Sometimes I ruminate on the passage of time. It’s peculiar, in that that some things seem to take an eternity, and others seem to flash by like leaves in November wind. At any rate, as time relates to this tale, it has now been nearly a year and a half since I moved from North Vancouver to Nanaimo. As much as I’m enjoying the island life so far, occasionally I still find myself reminiscing about places I’ve visited in the North Shore Mountains. Brunswick Mountain, for reasons I’ll explain, comes to mind quite often!
I’m fortunate enough to have a decent view of Brunswick from where I now live, in Nanaimo’s north end. Clearly visible from Vancouver Island, the mountain appears as striking as ever, rising sharply out Howe Sound and the Salish Sea with its companions. In keeping with the theme of the Britannia Range, its name is derived from British Naval sources. The HMS Brunswick was a 74 gun ship launched way back in 1790, and it was captained by John Harvey, whose name adorns one of Brunswick’s closest neighbours.
Captain Richards named the mountain in 1859, but its first recorded ascent came thirty years later, in 1889. Dr Henry Bell-Irving, Sḵwxwú7mesh Chief Joe Capilano, and an unnamed native companion climbed the 1788m Brunswick and other peaks in the area on a hunting expedition. Back then, access to the Britannia Range was far more complicated, involving several days walking from Vancouver’s North Shore through the Capilano River watershed or an approach by boat from Howe Sound.
Today, access is a breeze, comparatively. It’s just a reasonably short drive from Greater Vancouver to the village of Lions Bay. Since 2005, when I first climbed this mountain with Simon, I’ve managed to stand on the summit of Brunswick seven times. Why so often? Well, read on and I’ll try to show you why I’ve come to love this peak so much!
It was a Monday in late May of 2010 when I parked at the trailhead in Lions Bay and began the long walk up the logging roads. To climb Brunswick Mountain requires a lengthy slog up those roads, and it seems even longer somehow when you don’t have anyone to talk to, right? The weather was impeccable. Sun broke through the forest but the path was just shaded enough to keep me cool. My relentless stroll was only interrupted by a misstep that landed me a bit of a soaker in Magnesia Creek, but that also served as a bit of a wakeup call.
The trail was completely free of snow until the point it emerged from the trees just below the Howe Sound Crest Trail (HSCT) junction. It was there, when I broke out my ice axe and strapped on my crampons, that the fun really began! The snow slope was well shaded at first, and very unyielding. As I climbed steadily, my spikes bit reassuringly into the hard surface with each step, and I drove my axe with purpose, getting into a good rhythm. This being the spring season, there were a few sections melted out near rock faces that had to be negotiated carefully, but soon enough I found myself within reach of the ridge. Redoubling my effort, it was then a question of heading up toward the impossibly blue sky!
I preoccupied myself with trying to get a photo of the Lions, but they were enshrouded in Howe Sound’s usual rolling fog at the time. At the crest of the ridge line, I then shifted my gaze to Mt Hanover, which looked resplendent in the morning light amid the clouds to the east. When snow remains on Brunswick, you must be mindful of cornices, so as usual I was extremely careful to keep well away from them! I made my way steadily to the summit ridge, opting to remove my crampons at that point, the snow being mostly melted off.
Somehow, I’d forgotten how much I’d enjoyed these views, though they certainly were not new to me. That aforementioned fog remained to the west, and a light but warm breeze escorted me as I followed the ridge upward. Better still, it occurred to me, this was also my birthday, and about as good as a Monday could be!
Next, I downclimbed a prominent gap, then continued on to a short traverse across more snow to regain the ridge. It’s an easy stroll past the helipad to the summit cairn from that point onward. A well deserved rest was in order before beginning my descent. Well, that, and a few more photos!
The descent, as it turned out, was somewhat easier, the snow having softened considerably. Due care had to be taken in particularly difficult spots simply by facing into the slope, while driving my axe solidly into the snow for support. Eventually, it was off with the spikes and back onto the trail, and, inevitably, the logging road. Arrrgghh, the logging road! I did take some consolation in that The Lions made a brief appearance, at least.
I ended up making it back to the truck that day in just over six hours, including plenty of time for loitering. Notably, once the snows melt away this hike can be typically be done a couple of hours faster, of course, and hey, if you’re really into punishment you can even run the logging roads. However long it takes you, it will be well earned, as you will need to gain almost 1545m to attain the peak!
