Rising Abruptly (23 page)

Side by side in our usual bed, we rappelled into the dreamless night.

GREGOR: And next morning, I'd relish in making that simple flick of the pencil next to the peak in question on my long list of mountains. ✓

IN A NAME

Sipping tea and munching on dried fruit. Musing about Assiniboine.

GREGOR: In the 1880s, geologist George Dawson named the mountain for the Indians who hunted in this area.

GIANNA: Good for him! Someone who didn't saddle yet another peak with the name of some minister. Or a war ship.

GREGOR: But Assiniboine ended up with the sobriquet Matterhorn of the Rockies. And only because the shape of our mountain resembles that one.

GIANNA: Okay, then. Why Matterhorn? Why not mont Cervin des Rocheuses? Or Monte Cervino? That would have pleased my Italian grandmama. That poor mountain is nothing but a confusion of names, with its base straddling Switzerland and Italy. Identity crisis.

GREGOR: Don't you know? The mountain has to be politically correct to satisfy three languages and save face, all of its stony faces. A geological fact, Gia. Ask Dawson. It's all Whymper's fault.

GIANNA: Whymper?

GREGOR: When he climbed from the Swiss side. 1865. July 14.

GIANNA: Bastille Day! I bet the French were jealous. I didn't know you had such a head for dates.

GREGOR: Eh! I dated you!

GIANNA: And so, the name was forced on our Assiniboine.

GREGOR: Years later, when he was sixty-one or so, Whymper heard about our
Matterhorn
and couldn't resist coming over to claim first ascent.

GIANNA: Sixty-one! And here we are, sixty-five. Don't tell me he didn't make it.

GREGOR: Waited too long.

GIANNA: Tomorrow, will we fail too, because of age? Still, with the two or three guides he'd have had in those days, he stood a good chance of summiting. Maybe we should have hired a guide.

GREGOR: Not a chance. The star climber had gone to seed. Dipsomaniac, he was.

GIANNA: Too boozy to climb? What a wimp, Whymper!

GREGOR: Who knows. Maybe the Assiniboine, on a break from hunting, found time to draw some caricatures of him. An image in rock, of the staggering white man losing face.

MILESTONE

We stowed the food in the metal cache and are taking the climbing gear from our packs and dumping it into the tent, keeping only a few items for the hike. Walking in the opposite direction, we turn our backs on Assiniboine; that is for tomorrow.

GREGOR, aside: Youth is no guarantee of success. In 1978, Gia and I moved to Calgary. That summer, we hiked into the Sunshine Meadows and saw Assiniboine for the first time. There appeared to be a storm over the summit. But being green as hell about mountains, we knew nothing about climbing. Months later, by chance, I came across the obituary.

Bugs McKeith died as he was coming down Assiniboine in a storm. He was thirty-three. Was considered one of the leading star climbers in his home country of Scotland. Eventually, he emigrated to Canada in the early 1970s. Made many great ascents all over North America. His death hit me hard. A fellow Scot. Of my generation too. What kept going round in my head was that, maybe, he died the very same day we watched the cloud-clapped mountain. If we'd had eagle eyes, if we'd had the ability to shrink distance and elevation, if we could have seen through stormy clouds, we might have seen him fall to his death.

The image stayed with me a long time. I created a memorial shadowgraphy of the accident. In August of the following year, in prime hiking season, I travelled to my native Edinburgh to perform the show at The Fringe. Gia and I realized then that plenty was happening, hidden from us. This mountaineering thing seemed to play in shadows, against the bright lights of the city. In the days before it became mainstream. Suburbanized, like tattoos. As we hike up a bluff so as not waste this day, it's all coming back to me.

GREGOR, clearing his throat: Remember Bugs McKeith?

GIANNA: Who? Oh, yes. Yes. Wasn't it his death, in a way, that triggered our interest in the mountains? I mean…

GREGOR: Aye, one gone, another, or two others ready to take his place.

GIANNA: A bit macabre. And spooky too, considering tomorrow.

GREGOR: Our arrival and his departure.

FUTURE INTERRUPTED

GIANNA: Sharing regrets? Why so gloomy on such a beautiful day?

GREGOR, laughing: Gloom too must be shared. And the pressure of work. Remember your big wig gig in Milano?

GIANNA: That was years ago! What about your escapade to Edinburgh?

