The cathedral of Mt. Gimli’s prow rises straight from the
Vahallan highlands, proud and defiant against the sky. Sheer gneiss walls shine
marbled in deep gray upon light tan, layered in countless sheets of stormswept
flakes. Gimli’s peak bends near the top, leaning ever so slightly to the east,
as if bracing for battle against an unseen opponent or the upcoming winter
wind. Although, the winds and weather in these mountains arrive from the west.
The graceful line of the South Ridge runs straight up the
mountain’s most prominent, exposed fin. It’s a line I’ve fantasized and dreamed
about climbing more than any other: I’ve Googled it constantly, stared at its
images, at the red and blue and pink lines overlaid on the rock, read
descriptions over and over and over.
Arriving here hasn’t been easy. After leaving the Bugaboos,
now solo, I found my way to Nelson, a small town on Kootenay Lake reminding me
strongly of all the best parts of Bend and Portland mashed together, including
a killer food co-op. I was blessed with the incredibly gracious hospitality of
Dom, who I’d met in the Bugs, and his wife Lisa, who offered me unlimited snap
peas, raspberries, tomatoes and cucumbers from their garden. While Lisa worked
in the morning, Dom and I scrambled a few hours to a peak above the ski resort
where he patrols by winter, bullshitting about the mentality of trying and
failing, and life lessons, and the meaning of partnerships. From the top of our
hike, Dome gave me a visual tour of the region, pointing to where I’d see various
peaks and ranges in the absence of BC’s August wildfire haze. He also answered
my longstanding question of mature trees growing primarily on ridges, pointing
to repeated avalanche paths among drainages.
That afternoon, I walked into every outdoor store on the
main drag, asking employees whether they knew of anyone in need of a partner to
climb Gimli. I found success on my fourth try: the manager of a small ski shop,
wearing a tight, white sequined shirt, put me into contact with one of her
husband’s employees whose partner had just broken his wrist. Two days later,
after making a massive number of “energy balls” (load oats, cashews, almonds,
dates, honey, peanut butter and chocolate chips into a food processor and mash
the outcome into a compact mass), Phil and I drove out for Valhalla Provincial
Park.
The drive was a terror. When they claimed the road to Gimli required
high clearance, they should have specified a quarter-width tank. It’s probably
good that I drove in the dark, unable to watch the sheer drop playing next to
me as I maneuvered half-cleared landslides, slightly adjusted rock fall and
massive soft ruts and ridges. Teenage winter lessons in ascending my own gravel
driveway on snow and ice were the only
reason we made it to the parking lot.
I am now even more officially in love with my car.
_______________
And so our hike Saturday morning has landed us on the flats
at Gimli’s base, equipped with a few stone windbreaks, a backcountry toilet and
metal food canisters, practically close enough to sneeze on the mountain. A
bleating family of mountain goats heralds our arrival.
We pass a lazy afternoon snoozing in the sun and exploring
paths and slabs around Gimli’s west side, arriving atop a ridge that ends in an
abrupt drop hundreds of feet to a snow field and deep blue lakes below, marking
the upper reaches of a deep green valley guarded by erratic, jagged peaks. As
the sun sets in the evening, and the full moon rises blazing in the south, and
the macho, muscly goats with their short, sharp horns bleat and stare at me as
I pee before bed, I take it all in and smile.
I wake Sunday morning to the bleating of goats, exiting my
tent in the early dawn to five pairs of entreating eyes. The goats follow us as
we make breakfast and gather our gear, and spectate as I belay Phil on the day’s
first pitch. We swap leads after every anchor as we climb, working our way up
the arête. My first pitch on lead takes me up and around a block, stepping over
a wide gap to hug the ridge’s crest as I work my way horizontally above a
slight overhang, battling instinct that screams to me, telling me I stand on
absolutely nothing… to either side or below me. I trust my hands (mediocre) and
my feet (solid), and toy with the trade-off of placing lots of gear or reducing
rope drag (always a tenuous mental puzzle). I get a grand ego boost when we
pull out the guide at the top of the pitch and I realize I’ve just climbed a
much harder variation than I expected. We climb a lot of relatively relaxed
rock, using some finicky techniques of counter-pressure called “laybacking” to
grasp flakes and lean backward, bracing our feet against the same wall to keep
our bodies upright. We dance around the fin as the wind picks up out of a clear
blue sky, wildfire haze in the atmosphere blending surrounding mountains into
the distance.
The sixth pitch is my lead: I hug and shuffle over an
awkward block in a closed corner, arriving beneath a very intimidating roof.
Even on stellar gear it takes me three attempts to override my apprehension,
making moves leftward beneath the overhang. Wind whips as I reach my left foot
far out to try and brace on something,
my right toe still jammed in a crack spiderwebbed from the corner and my right
fingers braced on a knob as I reach blindly up and around the roof with my left
hand, groping for the monster hold that I’ve been assured lies in wait. The overhang’s
dark lip stretches above me. I can’t find the hold, anywhere, I’m slightly
terrified, and I have no intention of falling. And so I pull the smallest piece
of gear I carry from my harness, cram half of the cam’s lobes into a tiny crack
and grab its stem, “French Freeing,” using it as a handhold as I wrench my stuck
right foot out of the crack, hiking myself up to see over the edge.
In exasperation, I find the jug straight in front of me,
overhead, rather than to the side where I’d been grasping in vain. And it is
massive, and it’s in reach. After grabbing hold of the jug I lower myself,
remove my cam and yard myself over the thing properly, rocking up onto my foot
to stand atop the roof, breathing deep before moving upward to build my anchor.
The remainder is an extended scramble. We reach the top of
the ridge, passing atop the curved, leaning fin before making our way down,
around, and up to Gimli’s true summit at 9,100 ft on the adjacent peak. The
cairn marking the summit is taller than me. Tucked beneath is the register, a
black plastic watertight tube containing a small pad and pencil. I pen our
names and date, taking in the adjacent peaks and valleys, and I recognize that I’ve
accomplished the first really big goal I set for myself in the world of rock.
Now I get to downclimb.
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