What is truly grand about this trek, in all seasons, is the way it gets you so high above Howe Sound. I’ll leave you with an assortment of images from that very first climb there that Simon and I did in 2005. If you haven’t yet acquainted yourself with Brunswick Mountain, I highly recommend it, and if you do, I’m certain you’ll soon count it as an old friend!
This is dedicated to the late Norm Strandebo, a friend of friends, who climbed Mt Brunswick 45 times, before passing due to heart problems over a decade ago. Berg Heil, Norm, now that’s commitment!
Friday, the 12th of July, 2019. It was a warm afternoon as I pushed my bike onto the ferry at Departure Bay. My destination? Horseshoe Bay, where I’d catch a ride with Steve. The morning after, we’d be meeting up with Doug for a biking and hiking expedition to Capilano Mountain. It would be my first hiking trip back on the mainland since moving to Vancouver Island, and I was really looking forward to the trek!
This, for Doug and me, would be a return to a mountain that we had first climbed some 14 years ago, and I was wondering just how well we might recollect the details. If you’re up for a comparison of two fine adventures and a dash of historical perspective, grab a refreshment or two and read on!
For clarity, I’ll first cover our “ancient” history from the first excursion, before recounting our recent experience. Much of the route remains the same, but there have been some important changes since then, not to mention that time may have altered our impressions somewhat!
The heat of the summer sun had begun quite early on that summer morning in late August of 2005. As on many of our trips, just as we still do today, we relied on the directions in Matt Gunn’s Scrambles in Southwest British Columbia. It’s always an invaluable resource and I highly recommend you get yourself a copy!
After 14 years, you’d expect there to be some gaps in our memories, but for the life of me, looking at some of these photos it seems as though I must have done this trip with a possible concussion. Oh, wait, come to think of it, I may well have, but more on that later! The first strong memory I had was crossing a massive washout of Beth Creek before finishing the bike portion of the trip. It wasn’t long after this that we cached our rides at the trailhead, elevation 665m.
Much as you’d all know or could probably guess, by the name of this website, I’m a real aficionado of old growth trees. We must have been moving very swiftly that morning, because my impressions of this forest seemed inadequate, to say the least. Doug’s own notions were similarly understated. When we walked this trail so many years later, observations were to change, but here were the only images of those ancient trees I recorded at the time.
Beth Lake is a stunning place, and I vividly recalled being struck by its beauty. Then, as now, the shadows cast by the ramparts above make the lake challenging to photograph, especially as one tends to arrive in morning light. What we both remembered best were all of the berries we ate there! It turned out we thought the lake was at about 1000m in elevation, but actual statistics have it at 1085m.
There was never going to be any confusion about the trail’s next segment, a short and winding track that passes alongside some of the more massive slide boulders you will ever find. Fourteen years ago, the insects seemed to meet us here among the rocks, and as we stopped briefly for lunch, so did they!
All recognition of these images of the climb up to the boulder field above the lake that followed seemed blurred, at best. Normally my visual memory is exceptional, but in this case I was glad to have taken photos because they were all the history we had! I honestly could not even recall anything about how difficult it was, and neither could Doug. The views of the surrounding Coast Mountains were excellent, as you can see in the next few snapshots!
The boulder field just below the alpine basin was the next focus of our attention, according to the pictures. I’m not sure whether it was a product of age, mine, specifically, but years later this part of the hike sure seemed a whole lot steeper!
The path ends up leading you through several notches as you make your way in behind and past the Beth Lake Ramparts. For quite some time you continually gain and lose elevation on the way to the summit plateau, which gets frustrating if only because you know it’s going to repeat itself on the way back! Second time around, we had but faint recollections of that process, but the passage of time can paint the scene differently, can’t it?
In 2005, we also saw plenty of signs of bear activity, and that was just as true in 2019, though on neither trip were bears actually sighted. Once you get further along the ridge, a real alpine playground is your reward. There are scores of beautiful tarns set in fields of granite. Water sources seemed very clean, though on both trips we used filters just to be sure.
The way to the summit was reasonably well marked. Once you pass Gordan Lake, you can expect close to another hour of hiking to land you on the top of Capilano Mountain. Anyone who visits will no doubt remember this part of the walk, which exemplifies all the best qualities of the Coast Mountains!
In 2005, we spent about fifteen minutes on the summit before turning around. On the way back there were even some sections we even jogged, where possible. The weather held up magnificently, and there was no thought that it was going to rain at any time.
