Biglines Scholarship Report

In this report I would like to share a synopsis of the 2005/2006 season, which turned out to be the best season ever, again. Late summer storms began early plasterage of the Canadian Rockies and on Septemeber 23 my housemate Aaron Enns and I made our first turns of the season. Mt Baker, on the western edge of the Wapta Icefield was as good as it gets with stable boot deep powder on it’s north face and glacier. There were also some good windows in October. Deep snow turned out to be a problem on an attempt of Mt Victoria’s North Face. Aaron, Ty Mills and I also made another greuling trip up the Ice River to ski Mt Vaux and the Hanbury Glacier but underestimated the approach in a small weather window and weren’t able to summit. Make sure to check out the upcoming Black Sun Productions film “The Chronics of Gnarnia”.

November saw the birth of true “Monster Truck” skiing using Golden local Scott Belton’s giant German Army truck. With it’s giant tires all chained up, there’s nooooo problem cruising up snowy overgrown logging roads that would otherwise be impassable. I’ve never howled so hard as when the alders were slapping against the windshield. It’s pretty well the ideal scenario to economically and efficiently access early season goods. Now Scott has it running on bio-diesel and even put a passenger cabin on the back, upping the style factor yet another notch. The coast was getting the early season dumps as well and Blackcomb’s opening day was one of the best ever. Robin Scrimger and I pilgrimaged to the coast to rip it up with Matty Richard and crew. After shredding everything possible including Christmas chute on the opening few days, Matty and I ended it off with ski-touring to the summit of Whistler to have the whole peak to ourselves.

Whistler Nov 4th 05
















I had the great fortune of doing a couple of early season road trips with Robin and our next adventure was into the heart of the Kootenays to catch the Kootenay Mountain Culture Magazine “Backyard Booty” event in Rossland. On the way, we stopped in Nelson to connect with Whitewater’s opening day. Minus 17 and face shots in the back bowls. Mmmmmm. Red Mountain also opened that weekend and after partying it up we ski-toured an unopened Granite Peak with the scorching trio of Lee Anne Patterson, Stepanie Gauvin and Stephanie Vereaux. How does it get any better? Stopping at an unopened Fernie on the way home to visit my snowboard Goddess friend Chelsey Dawn Robbins to take advantage of groomed uptracks leading to minus 20 thigh deep powdies.

Interior Dec 05







Back in G-town, the slack country was beginning to fill in and Rogers Pass was going off. I blew the opportunity to ski the Grizzly couloir in perfect pow for a 3rd time in two weeks. Oh darn!. Dec 17 was D’Arcy day and we gathered at the Asulkan River to have a ceremony to mark the first aniversary of his death. The afternoon cleared as Pierre Bernier, Ty Mills and I headed towards Sapphire Col for a memorial ski-run. Soon it became obvious that we were too high to come down. The only obvious thing to do was to keep going up into the sunset and make the Jupiter traverse. We had a rope and it seemed no less than absolutely sick to ski the Thorington face back down to the Asulkan cabin under the full moon. I think we did D’Arcy proud.
















Early January I was busy organizing myself to head off to Kashmir on Mission Gulmarg but just before leaving, Pierre Bernier and I made an excursion up the Icefields Parkway to give the Unskiable Couloir in the Cirque of the Unskiables another go. This, my third attempt, was shutdown by a more demanding approach due to less valley snow and arriving late at the crux that didn’t even have it’s usual ice pillar. That was it for self indulgence for a while. After all the winters of following my whims I heeded the call and dedicated the rest of the winter to voluntary service of other skiers, despite needing a whack of cash for the expedition to the Karakorum and Gasherbrum 1 that I was supposed to be going on in June. It was different not being able to do exactly what I wanted to every day but the rewards came in other forms and I still ended up doing some crucial missions off the lift. I won’t say much more on Gulmarg as my synopsis on that scenario is already posted on Biglines.





















