Energies of Adventure

Patience

2010-11-12T13:44:00.001-07:00

Lots of places are stunningly beautiful. Yet it often takes a wonderfully grounded person

to show us the soul stirring subtle beauty of a place. It could be anyplace. . . the barren desert, the mountains, or the snowy north. Some people have fathoms of appreciation for the magic of the landscape. These people’s passion, are roots that shoot out laterally, like the

runners of a trembling aspen tree, which serve to nurture the development of another.

One such place in my childhood was my grandparent’s cabin nestled in Duck Mountain

Provincial Park in eastern Saskatchewan. The person I, and many of my cousins

connected with for the magic was Grandpa John. It was there, in the park, within the

scope of his influence that I learned the craft of fishing, to explore just for the joy of it,

and discover the power of patience.

The cottage itself was important. It was where we waited, sometimes not so patiently, for

the fishing trips to happen, so we all got to know it well. It was white with brown trim. It

was set in the dappled light created by a massive triple trunked birch tree in the front.

Moss clung to the edges of the brown asphalt shingles on the roof. Forest landscaping.

The structure was a long rectangle, long side facing the lane, with the brown front door

just to the right of center and the garage doors on the far right side.

Upon opening the front door and the first thing to hit the senses were the smells. The

must from a winter of being closed, coal oil from the kaki colored upright furnace that

divided the kitchen and living areas, Old Chum pipe tobacco from Grandpa John’s pipe,

and any number of wonderful smells from grandma’s kitchen ranging from fresh deep

fried donuts to pickerel rolled in flour, salt and pepper frying in bubbling butter in the

copper bottomed frying pan.

It was large in my memory, but if I walked into it today I might be surprised at the

smallness. It had an efficient lay out. Or so it seemed. I suspect that it required more of

an open mind for the adults. Today, sleeping on a couch might be considered

substandard accommodation. But that was what made it magic. We were all together

and the comfort came from being comfortable with the space. We all understood this

place as our staging area for the grounding experiences we would have in the forest, in

and on the lakes and on the beaches. We all believed in how special it was.

The kitchen and dining area was to the right with the dining at the front of the building

and the tiny kitchen at the back. A small rounded general electric fridge with a chrome

handle latch that required a firm pull to open or swing to close. There was rudimentary

running water for dishes. Rainwater collected in the grey oval tank outside and run into

the cottage with black hose to a brass tap on the right wall of the back room off the

kitchen. Drinking water had to be carried from across the park. Filled at the green posted

spigot and brought back across the park, in two white five-gallon pails, which the carrier

had to negotiate over the short angle top post and cable fence. It was placed in the same

back room off the kitchen with a black and, white-flecked porcelain dipper hanging from

the edge of the bucket, which was properly used to fill a water glass.

To the left of the front door the brown/green indoor-outdoor carpet began in the long

corridor-like living room with two of the three bedroom doors, with plastic accordion

doors, leading off the right wall. There were numerous couches on either wall of the

room, some with floral patterned covers on them, and one, rough brown nylon fabric,

fold-down couch for additional sleeping space under the retired CN Railway blankets.

The deep V notch in the center at least kept couples or sisters close.

The room was decorated with mobiles, a red Japanese lantern with a gold and red tassle

hanging from the light in the center of the room (from the itinerant Aunt Pat’s sojourn to

Japan), an assortment of kitschy plaques. . . one of which said “old fishermen never die

they just smell that way”, Grandpa’s silver and gold plastic curling bonspiel trophies on

the top of the T.V. set, most of which depicted a man, in a Scottish pom pomed hat

throwing a curling stone balanced with his broom, Shauna’s gold spray painted macaroni

bear face, my crepe papered multi colored bottle, among other treasures from the

grandchildren, grandma’s round and orange and brown or green and brown crocheted

pillows, with a zig zag pattern, and her porcelain salt and pepper shaker collection on the

wall between the two front windows. In the back right corner there was an arrangement

of bull rushes that were gathered annually from the local swamp. Up and to the left, of

the bull rushes, a landscape painting of Aunt Leona’s graced the wall. There was a large

wooden cabinet T.V. set on the left wall with bunny ear antennas, yet still poor reception,

on which Grandma would watch “The Edge of Night soap opera” at 3 pm everyday and

Grandpa sports or the evening news. During the rainy days in the summer of 1976 I

watched Nadia, on that set, score perfect 10s on her way to three gold medals during the

Montreal Olympic games.

