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kndrewa
Oct 16, 2007, 4:21 PM
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The Chicago Mountaineering Club's 2007 Western Outing
images: http://www.kndrewa.com/
(its a long drive from Chicago to Jasper)
that means you might get bored with my drive pics.
dont fear, you can just skip past to the rest of the trip!~
(This post was edited by kndrewa on Oct 17, 2007, 10:26 PM)
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kndrewa
Oct 17, 2007, 9:20 PM
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THE NATURE OF NATURE
I walk to work, considering drafting this report. Today is October 12th, the fall arrived two days ago. For me, the cool air has reinvigorated a splendid array of senses, thoughts, and memories which had since been dulled by the daily city grind. The last time the air felt like this, I was in the Canadian Rockies. The 2007 CMC Western Outing had lured five strangers into the Wilderness 20 km west of Jasper, Alberta Canada. But this morning, I was alone in Chicago waiting for the train that would take me to work. Alone, except for the persistent sound of a car alarm echoing in a nearby alley. Paying more attention to the world around me, I was delighted at an even more persistent sound: a songbird singing in the morning sun. The natural world always seems to be a bit less intrusive; a bit more elegant.Our outing would prove this point to us over and over again.
Those of us who are compelled to spend extended periods of time outdoors agree that there is an intangible binding that beckons us to the natural world. This opinion was surely shared by Dave, Steph, Karen, Matt and myself; the fact that each of us had invested our time and energies into preparation for this trip proved it. Not unlike the others, I had personally undertaken a pro-active physical regimen, invested hard earnings in the proper equipment, and spent many hours lost in the pages of Freedom of the Hills. The singing summits of Tonquin Valley's Ramparts had roused each of us from the flats of the Midwest like a Siren's song. Even though our varied experience levels ranged from the seasoned mountaineer to the first time mountain traveler, our hearts were all drawn to the wilds of the Rocky Mountains.
Perhaps we all had different reasons to go north. I needed to escape the monotony of Chicago's concrete jungle. For some of us, the mountains are an integral part of our beings, the fabric of our existence. Others may have had a lust for the mystery and intrigue offered by the high country. Others still may have been looking for something in themselves that only time away from the trappings of society could reveal. Honestly, I think it was a bit of all of the above that led us to Tonquin Valley. However diverse our rationales may have been to our families and friends, we never had to justify anything to ourselves. And that is the power and the draw of the natural tide; inexplicable where no explanation is really needed. We found comfort in the fact that our previously unknown companions held the same feelings. By the end of the journey, we had each gained four new brothers and sisters.
In these modern times, mankind's co-existence with nature has become more and more detached. There was a day when we depended upon a symbiosis with the earth for survival. We still depend on the earth, indeed, however the balance has been tipped. As specialization has occurred in every aspect of our lives and societal structures, we have become more and more dependent upon the pre-fabricated existence depicted in the theaters and on the television. Fifty years ago, the Chicago Mountaineering Club hosted an outing of over 30 people. This year, the outing attendance would barely reach a sixth as many souls. I have to believe that the dwindling interest in the natural world has come from an ever-evolving society which everyday becomes more and more concerned with the latest fashions and the personal lives of superstars. Less harshly put, our lives require us to pay more attention to societal conventions and oftentimes nature is brushed aside for lack of time or monetary hurdles, presented by our fast-paced lifestyles, dictated by the workings of the world.
Whatever the case may be, there are still those of us who encourage and thrive off of natural surroundings and experiences. Such was the case for the participants of the 2007 CMC Western Outing. We were basically in the shadow of Mt. Edith Cavell when we arrived at the trailhead. Her icy rock shoulders loomed above us, a testament to the raw and often brutal power of nature. And yet, there was an air of excitement and enthusiasm. Our packs were heavy, but our hearts were light and this lifted the weight from our shoulders. At least until we started hiking.
