade across. This whole area is brimming with water. It fills virtually the entire valley bottom.

Stream crossing

Rather than walk out into the night, we made one last camp by a marshy area about 500 metres from the road. It was a pretty and pleasant spot to camp with some waterfowl resting on the lake.

Walking down the Owl Road

Day 6: Owl Creek Road

We were anticipating an easy ski out down the road, and, it was an easy egress, but not on skis. The warm weather had melted all the snow, so we only managed to ski a kilometre or two, almost all it inexplicably uphill before the trip ended the way they always do, walking down a logging road in ski boots.

These are my people