Through the kitchen and dining area was another door. It was green door that led to the

garage. The garage, like most garages, was not used for cars. Except for the galvanized

tubs and ringer washing machine that took up some space in the center of the floor the

garages apparent main purpose was to store the tools for fishing. There were three

greenish white steps that led down from the kitchen door to a concrete floor. The room

was painted white and was capped with a green corrugated fiberglass roof that let a

wonderful light into the space. The back wooden plank door had a black latch at mid

height and a spring loaded rubber wheeled catch at the base of the door that gave the door

a crisp and definitive closure. It had a window that we needed to look out of before

going out to the outhouse in the back, to spot potentially hazardous critters that lived in

the forest that enveloped the cabin. Inside this door was the safe zone from the bears that

frequented the back yard. (The bears were respectfully an endless source of entertainment

for grandpa John, who would fearlessly chase them up the trees or feed them the mash

from his latest alcohol fermentation and chuckle at the range of results) On the walls of

the carport were numerous key-hole life jackets of various sizes. The small ones with

square edges and the larger ones were rounded and puffy. Bright orange in color with

white cotton ties for closure. There were some long wooden oars for the boat. On the

floor, a small dirty white wooden box with rusty mesh on one side and a rope handle. In it

were the tiny frogs we used for fishing, nestled in grass. (Some of them still sported the

remnant tail from their tadpole stage). Also on the floor was a green metal tackle box and

in small clusters against the walls were numerous fishing rods of various lengths and

colors, some of them with casting reels and some with spinning.

The cottage was special. Although it was very simple there was everything we needed

and more. In the end it was the rich spirit of the people, who were housed in its walls

that gave the place life. The leader of the magic, without question for all of us, was John

Grywacheski.

There are great leaders in the world. They can come in all shapes, sizes, economic

backgrounds and education. The best leaders know they are not perfect, they do however

have an ability to be centered, and calm even in the most challenging situations. They are

people who teach us more about life by what they do than what they could ever say. In

fact, knowing how to listen or to say nothing is often among their greatest qualities. The

best leaders go fishing and they teach or inspire others to fish. We had a great teacher in

grandpa John.

Patience was the first lesson all us grandchildren encountered while learning to fish from

grandpa John. It began with waiting for the right conditions for going out on the boat.

He was a stickler for good calm water. It had to be perfect. And his methodical approach

served him well. He had no problem gently saying no to us impatient grandchildren. In

his thick polish accent he would say; “I don’t tink today we go” “Dare is chop on da

lake” For days or sometimes weeks we would wait for the short but definitive statement.

. . “ Today is goot.” “We go.” As we waited he was teaching us patience. In his mind

there was no sense pushing the weather or conditions. And he was right. Waiting

patiently was a reflection of his respect for the power of nature.

He kept us busy while we waited though. If we were not playing checkers or cribbage we

would assist or witness the preparations for the next fishing trip. With his pipe gripped

tightly in his teeth he would spend hours sitting at the kitchen table at his spot next to the

front door, untangling fishing line which one of us kids had tangled on the last trip. He

was able to turn a rat’s nest of fishing line back into a useable spool of line again. It may

simply have been an enjoyable puzzle for him, but I also believe he used it as a practice

in patience because every so often he would quietly curse, [in polish] under his breath

and then regain his composure. We would go frog hunting to catch small frogs at the golf

course pond that we put in the frog box with some grass. He would also spend time

tuning the outboard motor. In the back yard he had a 2 x 6 anchored between two trees

where he would clamp the motor and let it run in a 30 gallon drum filled with water. With

this setup he would tune the green and white 5 horse power motor while we watched with

intent curiosity.