As we shoved off, sweat immediately broke upon my brow. I could taste many things in the air as my breathing became laborious. With each large inhalation, the sweet pine scent permeated my mouth and lungs. I could feel the fresh air cleansing my body to the core. Each breath expelled the noxious city-borne pollutants from my lungs, replacing them with a pristine mountain essence. Even though I had been in the Canadian Rockies for the whole day prior as I drove through Banff and then Jasper National Parks, I hadn't leveraged my body under such a heavy work load as this. I had already decided I remembered why I cherished the taste of the mountain air, but my breathing hadn't been as deep or fulfilling as it was now. It felt good to work hard. It's hard work to feel good. The strain I felt, though, was different than the normal fatigue of physical exertion. Here in the mountains, it seemed as though there was a greater purpose for each and every step I took. I was on my way to a better place, not only physically but also spiritually; naturally.
I arrived in the Jasper vicinity 24 hours earlier. Driving from Chicago to Wyoming to Canada had taken me two days, 2000 miles, 34 hours. The trip was split into two 1000 mile legs so as not to over-exert myself on the road. I received harsh criticism for my journey. People couldn't understand my eagerness to fork over the high fuel expense nor could they believe my reckless behavior in what they perceived as unnecessary danger from the extended amounts of time I would spend on the road alone. I grew up in Wyoming where there are 14 prong-horned antelope for each person. The open expanses of countryside had been calling to me since I settled in Chicago two years ago. I yearned to hit the pavement and spend some time in the wide open spaces where the open road is the only mark made by man. Even if I was cruising by at 75 miles an hour, the call of the land had to be answered. The drive through northern Montana put me in a constant state of awe for several hours - I was truly in big sky country. How had I not appreciated this when I had grown up a mere 4 or 5 hours south? Well, as it has been said, you don't know what you've got until it's gone.
Sleeping in the Jeep had been a cheap and effective way for me to make good time. The drive helped me transition from the fast pace of life in Chicago and get re-acquainted with the countryside and myself. The most amazing part of my driven journey was easily the Icefields National Parkway. For five hours, the landscape around me constantly changed from the most wondrous scenery I had ever seen into even more wondrous scenery! There were beautiful expanses everywhere I looked. My astonishment led to firing off so many pictures of the ever-changing landscape that I would later run out of camera battery only halfway through our actual outing. Picturesque panoramic views were the only views. There were expansive aquamarine glacial melt rivers wider than the widest freeways in Chicago. There were brown bears with cubs right next to the road. There were elk. Most importantly, there was nature everywhere I looked. I developed a bad case of what I like to call the 'perma-grin.'
Since I pulled into Jasper early in the morning and expected to meet up with the rest of the CMC that evening, I had plenty of time for last minute trip finalizations. I had to search four gear shops before I got my hands on an analog altimeter, one of my father's 'don't-leave-home-without' items to go with my map and compass. He taught me all I know of mountain travel over the course of hundreds of mountain excursions from our home and 'basecamp' in Story Wyoming. A fishing license and a local's recommended fishing lure, some fruit, and a Canadian Alpine Climbs guidebook would round out my purchases in Jasper. I spent the rest of the day fishing and weather proofing my boots after a leisurely 2 km hike to a small lake south of town.
After only a few hours of hiking towards Tonquin Valley the next morning, I felt like I had already sweated and exhaled all of my body's impurities and Mt. Edith Cavell was barely behind us. Even though it was early on, the overwhelming sense of excitement and adventure was shared amongst our group as we made our way along the wide and unobstructed downward-trending trail. Dave, leading the five of us, startled a ptarmigan and her chicks which we all eagerly photographed.
Nature, you see, is captivating in all of its forms. Shortly thereafter, we came upon an easy stream crossing, at which point we took a quick break and I filtered some water. The taste of true mountain stream water cannot be bottled. It must be appreciated and worked for; it must be earned. The water did more than quench my thirst. It was the beginning of fulfillment for the emptiness that had grown inside me from my lack of contact with the natural world.
At lunch, I took a bearing on Oldhorn and Throne mountains, as well as an elevation reading. From here on out, I documented our altitudes and triangulated our locations using various peaks anytime we stopped. A slight cloud cover and light drizzle overcame us halfway to Tonquin Valley. That kind of weather would be the trend throughout the week. It came and went as we gained elevation by way of a series of grueling switchbacks on the north slope of the Astoria River Valley.