GREGOR: I was gone a mere ten days. Besides, we weren't really doing anything in the mountains then. But Milan! It ruined an entire summer of climbing.

GIANNA: What an opportunity that was! Wigs for La Scala! For an entire opera season. And it got me more contracts. Opportunities, Greggy, we couldn't afford to miss.

GREGOR: You away! Any other time of the year, aye. But summers? Summers here are so precious.

GIANNA, aside: And so, Gregor did climb without me. Found good guys to partner with him. But it was not the same. Felt like a divorce. I in Milano making wigs. Gregor in the Rockies climbing Lefroy with good guys. Where was the sharing?

Not to be downcast. I did come back from Milan. And there would always be next year. And next year was a rainy summer. Next year would be better. We would climb Victoria together. We even considered Robson. At least, an outlier of Robson.

And then, there was life in the flats.
Opportunities
kept interrupting the rhythm of mountaineering. We postponed the biggies. There would always be next year. And next year and next year, and next year. Victoria kept eluding us. And so did Assiniboine. And next year kept passing us by.

Summers of continuous high pressure are so rare. Even when one materializes, it can be ruined in a twenty-minute downpour. A downpour in the valley translates into a snowstorm on a mountain. Summer snow not consolidated. Danger of avalanche. Then, the sun melts the new snow that lower overnight temperature turns into verglas coating the rock face. The guides recommend against going up under such adverse conditions. You go without a guide. You take your chances. Sometimes, you don't come back.

GIANNA, clear-eyed again: Yes, our precious summers. Well, here we are, Greggy.

GREGOR: Aye. And tomorrow. It's now or never.

GIANNA: Because time, and crowds, don't forget, will put an end to everything. One year, next year will not come.

WEATHER

Our gloom session has put bounce into our step. We are coming back to camp properly oxygenated. Ready for the climb. We are redoing our packs for tomorrow. Reloading the climbing gear. In the morning, we will only have to add our sleeping bags and food for a couple of days. There are mattresses, stoves and dishes at the refuge; our packs will be relatively light. Relatively.

And then, something catches our eye. Something in the air makes us shiver. A change in atmospheric pressure? We both look up at the sky.

Meteorological transformation stops our packing and enthusiasm. Clouds bubbling, black as coal seams and tinged green and purple. Talk about the sudden reversal. How operatic of nature! Wind rising, wild. We check the moorings of tent and tarp. Bring gear and packs under the shelter of the tarp.

All at once, the deluge. Raindrops hit hard as tacks. Leave craters in the loose soil before ricocheting off the ground. Then in rapid succession, it hails and it snows. The mountain has vanished. Sleet accumulates on the tarp, causing it to sag. The tent may not withstand the storm. Before our entire sheltering system collapses, we must tighten the lengths of cord.

Donning rain pants and jackets, securing the hoods around our faces, we set to work. Untying and retying cords around rough tree trunks. Brushing mushy snow off the tarp as fast as the clouds discharge it. Checking that sleet and water roll off freely to the ground. With the adze of our mountaineering axes, we dig a narrow trench around the tent to divert the water that is now flowing downhill in rivulets. We can't see two paces in front of us. We are shadow shapes to each other.

And the sound-and-light show begins. Lightning so bright, it brings back the summer afternoon. Thunder so loud, it will burst our eardrums. Nature falling apart at the seams of its own extremes.

Back under the relative shelter of the tarp, we take a peek at the invisible mountain. Imagine ourselves stranded on the rock face, battered by the elements. Clinging to stone, expecting to be electrocuted with each bolt of lighting. When you can, you dump gear, throwing metal away from you. When you can.

As we did the time we were scrambling up the ridge of Gap Peak, just as the thunderhead exploded on top of us. Our saving grace was that we could drop down into the scree. The air was so charged with static electricity, our hair stood on end. And we heard the crackling sound of static and felt tingling on our skin.

Watching this storm, we play the game of ifs. If we had arrived at Lake Magog yesterday and if we had gone up the mountain this morning instead of tomorrow, at this hour, end of afternoon, we would be back in the shelter of the alpine hut. And, at that altitude, we would be watching a whiteout. Which means we would have summited in sunshine. The peak done, at last. Unless, we'd have been very slow and, in the tempest, we'd have had to bail. Doing those many rappels in bad weather. Caught in the terror of downclimbing on slippery rocks.