These preparations taught us about the effort that went into an evening of fishing. He

was a craftsman and he taught us about crafting an experience by having the tools in

order before heading out. At the same time there was a wonderful spontaneity to much of

what he did. When he decided to go it was at the last possible minute, which would

result in a flurry of activity in order to get ready. This, I now see, was part of the safety.

He was teaching us to have as much information as possible before making a decision.

There were two lakes we would fish. Madge lake, which was close and Batka lake which

was about a 20 minute drive away. Madge lake was bigger and much more convenient

but it was not our favorite. Often Grandpa would have his flat bottomed aluminum boat

moored at the dock at Madge and the motor was stored at the cottage because it was

easily stolen if left on the boat. We would shuttle down to the lake docks with the

Rambler. In the car trunk, with the motor, we would put the tackle box, oars, net, rods

and reels, the life jackets, and the OFF mosquito repellent. We would drive around the

park and down the sandy road to the docks. Grandpa John would methodically prep the

boat, tucking the gas can on the floor, putting the rods in on top of the square aluminum

bench seating and the green metal tacklebox in the back. Then he would heft the small

green and white motor into position, clamp it onto the red plywood mount at the back of

the boat, load us, and with his pipe in his teeth he would pull out the choke, pull the

starter cord a few times, adjust the idle and we would be on our way.

Sometimes, with the motor sputtering along at quarter throttle producing a small bluegrey

cloud of smoke, we would troll with spinning lures and other times we would motor

across the lake, boat parting the calm waters, to a quiet spot and position ourselves over

what grandpa hoped would be “the” good place. Once anchored, with his strong tanned

hands, thick yellow fingernails and his well-worn gold wristwatch grandpa would

demonstrate getting the rods ready with the greatest ease and accuracy. He would put red

and white floats on our fishing lines, take a frog from the box and with firm hands he

would delicately put the barbed hook through the soft white skin on the chin and up

through the firm top lip of the squirming little frog. If we were up to it, we would do it

ourselves. Frogs, he said, made the best bait because they would swim and attract the

fish. It seemed cruel, but he had mastered the art of thankfulness and respect for all

creatures while doing what needed to be done.

Once ready, Grandpa would demonstrate a cast that would send frog and float spinning

off of each other into a calm deep part of the lake. We would try the same to varying

degrees of success. With all of our floats out in the water we would wait. There was no

chatter. We kept silent and watched the riparian world unfold around us. The nutrientrich

smell of the marsh at the edge of the lake, the sight of a beaver swimming creating

the trademark V as it made its way from the shore with yet another stick for the lodge, the

sound of a pair of loons, and the inescapable void of stillness that drew us into being

there fully and completely. Moments would quickly turn to hours, the only thing

punctuating the time was Grandpa whacking his pipe onto the palm of his hand to empty

the soot before reloading it with fresh tobacco and lighting it with the distinctive clicks of

his chrome lighter. I would often ask for a smell of the tobacco from his blue paper and

plastic pouch.

Eventually the tranquility would be broken by the sudden random disappearance of one

of our red and white floats. Excitement filled the boat when the reel began to whizzzzzzz

and the rod tip flexed toward the water. Grandpa would say “You got a bite.” Then he

would chuckle a chuckle, as he calmly reached for the net, that communicated the joy he

experienced, not about catching a fish, but about watching the process of our learning and

discovery unfold before his eyes. As we reeled the fish in the most exciting moment was

seeing the creature for the first time coming up through the green water. At that precise

moment, without fail, Grandpa would identify what was caught. “You got a jack” or

“Looks like a Pickrel” We would bring the fish up to the side of the boat and he would

net it, get the hook out and we put it on the gill chain and back in the water to keep it

alive and fresh. Simple excitement. We were happy for whoever caught the fish. Of

course there was friendly competition for who caught the biggest one. We would fish

until the daylight waned. But not too late. With the changing light he would break the

stillness by pull starting the motor and I would marvel at his navigational abilities as we

would motor home with our catch.

When we arrived home we would excitedly share the tales with Grandma then we would

be swiftly sent to the back yard brick barbeque to scale and clean the fish. We did this

once with Grandpa then he would have us do it. You catch-em you clean-em was the rule.