Coincidentally, just as we got our first view of the Ramparts and Amethyst Lakes, the life giving liquid began to downpour. I stayed behind and donned my raingear while the others plowed forward the remaining 2 km to Surprise Point campground. My resultant solo 2k to reign in the 21 km hike felt very empowering, and I imagined the rain washing away all of my faults. I was fresh, renewed, and more tired than I had been in years. Apparently I brought too much candy, I thought.
That evening we hung our food out of bears' reach after dinner, but not before I volunteered to pump 7 liters of water down at the outlet of Amethyst - enough for everyone's meals and for the short hike to the Wates-Gibson hut the following morning. Truth be told, I treasured this time alone, and snuck a snort of whiskey or two from my beat-up flask (taken from my father sometime in my youth) while smoking a Camel cigarette sans filter. As I watched the sun go down over the lake, I felt more at peace and at home than ever. I couldn't get any other thought into or out of my head: This Isn't Fair. I returned to camp and bandaged my matching silver dollar blisters on each of my heels. I fell asleep smiling. I couldn't even feel them.
The Wates-Gibson hut, we found out after drying our gear in the morning sun and a short downhill hike, had might as well been an oasis. I will be the first to admit, I had doubts about a 'hut.' I had gone my whole life up to that point sleeping in tents whilst in the backcountry. This felt like backpacking tyranny. However, one cannot dismiss the comforts that come with accommodations for 20 climbers, tables, benches, stoves, sleeping pads, blankets, gas lighting, pots, dishes, soap, towels, a warm hearth and heating stove, drying racks, games, books, the hut register with entries dating to the 1940s, and a beautiful privy to boot (although the privy was nice, it didn't quite have the raw edge of the exposed bench with a seat and no shelter at Surprise Point campground, overlooking the Ramparts and Surprise Point itself). As a bonus, we were the only people in the hut.
A snow school was had where we went over the basics of glacial and snowfield travel. Proper use of an ice axe and crampons were demonstrated and self arrests were practiced after roping up, as well as our leaders' tests on the group for unexpected falls while on snow slopes. It was here too, that we were introduced to one of Tonquin Valley's big offenders: The mosquito. As much as I love nature, for it is central to my life and this report, I can't discount the fact that the mosquitoes actually were as bad as the locals had warned.
Eager to get on the mountain, we were up at 5:30 the next morning for what was to be our first attempt at Outpost Peak. Dave led us out the front door and around the hut, strait to the outhouse. Outpost, Dave, Outpost. We were all quite excited to get going; nobody noticed we missed the spur trail that headed up into the moraines. It was on these very moraines that we beheld our first high altitude views of Tonquin Valley. The light danced across the vast expanse of mountains and valleys which unfolded in front of us as the clouds drifted by.
The changing of the times was readily apparent to us as we surmounted the scree below the glacier hanging in the col between Outpost and Memorial peaks. What had been described in the alpine guide as a leisurely walk up a snowfield (most parties return in time for afternoon tea) had become an ice climb up partially rotten seracs. It felt great to put our snow skills into action, and nobody was disappointed when we decided to turn around. But not before Dave gave the seracs a go, placing all of our four ice screws, earning him everyone's utmost respect and true confidence. Not to mention a few spectacular photos.
The warming trend of our climate had taken its toll on the old glacier, and the color of the rock betrayed its former girth. Although it had receded quite a bit, it was still a formidable mass; the first glacier that I ever set foot on. Matt couldn't help but to kiss it. What would compel such an action? Love, a natural desire not unlike instinct, and an overwhelming feeling of security even though we were in a situation which is dangerous by definition alone.
We descended and had lunch. A short hike atop the Frasier Glacier yielded grandiose views of an adjacent valley. Part of the Frasier had receded so much, in fact, that a hundred foot waterfall had been revealed in its wake. CMC Falls. Some safe glissading was had on the way down, and Karen began to get her 'snow feet.' Matt and I yearned for our snowboards. Steph and Dave must have been proud of their 'students.' We became a family that day. It is interesting how the natural world brings out the best in people. When there is nothing to prove, when all that matters is staying warm and keeping your belly full, when the most important thing is to stay safe and embrace the beauty that is all around you, a feeling of clarity and infinite wonder fills your heart, soul, and mind.
