Yamnuska whipper
Saturday morning Sarah and I found ourselves on Yamnuska, the crown jewel of traditional climbing in the Canadian Rockies. Also known as an aesthetic blob of choss. After leaving Canmore at 6:30 am, we packed our bags with a rack fit for a fulfilling send on the uber class line, Direttissima; established in 1957 by none other than H. Kahl, H Gosmer, and L. Grillmair. As is common to the generations for whom 5.10 was inconceivable, they graded the 8-pitch route a sandbagged 5.8+. A route that at the time put the Canadian Rockies on the run with the rest of Europe. Throughout the years, multiple key holds have blown off and the sparse rock solid enough to have weathered the decades are now polished, seemingly wet from even the belays. Nonetheless, this was our chosen line, a starting point for our new belaylationship.
We approached the base of the climb by skirting steep scree, solid enough just to pussy-foot across. Many meters below us at the bottom of the scree slope laid heaps of boulders of all sizes. An ever-present testament to an ever-shedding mountain; continually joined by the headwall. The sun was gleaming from the east still, and ravens painted the winds around us as we gobbled down some fruit gushers. Sarah was flaking the ropes as I carefully racked my cams and nuts across my waist. With tight-fitting shoes of rubber and laces, I approached the base of the mountain. With hands pressed, I sang to it in a muffled voice; asking for safe passage, recognizing its power and my insignificance. Glad to just be here. Now tied in by two separate ropes, Sarah and I buddy checked; sealing the deal with a fist bump.
With hands chalked I stepped up to the sharp end, rambling up a ledge to the first bit of vertical rock; immediately greeted by polished and negative holds. Some positives laid around and I scouted them as my body instinctively followed the only real valuable beta: go up. Things began to ease off, now with five threads of dyneema between me and the mountain. Here I had a choice, either keep straight over a polished roof, alternatively, traverse 10 feet to the right into a small crack system- seemingly sufficient for RPs. I choose the latter. I danced across edges to a layback flake- sturdy enough. Of course, today is the day I decided not to bring any ball-nuts or offsets. The only thing this took well. I knew anything I could place would be second-rate mental jewelry, so I put in the only tangible placement: a .5 pacific omega at my feet- also a blind placement. Yes, you read that right. Now the only gear from a 10 feet traverse. And as the beta says, go up. So, I did. I laid back into a flaring finger crack, bringing my left foot high, cranking on a few millimeters, pressing down hard to pivot my weight onto it; now reaching for a crimp with the right hand, bumping my right foot to a triangular edge. A new solid stance. Good.
Looking down the route
Here I breathed- and scoped the terrain above. I was hoping to diagonal left ever so slightly to reach a huge alcove for a new belay. Instead, the clear choss pressured me to follow an inseam to the right. I commissioned my right hand to clean off the choss from all the decent holds; leaving me with a tricky sequence ahead. As I breathed, my lips let escape a few hushed words of encouragement. I chalked my hands. Left hand to a side pull, right index and middle finger to a divot, high step to a freshly cleaned block. Up! Now balanced on one foot, palming the slab to the left, I look above for holds amid choss and absence of cracks, now 12 feet above my last placement. With my right hand, I dismantle the mountain of fool’s gold, I breathe- and in that instance, I hear the fracturing block on which I am standing on calving. ‘’Fall!’’ I shouted, grabbing my ropes with both hands, plummeting backward and out. The .5 pacific takes for a brief second and no longer; shattering from the lateral force. Now flipped overhead, I drown down in a pendulum free fall; smacking the rock twice before the rope finally runs its slack and takes. A few inches above the ledge I dangle, stunned and amazed. I glance over to Sarah, ‘’Holy fuck’’ I say, ‘’what the fuck’’, I continue. Not to her, of course. If I’m not down into that scree bowl, let alone that ledge, it's because of her catch. A catch that burned her arms and gloves- even chipping paint off her helmet. ‘’Are you okay?’’ She retorts. ‘’Yes, I think. What took?’’ I ask. Looking for the highest rope point, realizing that the .5 wasn’t on all the wall anymore. ‘’Can you lower me down one foot?’’ I answer, now stepping onto the ledge, bearing most of my weight. ‘’I’m going to self-assess ’I say. Drawing on my training as a wilderness first responder, I go through all the vital checks and then some. Everything seems to be fine- unimaginable, I think. That was a 30-foot whipper, I realize, standing level with the first pro. ‘’Stay there as long as you like”, she chimes, still considering to continue. I breathe, looking up to where I was, unmistakeably noticing the absence of that block on which I was balanced.