However, I will mention another magical place I visited in early April after Mission Gulmarg ended. Sonamarg can only be described as the Rogers Pass of Kashmir. The Ministry of Tourism was interested in our opinions regarding ski-lift potential in this rugged valley that was only accessible after mid-March when the road could be dug out. Colder and snowier with a more drastic lanscape than Gulmarg, Sonamarg is a tiny summer village accomodating travelers on this only road between Srinigar in Kashmir and Leh in Ladhak as well as people going on the Amarnath cave Yatra ( a pilgrimage to visit a Shivite ice lingam in a cave). Ido, Bill, Fred and I were accomodated in a “Tourist Bungalow”, drying our socks and gloves with a clay and wicker firepot filled with hot coals(kangri) inside our heavy wool cloaks (farons) as there was no heating, electricity or running water. Indoor camping was good enough to enjoy this incredible place and we could tour up the fabulous trees of Zabnar Ridge a mere 100m from our balconies. The conditions began both snowy and spring-like the first days but seemed to stabilize quickly and we took advantange of the easy access to alpine terrain. Bill and I shredded a giant 1000m gully directly back into town on one run.





















Just as conditions were looking optimal to go for the fabulous Thajiwas Couloir, I got sick for a couple days with a mysterious throat grunge. Bill was now dreaming of surfing in Sri Lanka after a long winter and Fred was ready to see some more of India now that the powder was gone. Ido and I were psyched to chill and maximize this fine scenario. I got better and we ventured further back Zabnar Ridge to above 4000m but our day missions were limited by strong lower mountain warming and exposure from above on the return path so we had to be done by lunch. It was always a pleasure to return to the Bungalow. Our man Fayaz would cook us tasty food and we could enjoy our local tobacco and garda spleefs in the afternoon sunshine. Life was good but Ido needed to get on with other things. The morning we were preparing to leave followed a night of intense rain that turned to snow in the morning. As we were having breakfast, we heard a large avalanche coming from the canyon. Sure enough, when we tried to leave we were met with traffic backed up behind a 30 ft wall of snow covering the road and the Sind River making itself a new path.











Fortunately the police listened to us and evacuated the ignorant folks waiting for the road to re-open exactly where the next untriggered slide path eventually deposited. No biggie, we just returned to our rooms as the snow began to fall harder. The next morning, the fabulous Zabnar trees came alive throwing vicious faceshots at us through it’s plastered groves. Storm skiing at it’s best and some of the finest trees I’ve ever skied. Another lap the next morning and sadly it was time to leave, but not as sad as it was gonna get. When I returned to Srinagar and checked my e-mail I got word from La Grave that my illness had exactly coincided with the deaths of my dear friends Doog Coombs and Chad Vanderham.

I was feeling pretty low after this one and returned to a rainy Gulmarg uninspired to be in the mountains. I took two last runs one day with a Canadian dude living in India. On the way to the lift that morning, I had slipped on the grass and tore a hip muscle which got worse skiing. The snow was fresh and we were the only skiers on the upper mountain but I didn’t care. Without much money and unable to join my originally scheduled expedition to Gasherbrum 1, I hid out in Delhi at my new friend Amaar’s Mehrauli penthouse and turned to charas, music and the myriad cultural diversities to be found in India’s capital city. Amaar was photo editor of “The Man”, a conscious Delhi men’s mag and after seeing my pictures from Kashmir asked me to write a feature for the upcoming issue. I also took up an invitation from my new friend Rajeev to have a session in his familly’s Ayurvedic spa, Ananda, near Rishikesh. A month passed as I pursued the possibility of a heli-skiing venture stemming from other winter connections. All of a sudden, I had a life in Delhi. Bizzare!