The next day, we had rain. I wanted to avoid the potential for 'cabin fever,' and as such, headed back up the 4 km to Amethyst Lakes. I packed rain gear, a few snacks, and my fishing tackle. A solo trip was in the back of my mind since I decided to partake in this outing, and today would be my day. I made good time, and the weather broke just as I reached the lake and began putting my pole together. Not only did the weather break, but an immense and brightly shining rainbow emblazoned itself against the Ramparts, bridging one side of the lake to the other. I couldn't even fit it into a single photograph. I knew that in that moment, I was meant to be nowhere else on earth. Things felt right. I promptly began to reduce my tackle weight by about fifty percent, losing not only two of my favorite and most effective lures to snags in the rocky flats above the outlet, but also the locally recommended lure to a tangle in my line at the tip of my pole, resulting in me flinging the lure far out into the lake as it flew off the end of my line in the next cast.
Dave had mentioned the availability of outfitters' boats along the lake, and sure enough, I came across and aluminum boat halfway around. It was owned by the Canadian Parks, as was indicated in yellow paint on the hull. From the time I spotted the unnaturally shining feature a half a kilometer away to the time I actually reached it, a light drizzle had turned into hail. I propped up the light craft which was padlocked and chained to the dock. Waiting out the rain in my makeshift shelter invoked feelings of absolute joy and self sufficiency. Or maybe that was because I had nothing to do but sip from my flask for an hour and a half.
A little further around the lake, I came across a canoe which contained an oar as well as a net. I launched my craft, grateful that the rain had subsided and the sun now shone on my face. The way the canoe glided across the pristine glacial-fed lake was effortless, unlike anything I had ever experienced. This was the happiest time of my life. On all sides I was surrounded by the most serene picture perfect beauty, but this beauty defies photography. The culmination of my lifetime's education in the mountains coupled with the professional diligence that had earned me leave from work had enabled this moment. I have never felt quite so proud and intimate with life. And then I started catching trout!
Two 3 pound 22 inch rainbow trout and an advancing ominous black cloud later, my ecstasy had to subside. I left the canoe as found, cleaned the fish, and smiled. I was going to bring my Chicago friends the trout dinner they had doubted, the trout dinner I had so eagerly anticipated. The joy of the prospect of showing up with dinner didn't even pale when faced with the reality of hiking 4 km through grizzly country with five or six pounds of bloody trout strapped to my back. It did, however, require that I polish off the remnants of my whiskey while standing on the outlet bridge. That bridge ranks in at the absolute most amazing place I have ever set foot.
After leaving the outlet bridge, I chained the six or so carabineers I had on me and began to walk quickly making plenty of bear deterrent noise. The trail meandered along the edge of a 200 meter long meadow, and as I approached, two large brown forms game into view through the light rain. I froze. My spotting scope revealed one last surprise below Surprise Point, which, in retrospect made the entire trip for me. Caribou. We had been told by locals that we most likely wouldn't see any caribou, that there was a single herd of six animals in the area. And here I was, less than 50 meters from a third of the herd. I spent just under an hour humbly watching and slowly walking in parallel to the magnificent animals as they grazed the meadow. The younger of the two occasionally snorted at me and stomped a few feet in my direction. I no longer felt any worry or fear about bears. I managed to capture the moment and my last photograph from the outing before my camera battery finally succumbed to the cold.
Upon my return, I reaped another hut benefit: I would fry the fish to flakey trout perfection in a cast iron skillet. That night, the fish was quite tasty when coupled with stuffing and the heaviest of the food I packed, a can of peaches. I made sure everyone got a bite including our Alpine Club of Canada provided hut custodian. An Everest veteran and accomplished mountaineer, he commented about having always dreamed of 'catching dinner.' I truly am living the dream, I thought. How could I ask for anything, how could it ever get better? The next day I would find out.