The journey back went very swiftly, with one serious hitch. On the ride down, my bike hit a rut and I ended up sailing over the bars, landing heavily on my ribcage. I was shaken up, bloodied and bruised, but my pride was probably more injured. Still, despite that, it took just twenty more minutes to return to the bottom of the road, once we got riding again. After 8 1/2 hours, we were back at the truck, daydreaming about cold beer! Later on, in the weeks that followed, I had typical concussion symptoms like headaches, dizziness, and sensitivity to light. Well, that, and several cracked ribs! Be careful out there, folks, and wear your helmets!
Well, before I get into describing this year’s trek, how about a little history?
The name Capilano will be forever enshrined in the history of British Columbia. Chief Joe Capilano, who was born in 1850, was a leader of the Squamish Nation from 1895 until 1910, when he unfortunately died from tuberculosis. Known as Sa7plek ( pronounced Sahp-luk) to his people, he fought very hard for the recognition of native rights here in Canada. Most notably, he traveled to the nation’s capital in Ottawa, and to London, England with several other native leaders to meet with King Edward VII. They wanted to express the urgency regarding the settling of native land claims, which even today is still an issue.
The delegation of leaders were also in protest of the government law which banned potlatches in 1885. A potlatch is a gift giving feast practiced by indigenous peoples of the Pacific Northwest Coast of Canada and the United States, among whom it is a focal point, historically, of their economic system and culture. The government basically banned it in order to force cultural assimilation, but also to further the colonial interests of churches, who considered it to be both Pagan and anti-Christian. Understandably, First Nations people saw the law as a great injustice and symbol of oppression, which it absolutely was. It was not until 1951 that the ban on potlatches was lifted.
Capilano, who was also known as Joe Mathias, was an avid outdoorsman and guide in his younger days. Along with Dr Henry Bell-Irving and an unnamed native companion, he spearheaded an 1889 expedition into the Britannia Range that climbed the West Lion, Harvey, Brunswick, Hanover, and a number of other peaks. These were first recorded ascents, but ironically, they did not climb Capilano Mountain, though it most likely would have been within their reach. Capilano Highlands, Capilano Road, Capilano River, and Capilano Lake, however, all bear his name on Vancouver’s North Shore.
What piqued my interest even more was that Joe Capilano also worked in the sawmill at Moodyville, a pioneer settlement in what is now the Lower Lonsdale area of the city of North Vancouver. I had lived in that part of North Vancouver for the last three decades. He even inspired prose, as well known poet Pauline Johnson’s “Legends of Vancouver” was adapted from his tales of adventure!
“Rattlesnake, rattlesnake! Rattlesnake, rattlesnake!…” The rhythmic sound of Steve’s stereo was playing a long and steady beat as we rolled along Highway 99. That lengthy tune, courtesy of King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard, was serving two purposes. The first was to get us locked into hiking mode, and the second? It was answering that eternal question “How many times can you say ‘rattlesnake’ in one song?” Whatever the answer to the latter was, we were pretty psyched up! I was definitely looking forward to the long climb of Capilano Mountain as we pulled up behind Doug’s Toyota at the bottom of the Furry Creek Road that morning.
The weather on the 13th of July, 2019, was quite uncertain. We expected a mix of sun and cloud, with a strong chance of showers, but decided to give it a go anyway. It was about 8 am that we started out riding up the logging road.
We weren’t as quick as expected on that ride. Doug seemed to be going strongly, but Steve had a bit of a sore back and I just seemed a bit tired. When we reached the correct spur for the turnoff we actually biked right past it, but luckily, we checked our bearings after a few minutes.
That was a good catch by Steve, and it no doubt saved us much unneeded exercise on the day! With said diversion out of the way, we now cycled up the somewhat overgrown spur that would eventually land us at the trailhead. We knew it was the right road when we soon reached the familiar bridge over Phyllis Creek.
Somewhere around 450m in elevation we encountered a substantial washout that seemed relatively recent, but at least there was no problem carting our bikes around it. That was more than we could say about the next one, which was bad enough that we decided to cache our bikes much earlier than we had hoped.
The hiking, as a result, began around 200m lower in elevation than in 2005, and a couple of kilometres in distance of walking were also added to the trip. We didn’t feel it then, but we certainly would later! It took at least another hour to finally arrive at the Beth Creek washout, which was near where we had left our bikes on the first trip.
On the ride up, naturally, we told Doug about the “Rattlesnake” song, so from that point on in the entire trip any obstruction, challenge, or random topic of conversation had us chanting “Rattlesnake! Rattlesnake” at opportune times. You might be surprised how funny a recurring joke can be over the course of an entire day. Between that, Seinfeld dialogue, and South Park imitations, we kept ourselves well amused!