Then the heat started to get to me. 40 degrees plus every day. I couldn’t eat properly and I couldn’t train. Even my traffic fetish was wearing thin. I stared at my duffel bags full of expedition shit covered in city dust on the balcony like some kind of anchors to a distant reality of cosmic relevance. I had to return to the Himalaya somehow. I thought why not just go to Pakistan anyways and visit my old buddies at Nanga Parbat on the cheap. I’d only been staring at the thing all winter from the slopes at Gulmarg. It was just then that the Biglines Scholarship money finally arrived. Circumstance was back conspiring for me to go skiing and so I busted the appropriate moves and got myself a Pakistani visa, despite the Canadian Embassy’s advice not to go. Soon enough I was on the Delhi-Lahore express bus, police escort clearing the way, crossing the stupidest border in the world.

Pakistan, 11 years after my last visit, blew me away. The bus from Lahore to Islamabad was a modern Korean Daewoo complete with violent Hollywood movies and the road we travelled on was a slick 6 lane freeway with reststops to rival anywhere. Islamabad too had changed from the money the Americans had been pumping in for years. Also after 9/11, many people were returning back to Pakistan after having previously emigrated abroad and the place was more expensive than ever. My mountain buddies Liver and his not so little anymore brother Fida were now almost full time in the city, running their buisness Nanga Parbat Adventures ( www.nangaparbatadventures.com). They were doing well for themselves and their family but were super jealous as I headed out for their mountain home without them. After considering joining my buddies on their Ogre mission in the Karakorum, I had decided on a solo mission to explore the enticing mountains surrounding Nanga Parbat that Liver had revealed to me.

All of a sudden I was back on the old Karakoram Highway (KKH) and passing through the zones north of Islamabad that had been rocked by the earthquake. It was night time but I could still see the well lit temporary complexes put up by NGOs. When I awoke in the morning, I was way back up in the arid Indus valley, stopped by some big waterfall for a prayer break. By lunch I was once again in the villiage of Bunar Das, the gateway to the west side of Nanga Parbat. There I was met by my crew, Nadarjan and Shahker Khan. Nadarjan was my cook on my first expedition here and it was great to reunite with someone I had spent such profound times with. The flies and the kids wouldn’t leave me alone and I was stoked to get in the jeep and start up the valley and out of the intense heat.

At the next villiage of Bunar Jal, the temperature was much nicer, it being a 1000m higher with nice walnut, apricot and bilberry trees for shade. I got the villiage tour, including the new school and clinic donated by a German man that returned every year just to hang out. I was comfortable in Nadarjans place while I underwent a couple days of stomach problems. The next two days of trekking up to the base of Gashot mountain were first class. After a spectacular canyon section and another 1000m climb, we stopped overnight in Garol to rest and pick up supplies of eggs, lassi and potatoes. From there we trekked in fog, seeing only the sage like shrubs and twisted Chili trees untill we entered a tighter, steeper valley with looming rock walls disappearing into the clouds. Crossing old avy debris we stopped at the highest, flattest looking patch of grass and called it basecamp after another 1000m day. The boys immediately decided to call it Ptor Camp because I was the first climber/skier to atttempt the mountain and nobody had yet established a basecamp. After a few hours of moving rocks and flattening out some tent spots we were sitting by the fire with hot tea and chapatties.






The next morning we awoke to an amazing sight. The weather had cleared and the snow plastered glacial flanks of Gashot and it’s potential ski-descent were revealed. Despite being visible, her summit height remained unknown, reckoned to be around 6800m. After a few days we established a high camp at the foot of the glacier past the domain of agitated marmots, probably around 5000m. The ski line looked great! Again, we had to move rocks to establish this next new camp but the boys were psyched. Although they weren’t climbers themselves, they lived for this stuff, taking great pride in being hosts and supporting peoples adventures in their home mountains. As such they were extremely concerned when we realized we had all gapped and brought the wrong stove head for the gas cannisters. Doh! So while I acclimatized and waited for a weather window , they brought me up goodies cooked on the fire at basecamp and I made do with cold water flowing from the ice.











