The Backstroke Jive

News From The Anderson Range

Back at the Vehicle, drenched wet. Clothes off, shoes bubbling with squish and the new micro fiber towel saves the day. Back in the van to relax and ponder the day’s events.

One month prior, a right turn missed first go, Ken and the boy sat parked in the small pull out gazing through the “big screen” out and up in wonder. The chemicals of defeat running through them, the nerves of adventures anticipation floating away, the Anderson Range dripping with the skies delivery. The route’s summit, a cornice sizing the great wall. Sunburnt, drug caused thirst, bolt clipping in Kelowna will have to be satisfaction enough.

Yesterday started on time and without a hitch. Seven AM, all occupants in vehicle, headed east on a blue bird day, it was going to be a scorcher. Apres a wrong exit for a Canadian Tire pit stop, Tim Hortons was hit, now we could wander the isles of The Tire with patriotism as a false flag. Diesel engine cleaner and a full tanks. Beyond hope with food, an afternoon of leisure, lunch on a park bench, story time in the van. Off highway one, Anderson Service Road, leaving time for dinner and the approach. Back to visit the point of defeat, pressing on a kilometer and half into the over growing road. Soon the van has gone too far, the alder bows weep, now they moan and scoff, taunting the boy for his stubbornness, wanting anything but to waft the scent of failure once more (A side note; the weekend before, the boy and three others were turned around headed to Mt Ashlu, 10 km out from the approach hike a road “over grown”, 2011 Tacoma wanting not a scratch). After a turn around, where the road hardly was foot path, an opening for parking, packing, a last meal.

I Teacozy mount my stedfast steed, his reliability for success as of late under great question, throws his pack on. The road ignored, straight forth, a river crossing into terrain of planted new growth. Executive decision, by getting lost Master Ken, turn back, follow the road. Once more, good bye to the van, into the abyss, arms up Thai Bow style, wading through alders. Swimming in branches, backstroke, front crawl. Deepening severity. The road becomes run off, military training hands and knees, drowning in low canopy. The sun glistening pink off Steinbok. When forward seems no more an option, the ground continues to reveal once a trail, a few laps of breast stroke, the eroded hill side into the evergreens flirting its constant temptation, finally her allure too great, her top open, beautiful old growth. Up the bank, sliding, enter the forest, flagging blue and pink, could it be. Down below in the darkening depths of the valley the old road and the switch back from the map, the puzzle piece, does it fit true?

We depart from James and Kyla, their chosen route on Ibex, must traverse back and up to the next valley. Thomas, Ken, myself with the highest seat in the house, now with a view. They push up, out of the woods, flagging, a trail, talus, the peak casting its darkness over us. Up the rocks, like Hansel and Gretal looking back, a large flat tombstone marks the entrance to the old growth. The north lenticulars pink with evening passion, Q nimbus towering over them, a cloud mountain with the face of a seal.

Top of the talus, water running in depths, snow pack, flagging left, into the firs next slope, more talus, the arete concealing their chosen route (“best climb in the alpine select”) Another tombstone, a safe distance from the head wall, a bed for two. Gear readied, beds made, bug net, hideaway. The boys howled at the night, their excitement lost a month prior found on this fortress stone and echoed off the peaks walls.

Laughing at mosquitoes the blue bird day grays before night hides them. Lyra visible, shinning above, as long as the constellation can guide, worry is for fools. Lyra, what has become of you? Optimism too great, the next day will be cool, the conditions just right, less chance for dehydration, a solid snow pack in the decent gully. Night took the boys, the sleeping bag over me.

Hearing whispers, I awake the boy, “Thomas... It’s raining”, disbelief turns reality as the cocoon width drawn, mist hits me, then the boys face, Two AM. Its just moist out, nah, lay there mist become droplets, spelling out time to retreat. Up, out of the bug net, new sleeping bag we but working its charm. My dislike for water has Thomas stuffing me into the top pouch, a replacement a top his head, good I can watch from here. Packs strapped, headlamps on, in the pitch of night out along talus, rocks wet and teetering in the shadows, voice of be careful dancing through his mind. To the main talus, how do you like wet fir to the face, slap. Rain and fog thick, the direction even fresh in mind uncertain. The difference of the darkness, hiding visual way-points remembered. Then a cairn, ferns, signs of trees, a big rock flat, then flagging. Down through old growth, mist and rain settling. To the edge of the abyss, where forest ends, darkness and fog. This can’t be done, foolish now. Up the hill, a dish in the forest a dead branch for two, Therm-a-Rest out pack under to lean upon. Sat huddled beneath the filleted new bag, with that days lunch now consumed. The boy with booties, liner, PrimaLoft, Gore-Tex and hobo gloves, Ken in travel clothes, lazy, cotton pants, t-shirt, fresh win a new windbreaker, not water proof.

Hours to daylight the boy begins to drift, apologies as he slides down into a position for sleep. Once more, with an epic journey left incomplete they spoon for warmth. Forth-ward more a world of dreams envelopes, the forest a feverish bustle of eery cracks and snaps, pray vulnerable. As day becomes light a blanket of cloud obscures view of obstacles ahead, sleeping bag wet from new rains, still warm. Fog clearing, the phone alarms, the day for climbing, only a distant memory, future turned past. prepared for battle they traverse the sliding hillside, the run off now a stream, yesterday’s mud now puddles, foreseeing leaving being anyway worse was beyond imagination. Reality was a wet branch whipped to the face, shoes instantly joining the ranks of puddles, pants meaningless and a shower constant from above. Now this has to be a military exercise, water only thickening the drooping canopy of alder, like swimming in molasses, Thai Bow through a gauntlet of Chinese water torture, Guantanamo water boarding, The thought of dry clothes, food and greens dancing in the boy’s mind, stockings soaking wet legs forth-ward. Then after the final bough threw its punch, the van a sight for sore eyes. Four hours of van nap, a knock, James and Kyla with a tent all slept in, joy for them.

Teacozy, drying OUT!