Trip - Day 3 – Tuesday, April 20, 2010

My head ached. My body ached. My aches ached.

For the better part of two days I had sat in one position, and for the rest I had drank in one position. Getting up this Tuesday morning, I was hoping for a leisurely stroll through Canmore, sampling coffee and snacks, checking out a book store or two, and then retiring for a supper and drinks to carry into the evening.

Noel woke me up with bags already packed, beer already chilled, and five minutes notice that we were headed for a hearty breakfast and then making our way to a mountain we had passed under cover of dark last night. This peak had peered at us throughout the fading hours of light the evening before, but only now was I looking at it through the eyes of someone about to climb it.

Previously, my sole significant climb was up Mount Carleton in New Brunswick, a healthy 2,700 feet. I had gone there solo in my summer of dismay, an early up, late back trip where I had boarded Carter for the day. That drive was fueled by anger, desperation, and the ever-growing weariness of a soul gone awry. That afternoon, sitting atop the highest peak in the Maritimes, I easily forgot my troubles and was, for a few hours, better than I had been in the 6 months before. Back at home that night, feeling somewhat proud of my accomplishments, I cracked a bottle and continued a private suffering.

Now in the parking lot below the back side of Ha-Ling, I was beyond excited at the prospect of conquering a Rocky mountain. Something in the phrase “I’ve climbed a mountain in the Rockies” makes me feel proud of myself, but also carries a bite of bragging or bravado. I guess a mountain is a mountain is a mountain, but who’s to say? I was more intimidated regarding Ha-Ling than I had ever been by any piece of terra firma.

Ha-Ling rises just shy of 7,900 feet, but you have to remember than Canmore is also about 4,000 feet above sea level, making the climb as well just shy of 4,000 feet. Originally, this tip at the northwestern end of Mount Lawrence Grassi was declared “Chinaman’s Peak” in the late 1890’s. Ha Ling, a Chinese cook either for the Canadian Pacific Railway or a hotel in Canmore, was bet $50 (a more than considerable sum in those days) that he could not complete a round trip climb to plant a flag at the top in less than 10 hours. Leaving around 7am on a Saturday morning, he had returned for lunch with his workmates who, of course, did not believe him until he returned with witnesses to see his makeshift flag, and to plant a bigger, more visible flag.

Although referred to as Chinaman’s Peak for over 80 years, it had not become the officially recognized name until 1980. The name was kept until 1997 when the term “Chinaman” was deemed offensive, and the name was changed to honor the man himself, Ha Ling.

Noel and I elected to park the truck on the back side of the mountain to bypass about 1,000 of pushing either up a dirt road to our selected trailhead, or through a forested trail that would have us take a different route. We stretched our legs and back, mine aching from days of sitting stiff, Noel’s at least aware of what was to come as he was regularly in the back country for some sort of activity. We stopped just short of the trees and entrance to our trail, enjoyed our last sip of coffee and a cigarette, and then following the rear end of a rather fit blond, took to the ascent.

It was surprising, but it was not too long before I found my breathing heavy, yet not labored. I took small snaps from my water bottle so as not to succumb to cramps, and we would hike for 5 minutes and rest for one. The system worked, and while I was certainly not bounding up the mountain, it did make for a fairly smooth climb. Periodically we would come to turns in the trail or breaks in the trees, and I would catch glimpses of the range around us: peak upon peak of gargantuan beauty, amazement capable of frying brain cells, and sheer awe in the mass of my surroundings. Here and there, Noel would offer an encouraging “only 15 minutes to the treeline”, and would repeat himself 15 minutes later.

Once we were out of the woods, we took a quick ten minute rest to enjoy a beer before our final push over loose rocks, and the haphazardly beaten paths among them, to the bowl between Ha-Ling and Miner’s Col just to our right. Noel is likely to be 1/3 mountain goat given his ability to make my clambering look like folly in the wake of his easy stroll, but he would never allow himself to be tested to prove such. He waited about eight minutes ahead of me on a rock, shouting obscenities and demeaning remarks as I labored my way to the bowl. I kept my eyes down the whole way, not wanting to spoil my first engagement with a view such as I was seeking.

I got to the edge, took a seat opposite Noel, took off my pack, opened a beer, lit a cigarette, and only then did I turn my head some 20 degrees and regard one of the finest sights I had seen outside a bedroom. Canmore lay some 3,500 feet below us, looking much like a presentation at your local model train show. I could identify the place where I was staying and a few landmark buildings or clusters, but I just kept looking down. I had never experienced such a feeling: I was up here, I had done this. I felt as though this achievement would suit me, but I then looked up to see the remaining 500 feet or so to Ha Ling beckoning. We debated mounting Miner’s Col, but some areas of snow made the trek appear a bit unsafe. Collecting our debris, we set off, upward still.

Not too long later, I was passing a “please do not throw rocks: climbers below” sign, and wondered in earnest if a younger Noel had visited the older Noel up here one day. We had raised some Hell on occasion, and I could see that Noel firing rocks of the peak with reckless abandon, the older Noel shaking his head and taking pictures. At the summit, we again cracked a beer and took in the surrounding vista.

I was once more in awe, my camera in my outstretched arms over a drop over about 2,000 feet. This sheer drop featured some challenging climbing routes for the mentally insane, and was a rather imposing figure from any angle around or on it. We spent a good 20 minutes or so taking pictures, shooting the breeze, and reveling in a beautiful day, just the two of us, 4,000 feet from anyone.

Honestly, I do not recall much of the descent, and fail to remember passing anyone moving in either direction. My carefully selected footholds and baby steps on the loose rock occupied almost my entire brain, and left little room for memories to be made. At one point I looked up to see Noel in full sprint down the side of the hill, bounding carelessly with 10 foot strides and leaving plumes of dust behind him. He would stop, watched me sympathetically, and then continue on again. Into the woods, we were welcomed with shade and shed layers with no fear of the blistering sun. While walking the trail, we hit one patch of available light that was so warm, so inviting, and so breathtaking in its view that we opted to stop and rest our legs. Honestly, making my way down was much harder on my body, while making my way up had been more taxing mentally.

We broke from the trail and got back to the truck, and while I had gained something to add to my obituary I had lost a newly purchased shirt and my hunting knife. I looked back at the hill and said “you can have ‘em”, climbed into the driver’s seat, and headed back to town.

Noel had a few hours of work to tend to, so I enjoyed a scotch and a shower, and before going any further with my intake went to the grocery store to fetch lasagna for supper. Also procuring beer, I felt I was making myself somewhat useful as a guest, rather than trailing behind my guide during the day and whining about my aches at night. Between that evening’s hockey game on TV, supper in the oven, and a perfect view of Ha-Ling from the deck window, I could not think of a better way to finish off the day.

Noel, however, had thought about this plenty. After devouring our supper, and quite a few beers, we retreated to a hot tub and soaked the stiffness out of our muscles. I slept amazingly that night, but just before I went to bed I sat and had a cigarette on the back stoop. I wanted to look back and remember everything about that climb, the scenery, the views, and the physical demands, but I was staring straight at my next day’s hurdle.

For once I would have something with John A. MacDonald, aside from alcoholism and razor-sharp wit: after tomorrow, we would both have mounted Lady MacDonald.