For a taste of the best of Eric Cartman, click here.
We kept a steady pace on the trail, and worked our way up to the old growth forest which starts at roughly 800 metres elevation. That was where the fun began. Steve was on the lookout for Porcini mushrooms, which were expected to be in season considering recent rains. First there was one, then another, and another, and another, and… you get the idea! He finally reached the point where he’d be adding too much pack weight if he didn’t wait to pick them on the way back. As it was, even after trimming the mushrooms they weighed over five pounds. This, for Steve, was a constant source of joy all day long!
As much as Steve was stoked about all the mushrooms, I was equally enthralled by the ancient forest we found ourselves in. Yellow Cedar, Pacific Silver Fir, and Mountain Hemlock were the dominant species, and the chattering of Beth Creek nearby added to the ambience.
Morning at Beth Lake, soon after we emerged from the forest, was all too familiar. The one regret was that sadly we were too early in the season to gorge ourselves on berries as we had done many years ago! As before, we took a break near the lake boulders for lunch, and once again, the mosquitoes found us in seconds!
We worked our way through steep forest after leaving the lake area, which we knew would give passage to the boulder field. There were even more mushroom finds, and more than a few venerable trees in this subalpine forest to keep us amused. Much to our chagrin though, the boulder field was not as close at hand as we had speculated!
Just as we were approaching the draw that contains the boulder field, we stopped to filter some water. The clouds above were starting to look a bit suspicious, but we were somehow convinced it wasn’t going to rain. Still, as we shifted into low gear heading for the ridge above, the views behind us were definitely becoming more obscured.
Though it seemed like a long time grinding up to the ridge, we finally arrived. Now came the circuitous ramble that would take us behind the ramparts into the alpine basin beyond. On the way, we ran into a mother grouse, and for a time the clouds even hinted at blue skies!
As mentioned before, Capilano’s broad alpine basin, though it takes a solid effort to reach, is what really makes this trip worthwhile. Unfortunately, as luck would have it, the rains arrived there just as we did, dampening our spirits a little. At the time, I remember saying if we wanted the sun to come out, we just needed to put on our rain gear. Just a few minutes later, we were peeling off our jackets as the sun broke through the clouds. I’ve no doubt in my mind it would have deteriorated into a torrential downpour had we left them at home!
We pushed onward, with the aid of countless jokes, toward the summit. There was a bit of route finding involved, but the views were now becoming very worthwhile. Our first order of business was to once again lose some hard earned elevation gain as we made for the summit ridge. So close, and yet so far away.
Doug’s memory returned as we began the climb up a steep slope filled with heather, and he reminded me of how we’d wrestled with that problem on the first trek. This time, after a fresh rain, plenty of care was needed just to stay upright! Steadily though, the summit got closer and closer!
And then we were there! It was just as I recalled it, a broad and rambling granite plateau, with expansive views everywhere! We took some time to enjoy our lofty perch, but not too long, as I had to be down in time to catch the ferry homeward. In the end, with a more relaxed pace and so much exploration, this trip ended up taking us over four hours longer than it did in 2005! Here are some of the sights and scenery we took in at the summit!
With some regret, we began the trek down to the tarns, happy in the knowledge that we were halfway home! On the descent, we had some unfinished business to take care of in the form of retrieving Doug’s bear spray and gathering more of Steve’s mushrooms. The emerging sunlight meant we’d be staying dry, at least!
It was at about this point that I began to get a bit of a leg cramp, but lately Steve always packs electrolyte tablets to add when he filters water. They are an item I keep forgetting to add to my own kit, as they’ve proven useful many times. Luckily the tablets breathed life into me at just the right time, but they didn’t help the sore back I was also dealing with. Getting older isn’t always fun! We hiked onward, behind the ramparts, up and down, up and down, up and down… until we finally reached the boulder field again.
We busied ourselves with hustling toward the bikes as best we could, but it soon became apparent I wasn’t going to make the 820 pm ferry at Horseshoe Bay, so I’d be catching the 1040 pm sailing. Steve’s cache of mushrooms also steadily grew on the hike down! When we finally reached the bike cache, I walked right by it, not noticing my GPS had recalibrated somewhat. The ride down went well, albeit cautiously for me as I was unable to adjust the seat post on my bike. Once we reached the trucks, everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief!