Finally, it was time to bust the move, but it would have to be a one shot deal and a full on alpine style charge to try and beat the lunch time overdevelopment. The weather pattern had been consistently inconsistent and I did not want to get stuck high up. Leaving Camp 1 at midnight, I approached the start of the obvious route, a 50 degree face, with my headlight. The snow quickly turned thigh deep and pretty soon I was super exposed after traversing onto an even steeper hanging ice bulge feature. The snow was perfect but a huge chore for one person. Higher up, I could return to skinning as the angle lowered towards the NW ridge saddle feature. My stomach was in knots and the wind was howling so I dug a little cave for myself to rest in. This is where I should have had the next camp which of course was impossible because of not having a stove. As it was, I had to ration what water I had and it was difficult to eat anything.

The next section was more moderate snow slopes that I could skin but I was feeling weak after an already serious 700m section, the effects of 2 weeks of diareaha and a month of sloth in Delhi. I plodded on for another 300m reaching the crux as the sun came up. Here the terrain became mixed, alternating between waist deep snow and 4th class rock. My Big Daddys were, for the first time, a burden and I knew that I would not be making it to the summit. Even at 6000m, there was alot of mountain still above me and I still had a serious 1000m ski-descent ahead. I considered I lacked motivation from not having a partner. It’s so hard to really tell at altitude, but feeling like shit, the “live to ski another day” program kicked in and I built a cairn and called it from there. The views I had attained were unreal and from my perch I could see into both Indian Kashmir and Hunza.

It was all worth it because the descent was one of the best ever. Steep exposed powdies amongst giant ice features, all alone on the edge of the Himalaya. Nadarjan and Shahker Khan came up to meet me after the descent and help me carry stuff down from the high camp. They were blown away by the skiing thing, especially on such steep slopes. I tried in vain to explain the physics of how this was possible but left it as just this mysterious fetish some mountaineers have. I left the valley having been availed to yet another ski-mountaineering paradise. The surrounding peaks are all unclimbed and hold an incredible amount of potential sick ski-descents and the special Shina culture that would be an honour to visit again.

My journey home was basically non-stop from high camp to the Golden Taps pub, stopping in Islamabad for a day and Delhi for two, just to organize things. All of a sudden I had a beer in my hand listening to the Willowbank Mountain Ramblers play some bluegrass and the last 6 months faded into a dream. It was late June and there was still considerable snow up high in the Rockies. After a couple of days rest, Aaron, Lisa Jenni and I were psyched to give Mt Vaux another go. I guess I hadn’t been tortured enough so up we went with giant packs into the wilds of the Ice River valley. After a brutal slog, we made it and stood atop the biggest vertical relief along the Trans Canada Highway. The Hanbury Glacier from the summit of Vaux made for a 4km ski run, the satisfaction temporarily obscured by the dread of the trek out. Trudging home, I had totally run out of juice, still feeling the effects of travel and jetlag and returned home incapacitated and sick for a week.
















What we end up doing just for a run eh! It’s hard to describe how it actually feels worth it to brutalize yourself in order to make a special descent. So many people default to convenience, especilally those “pro” skiers that refuse to exert any effort to go skiing once the money starts flowing. That is why there is literally a minute fraction of the of ski-mountaineering possiblities in the Rockies that have been skied. The expeditionary spirit is a rare commodity as is the drive to pursue the limits. It is only at one’s limit where the view beyond is visible and only in “fair means” engagement is one truly measuring themselves against the mountains.

You can’t always nail the big lines every time but you gotta be there to have a chance, letting your vision guide your style. Sometimes it means returning to a mountain several times and sometimes it means to be forever denied. But that’s all part of the allure that is ski-montaineering in the wild mountains. Skiing is both skiing and not skiing. For myself, anyways, there comes a time to put the skiis away for a while. I need a time to heal, grow, blossom and finally to metaphorically die again to the rest of the world and once again enter the winter and the inspiration of the crystalline dream state. Thanks Universe!