The Everest veteran had done some scouting in an adjacent valley while I was out fishing, and proposed that we attempt Outpost from the opposite side. This sounded agreeable to all, and the next morning we were again up and out the door as the first light crept across the valley. A 4 km hike brought us to the base of a gigantic moraine, which we ascended to an even larger glacier. The Eremite. We roped up, respecting the crevasse possibility, and crossed the 2 km wide glacier to a prominent snow chute. As we got closer to the base of the mountain, we put on our crampons and made our way up to the crest of the snow slope. An exhilarating traverse commenced while straddling this 80 degree crest. The Eremite lay 300 feet below on our right, 20 feet below to the left the slab wall disappeared where it met the knife-edge slope somewhere out of sight. This traverse led to a few mixed scree and snow and quartzite bouldering pitches, but no belays were necessary for our scramble, all in crampons.
My only regret for the day was that I didn't take bearings nor an elevation reading once we reached the col. However, the views that were yielded indicated we were indeed between Memorial Peak and Mount Erebus, not Memorial and Outpost as we had anticipated. This was largely decided in light of our view of CMC Falls. We reached our pre-determined turnaround time of 3:30PM at the col, and although we could taste the Memorial summit, a mere stone's throw away, it would have been several pitches and the first technical rock we would have touched. We turned around, again failing on our summit attempt, but happy and fulfilled nonetheless.
We arrived at the Wates-Gibson hut at dark, just in time for a treat from Dave. He prepared each of us an 'old fashioned.' Consisting of Canadian Whiskey (I thought I was the only one), fresh water from the Eremite Glacier, a pine sprig, and a small piece of licorice to substitute a cherry, this drink really hit the spot. I mentioned regret about not taking a bearing after one of our best days out. This regret, in actuality, is proof of the overwhelmingly inspirational attitude one takes on when presented with such infinite vistas as those available upon reaching such great heights. The fact that I was too caught up in the moment to do what I had done the entire trip proves to me that sometimes you just have to let go and live.
For most of us, the next day would be a day for rest. Matt and I had other plans. Surprise Point was in our sights. We headed out in mid-morning, and were foiled shortly thereafter by a quick and hard rain, dousing the approach and thus ending our third climb attempt. All was not lost, for we identified a hidden chute that led up Outpost and circumvented the rotten seracs we had attempted earlier in the week.
Next year, I thought to myself, next year. As we stood amongst the remains of the original foundation from the first Wates-Gibson hut, two moose charged across the valley and into the adjacent woods. We were astonished at the speed and apparent grace with which the large animals covered ground through the dense forest. As we re-traced their steps heading back to the hut, we noticed the amount of vegetation that was uprooted by the moose. I didn't feel so bad, all of a sudden, to be leaving footprints in the mud. After all, I needed to be in those woods just as much as the moose. Sure, I don't live there. But my heart and soul do, and my mind is in the mountains every single day. I spent the remainder of the day reading accounts of climbs not unlike our own from the hut register.
The next day would be for our hike out. Of course, the sun was out in force all day. I unintentionally took my time. It was upsetting to be leaving such a wondrous paradise. However sad I may have been, I knew that I had needed the time and it had been everything and more than I expected. All good things must come to an end, and it's the times between our adventures that make them so sweet. The best dreams come true while you are awake.
Sometimes the best part of going somewhere is getting there. I would like to think that was indeed the case for the members of the 2007 CMC Western Outing. The difference, though, is that on an outing such as this you are never quite 'there.' Surely goals are accomplished, summits are attained, the adventurous heart sustained. The result of never quite getting there meant that the entire trip was the best part. This was definitely the case for our 'team of mountaineers from Chicago.' Dave observed over our first refreshment back in town: It is hard to feel like we are returning to civilization by coming back to society. It feels as though we left civilization in the mountains.
I can't wait to get civilized again.
andy.klein 10.13.2007
(This post was edited by kndrewa on Oct 18, 2007, 1:41 PM)
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TheNatureOfNature.doc