GREGOR: It almost happened to James Outram, the Scottish upstart.

GIANNA: Another Scot!

GREGOR, laughing: We do get around, don't we? In September 1901, Outram and his
two
Swiss guides made the first recorded successful climb of Assiniboine.

GIANNA: Ha! They checkmated the Inglese Whymper! Hurrah for the Scots!

GREGOR: Outram and his guides reached the summit via the southwest face. Instead of coming down the same way and against the guides' advice, he insisted to come down via what's now known as the North Ridge. They made it back in the nick of time. The next day, it snowed.

GIANNA: Lucky pig-headed Outram! His double luck must have made Whymper doubly pissed off. The bigwig in his day. And now, at the outer rim of his life, he couldn't bag his Matterhorn of the Rockies.

Watching rain and sleet, Assiniboine hidden behind a curtain of clouds, we are down here. Not up there. And tomorrow, the mountain will be encased in verglas. Our hearts sink. So close and yet so far.

PERFORMANCE

The meteorological lashing lasts until six o'clock. At six, it stops as suddenly as it had begun. All around us, intense dripping. Like the last tears after the hurt is gone. The clouds tear and dissipate. Summer brightness returns. The rain has penetrated the deepest recesses of the forest. Tree trunks shine black, soaked under their thick canopy. We presume no animal could find adequate shelter. At the moment, deer and squirrels, grizzlies and whiskey jacks are shaking off fur and feathers. A bird is actually trilling.

We leave the protection of the tarp, stepping in mud churned into psychedelic patterns. Mount Assiniboine is plastered.

GIANNA: The glaze will melt.

GREGOR: Dream on.

GIANNA: These are still the hot days of summer.

GREGOR: High up, the nights are cold.

GIANNA:
If
the daytime temperature stays warm and
if
it remains sunny, the sun will melt snow and verglas.

GREGOR: Oh, I don't know. We may still do it in our seventies.

GIANNA: The longer you wait, the thicker the crowd.

GREGOR: Or in our eighties.

GIANNA: Dream on.

GREGOR: You know Ulrich Inderbinen?

GIANNA: One of the guys with whom you climbed Lefroy while I was in Milano
ruining
your summer?

GREGOR: A Swiss mountain guide from Zermatt. He was 103 when he died in 2004.

GIANNA: There's hope for us, then. That's what you're saying?

GREGOR: He first climbed the Matterhorn, the real one, in 1921 and, a year later, he became a guide. He's said to have climbed the peak some 370 times.

GIANNA: And he survived all those climbs? Amazing. Still. Climbing our Assiniboine once will be plenty enough for me. But 370 times! It's like those stage actors who do a thousand performances of detective Gum Shoe. I always go for limited engagements.

GREGOR: Maybe he needed the money. Like your actor playing the detective.

GIANNA: Repetition takes the excitement out of doing what you're doing.

GREGOR: Inderbinen must have liked
performing
the Matterhorn. Apparently, he made his last ascent at ninety. And he retired from guiding at ninety-five.

GIANNA: What a guy!

We laugh.

GREGOR: The point is, climbing in our seventies or even in our eighties may not be far-fetched. If, unlike Whymper, we stay off the sauce.

GIANNA: Too late for that. Besides, why wait that long? We have enough food. Let's stay a couple more days. See what happens. I have a feeling we may still bag this peak.

HAUTE CUISINE

We have an early supper. Walk through the deserted campground to the metal cache to retrieve the food bag.

Water devastation everywhere. Soon enough, the thin soil will absorb the moisture. Can these mountains absorb human infestation too?

The sun is already evaporating water that has not yet seeped underground. A thick layer of fog hangs over Lake Magog. We are as landowners surveying the damage, quite alone in a campground that, at this time of year, should be crowded. Guests staying at the swanky Mount Assiniboine Lodge helicopter to the park, whereas most campers hike up the thirty or so kilometres, depending on the chosen approach. This summer of vast forest fires, the backcountry trails have been closed for weeks, hence the unusual lack of activity in the campground.

We too have flown in with our camping and climbing gear. We too are part of the invasion. And soon enough, we will decamp, walk the kilometre and a half to the lodge, en route to the helipad. In no time, we will be back in Calgary in the midst of traffic and leaf blowers.