We chilled for a while before moving on, as the sun began to sink slowly out of sight. An hour or so later, I was laid out on top of my pack on the deck of the ferry, utterly spent and gazing at the full moon. It would be after midnight before I was on my way home from Departure Bay, and two more hours until I finally slept. It had been a long and rewarding day!
Biking onto the ferry, staying at Steve’s. Delores and Bosco
Repeat it all, speed walker, finding the mushrooms, finding the bikes, ride down, ferry ride home by 1 pm
Notes, electrolyte water tablets, Steve’s filter
Bagger challenge spooning, Tweedsmuir, Burwell, wtf is with our memories? Only remembered a bit re the forest, the climb up to base of boulder field, and the swim tarn area, also a bit about the climb up to the summit last pitch
How the hell did we manage to do this in just over 8 hours even after I endoed and broke my ribs? That was 2005, this is now. Arguably I think Doug could have managed it this time in 1 1/2 hours less, but the rest of us were on the limit.
Tucked away on a sharp divide between Cyrtina Creek and Furry Creek, the unofficially named Chanter Peak and its accompanying approach via its western subpeaks looked to be an adventurous ascent. Simon had diligently researched the ridge and knew that it was rarely hiked and promised great views, and that was more than enough to pique my curiosity! The name Chanter, assigned by the Bivouac website, refers to the pipe of a bagpipe which is provided with finger holes with which to play the melody. It was not, as we joked then, what you call those groups of friendly Hare Krishna folk you sometimes see carrying on and singing happily at the airport. The peak’s suggested name is supposed to be in keeping with the Scottish theme of names in the area, like Ben Lomond and Loch Lomond, whose names are official.
Our immediate concern when considering our options, was to try and avert any kind of route that crossed a potential avalanche chute. The north face of the ridge that you see in the photo below had several that were particularly dangerous looking and incredibly steep.
So it was that on a perfect tenth of May in 2006, we set out to tackle the task. Simon’s Nissan X-Trail lurched to and fro up the logging road, and we took delight in watching a big black bear cross the road at one point! It was evident that it was going to be a warm spring day, and we continued up the road to park at a washout about 8 kms from the gate. I was intrigued about this ridge, since I had seen it when climbing nearby Capilano Mountain the year before. We had packed snowshoes, crampons, and ice axes, as we weren’t sure exactly how the snow conditions might play out, and expected the trek to last a good portion of the day.
We began by crossing Cyrtina Creek to gain the forest below the western side of the ridge. This went well, at least for Simon, but I managed to end up in the drink.
None the worse for wear, we continued through stands of ancient mountain hemlock, working our way to the bottom of the ridge. Plenty of stories and laughs were exchanged as we worked our way upward. We had developed quite a rapport through previous expeditions and now had that easy sense of humour that only develops through familiarity.
The beautifully open old growth forest that we saw that day is now forever gone, according to Simon, who repeated this trek some eight years later. At the time it had been slated to be logged, and though we had hoped it would be preserved, that, unfortunately, was not to be.
We soon came upon a tree that looked as though it would be a perfect den for a bear. Simon peered inside for a quick look, finding no ursine residents, but did so with a casual air that had us both chuckling at the time.
In short order, the forest opened up into an area of scattered trees and lighter foliage. It didn’t quite don on me at the time, but there was good reason for that which would soon become obvious to us.
Once we crested these slopes you could tell that avalanches had snapped trees and created substantial clearings, and possibly in the not too distant past. We soon climbed into a bowl below the ridge and could finally see a path to the ridge above. Route finding was simple – we chose a steep gully already razed right down to the earth in some spots by a recent slide. It provided an ideal avenue to attain Chanter Ridge. Had that avalanche not already occurred we might well have shifted our plans or stood down, but luck had prevailed, in this case.
This trek turned out to be one of those days in the mountains that has become especially memorable to me. Perhaps it was the feeling of isolation I felt, or perhaps it was the more than ample sense of adventure. I’m not sure exactly what it was, but these photos still evoke strong recollections. I sometimes use the photo above as an icon on social media sites.
The elevation at the west end of the ridge was about 1420 metres, I believe. It was an appealing vantage point, and we were beginning to enjoy the day immensely. The route we would be taking to move eastward toward the summit seemed straightforward. We knew only of the destination, and scarcely little of the possible obstacles, but that was perhaps the best part of it all.
The sun was beginning to warm us up quite a bit, and the first thing we realized was that neither of us had brought any sunscreen. While that was no issue at the time, it certainly was to be later. We resolved to move on, trying to shade ourselves wherever possible. There were, after all, plenty of other things to focus upon at the time. Here are some of the emerging views that were enjoyed.