I stand there, soaking in the incident, thanking the outcome, laughing in astonishment. Some time lapses when I finally ask Sarah if she just wants to go up Grillmair Chimneys, a route a short way to climbers right. ‘’Sure’’, she says. So, with that decision taken I start up again on top-rope for half a move, before deciding the hell with it, and op for bat-manning the line. It’s in that instant, thrusting my body up through my core and limbs that I realize all is not well. The aura of pain encapsulates all movement requiring strength. Still, I power through the remaining meters of an assisted haul. Arriving at my saving Mary, I set up a bail point and thread the rope through and back to me. ‘’Okay, you can lower’’. Now cleaning the route slowly, Sarah brings me down next to her. We laugh half-innocently as we go through what happened. I tell her about my sojourn in the choss, now just realizing how burnt she is from the catch. She in turn reports on that, showing me the paint job on the rock; now pink from the helmet.
.5 Link cam with shatters lobe wires
A lone raven sweeps down to us again and vaults back into the air. Sarah, now coiling the ropes, as I ease out of my shoes. With pain now courting my senses as I try to use the instrument that Is my own body, I make the call. ‘’Hey Sarah, I think we should just bail’’. She was kind enough to agree and even offered me another packet of fruit gushers. So, we packed back our rack and tools and made our way back across the scree, helmets still fastened. We get back to the tree-line, out of the shooting gallery, and sit down to remove the pebbles from our shoes. Sarah remarks how she had forgotten that ravens are bad omens in the mountains, according to a local ski crusher. All I can do is laugh and agree. With shoes back on we book down the mountain trail for a fair while, crossing various parties on the way. Now clearing a bend down in the forest, I come face to face with a fully mature brown bear- three feet away. We lock on each other’s eyes, I process the circumstance with a lag before calmly saying, ‘’oh, that’s a bear. Let’s just back step, make ourselves big’’ ‘’We should make noises’’ Sarah adds. So, we do. ‘’Heey oooh’’ we choir in, backstepping in awe. It’s a while before Mt. Bear decides to contour via the lower slope. When he finally does, we realize he’s headed to a group of frightened hikers. Naturally, we talk them through it and no incident occurred.
We continued down the path, still crossing hordes of Calgarians coming for the last hurrah before the scheduled decommissioning of the mountain for trail management this summer. Too many deaths and SAR calls in the past few years have prompted a makeover of its hiking trail. Won't change anything for us climbers though- except a few weeks off the shedding face. To be sure, we let people know that a bear is in the area. A remark that either solicits fear or complete indifference. We keep on our march back to the van and soon arrive. All seems to be going well now with the worse being passed. That is of course until I inch myself onto the driver’s seat. It's as if my spleen is snagging on ribs. I hear novel watery noises coming from my abdomen. Unsettling my ease, the noises and pain twitch a nervous smile onto my face. At any rate, I start the engine and we drive off back into Canmore. Vanmore to be precise, parking next to Sarah’s van behind the makeshift community of Dirtbags living behind Save On Foods. Together we convince me to go to the hospital. Mostly for the sake of my organs. So, I start swapping cams for books, and carabiners for snacks. Sarah even gives me some homemade cookies from Saskatchewan and sees me off.
I’ve been resting in my grand caravan for the past week now. Watching clouds roll by as if only to lull me with their quaint falls of snow. Fellow climbers bring my pastries from their workplaces. To pass the time, others serenade the railroad with their guitars, adding some substance to the air. Sarah is in her van, putting some final touches on her art for the farmer’s market. As for me, the smell of coffee twice a day keeps my spirits high, as I rest my sore ribs; now acting as the Virgil to my library more than anything else. As it turns out, the fact that I was wearing a pack deflected any major damage done to my back. As for the ribs, well, there will be alright in time. My organs also managed to get by unscathed- albeit jostled. My exploded cam hangs by the rear-view mirror, reminding me of that narrow line we trod. Far from instilling fear or frazzled shock, on the contrary, and in all irony, it hangs as a light of affirmation and certainty. Soon I will be back amid the mountains’ silent roars that call use evermore into her fiery bosom. I can’t say why, but I think you might already know.
Looking back at route
POSTSCRIPT
During the following two weeks of writing the above report, I attempted to ease back into the mountains. First, by trail running on EEOR (east end of rundle) and then a scramble on Faith Peak. Unfortunately, both of those forays aggravated my pain- and the latter even worsened it. According to the doctors, I should be getting better. They even recommended I do light exercise (okay it might not have been that light, but it felt like it). I began to dread my season of climbing that started so well. I knew that I had to take a long time off from any sort of adventure, light or not. I also knew that I couldn’t possibly stay amid the mountains and not be tempted-expecting myself to stay around the van for most of the day. Libraries and such were still closed due to covid. The only thing to do was be outside. Too tempting.
This however have me time to scrutinized the topo of Yamnuska. As it turned out we were not on Direttissima, but rather a much burlier, chossier, committing climb. That is a 5.13a project from none other than Will Gadd and Raphael Slawinski. A projected that was brought to fruition after seven years, due to its excessive choss. Somewhat of a relief. It feels nicer knowing that the so-called 5.8+ was actually harder than that grade. Also, that the choss was terrible even to their standards, especially Slawinski’s.
The route is named Yamabushi.
Yet, with the injury persisting and the temptations agonizing, certain emotions twirled with others and I began desiring the comforts of home. The best place for wholesome recovery, no doubt. It had been close to a year that I'd not seen family and old friends. Of course, I wouldn’t have thought of it seriously under the state that things had been for the last year or so. Restrictions made it foolery. However, as if by fate, the Québec government were easing restrictions, significantly opening up, thus rendering the thought into a plausible choice. I spoke with my parents and asked what they would feel about opening up their doors and having me take a flight. I was quite nervous about the idea- for their health above all else. To somewhat of a surprise, they were very pleased by the idea. I let the thought ruminate some time before acting on it. The thought of a flight seemed so foreign all of a sudden. After a few more calls and perspective gaining, I decided in favor of the voyage. I happened to have some flight credit from a canceled holiday trip earlier last year, so the funds were already there, so to speak. Within a few days, I was in Calgary awaiting a flight.
Landing back into Montreal was an odd sensation- unreal and dreamy. My parents waited in the truck outside the airport, where I met them for the first time since moving out west to pursue my climbing career. Again, a somewhat unreal happening. Things began to gain substance as the conversation advanced on our drive back to rural Québec, to the family home. At this time, I still hadn’t told of my accident on Yamnuska. All they knew was that I was recovering from something. Of this, they knew purely out of parental wizardry. I suppose they found it odd that I wasn’t in the mountains. After a couple of days of being coaxed into confession, I told them the story. Surprisingly, my mother laughed and shared with me that she had known all along- again wizardry. Concerned nonetheless, she suggested I see a chiropractor and osteopath. Not one to shy from good council, I agreed.
Very soon I found myself at the chiropractor that Id known since childhood. As per usual, she asked what I had been up to since the last rendezvous. By this time much had happened so I kept it short. I told her of the fall and the mechanics involved, along with some minor things. She was glad it hadn’t been worse and after her kind word, she set to work. When all was done, I asked her about the ribs. As it turns out, one of them was dislocated. No wonder why things had not been healing properly. I thanked her immensely and we scheduled a follow-up to make sure things were heading aright. Immediately I felt much better. I knew however that I had to take things easy yet. The next specialist I went to see was an odd fellow. An osteopath. Sparing you the details off our circus-like discission, he too assessed that my rib was dislocated. After doing some maneuvers directed to my ligaments, I felt even better.
Two weeks went past during the voyage, in which I steadily healed and enjoyed quality time with family. Yet, before long I was back at the airport awaiting a flight back to Calgary. Back to the mountains of the Rockies and granite monoliths of Squamish. I feel much better now. After some recovery weeks of training, I am now back to full sending mode. Climb on!