We now concentrated on the task at hand; the next peak on the ridge was a short but sharp ascent of less than 150 metres, elevation wise. The snow, at this point, was well consolidated and ideal for travel.
Getting up this peak was no marathon undertaking, but it did take some determination. We had to stop on a ledge to put our crampons on, and, as we did, we noticed a huge crevice where snow met rock. It looked very deep and foreboding, and neither of us wanted to end up trapped inside. We carefully moved past the ledge then tackled the last fifty meters or so to the crest. The first crux was soon ours!
The sun had really begun roasting us by then, especially since we were now without the cover of trees. I had wrenched a knee on the steepest section of the climb, but it seemed I could manage. We stopped to eat some lunch and survey the sublime views in every direction, savouring them as much as we could. We could now see the road we’d driven up the valley on, and where we’d begun, roughly 800 metres below on the valley floor.
We had set a good pace up to this point, or rather, I should say, Simon had set a good pace! Of all the people I’ve been with in the mountains, he is certainly the quickest when moving uphill. I’ve often wished that I could spend the number of days he does in the hills, as usually he averages ascending over fifty new peaks a year and has climbed hundreds of summits. Me? I’m just glad to have been along for a decent handful of those hikes.
We were now in the kind of territory every mountaineer loves; an open stroll on a friendly expanse of snow with stunning vistas everywhere you looked. In the photo above, you see me working toward another peak on the ridge.
I was in no hurry to accelerate this part of the trek, as we trudged along through snow that was fast becoming isothermic. It was also clear we’d both be sporting obvious sunburns in the days to come but that too, seemed not to matter. We had not managed to catch sight of the summit yet but according to readings Simon figured it could not be far away.
One could easily discern that the prevailing winds had the habit of creating huge cornices, which we were very careful to keep our distance from. It was safe hiking in the middle of the ridge, but we had seen the sheer drops and avalanche chutes on the north face and so naturally wanted nothing to do with those.
Soon enough, the summit was in our sights, and Simon took the lead again as we dug in for the top. You can see (in my photo below) Simon making tracks upward and next (in Simon’s photo) me ascending the ridge with the start of our ridgewalk in the distance.
In another ten minutes, we were standing at the high point, at 1568 metres, on this unnamed ridge! It was time to break out the cameras yet again before beginning the journey back into the valley!
While capturing the summit had been eventful, now it was time to think about the day’s second crux. How were we to get down? While we had a general idea, there was some apprehension due to the snow having softened and the need to avoid avalanche prone slopes. That would take some doing, but we were confident a solution would present itself.
The mountain hemlock, pictured below, that guards the end of ridge where we dropped down may be well over 500 years old.
As we reached the end of the summit block, an appealing snow bowl with reasonably safe slopes came into view. We would start our trip downward there, plunging steps as we walked.
Next came a glissade on wet snow that enabled us to lose almost a hundred metres in elevation. At the end of the slide only quick reflexes allowed Simon to avoid a nasty broken snow bridge. Had I been in the lead I would certainly have broken through if only because my greater weight would have ensured that. As we stood about considering where we should go next, a conspicuous solution leaped out at us. A perfect ramp to our left seeemed to lead to the foot of the ridge, and since we knew that the slopes above it were reasonably safe, we walked and glissaded our way down. It had taken merely half an hour to reach the valley floor.
The end of the ramp came abruptly, and welcomed our return to the forest, but not without warning. Some weeks before, an avalanche had ripped down the couloir immediately west of our exit point and taken out a huge expanse of forest. There was no urge to linger there, because while the danger had passed, the feeling of vulnerability had not, so we continued on toward the logging road.
It had taken us just under eight hours to complete our trip, and we were feeling that brimming sense of accomplishment that a fine day in the mountains typically brings.
On our walk down the logging road, we stopped in to have a look at Rolf Beltz’s ski cabin, which has now long fallen into disrepair. We certainly wished it had a beer fridge, but you can’t have everything, I guess.
All told, our eight hour day featured about 9 kms of travel and 1300 metres of cumulative elevation gain. It was a day that tested not just our skill and mettle, but also our critical thinking process. It was a satisfying day in so many respects, and I suppose that is why this trek has left such an impression on me. The ridge with no name, had, to us at least, made a name for itself!
Travels and adventures past and present, from camping to hiking to searching for B.C.'s remaining old growth trees, and treks to the mountains