At least mostly. With a scaler and his sharp wooden handled knife, we would head out

back with our catch, scale them, and with the point of the knife, starting at the fishes

anus, make a cut up the silver soft belly of the fish and scoop out the guts and remove the

vein along the spine of the fish. With water we would rinse the fish and it was ready for

the next meal or the freezer.

Every so often our fishing trip would go to Batka Lake. The trip to Batka was coveted by

us grandkids because it was more of an adventure. The journey usually meant loading the

boat in the trunk, along with all the other stuff and heading off on the narrow winding

two-track, pot holed dirt road that led to the lake. It was a smaller round lake, more wild,

swampy, mysterious and seemingly teeming with fish. The whole lake was wrapped in a

canopy of trees. The far side had a beaver dam and all around the edges were reeds and

bullrushes. It was a good place to swim for intrepid souls. The road down to the lake was

steep and rocky. A ten-point turn on the rutty road was needed to muscle the Rambler

around to pull the boat out of the trunk and get it into the water.

There was a spirit there that cradled us as we fished. Just the word Batka meant

something to all of us and it was spoken in a particular tone to one another. It was special

and we all knew it. It was a more difficult lake to fish. The progression of experience was

wonderful. It was as if we needed to graduate from fishing at Madge Lake in order to

fish Batka. There was a lot to get the lines caught in. We all had a story of that. On one

particular trip to Batka I remember trolling and catching my line in the propeller. It took

a long while to get it all untangled. But it was all done with loving patience and a joyful

knowing chuckle. His patience was legendary and the largest part of what made him a

great leader of himself and others.

Grandpa loved to see people learn and he especially loved when we got into mischief.

He saw our curiosity. Our spirit. And he would guide that spirit. He had little time or

eye for dwelling on or seeing potential malice in family. He saw only that we wanted to

test things out and to learn. He saw the good in us and so we saw the good in him.

However, he would call a spade a spade with others. When his boat was stolen from the

lake in the late 70s, he had one simple statement that summed up his thoughts on the

matter, he said; “some son num-a bitch stole my boat.” That statement captured the idea

that it was more than a boat. His boat was leverage to his passion, a means to the

expression of his soul. He went out and bought another boat but it was not the same, flat

bottomed stable boat his old one was.

Grandpa John’s patience was supported by an astounding ability to listen. He listened

much more than he spoke. He listened to the motor to hear what needed tuning, he

listened to the sound a reel would make and could discern a snag from a bite, he listened

to the weather in order to create a safe experience, he listened to the wildlife and noticed

their behavior, he listened to the forest, he listened to us intently and always worked to

hear us even if he had another plan for us, he listened to the silence and it was there, in

the quiet moments that he could hear himself and that is what gave him the power to lead

us so fully and completely. In hearing, he drew out wisdom, thereby deepening his

patience.

His body, much like all of ours eventually will, betrayed him. But his spirit and

connection to place did not waiver. After his stroke my father and I built a ramp into the

cabin for his wheelchair. We painted it brown to match the trim. It allowed him a little

more time in his spiritual home. He did not want this fate. But he accepted it. He joked

about cutting his limp arm off. And he wanted to get on the water. Aunt Pat and uncle

Phil took him out. When he saw how difficult the logistics were for getting him on the

water, he never asked to go out again. Wisdom and grace. After his funeral I drove out

to the cabin with Mary Ellen to have a look. It was not the same. The building was there

and although beautiful, the leadership had left. I have never been back. The torch was

passed to all of us to live our lives with the same grace and wisdom. He trusted us to do

that.

My sister Shauna, when encouraging her children to do something, often says, lets go

make a memory. Every time she says it I think of the times and the learnings with

Grandpa John. He crafted experiences and memories very simply. He guides me to this

day and reminds me of these three things. Respect my scope of influence, learn skills

that connect me to others and place, explore just for the joy of it, and continue to discover

the simple power of patience.

Energies of Adventure

2010-11-12T13:40:00.000-07:00

Photo: Marc D Astous

“The unexamined life is not worth living”.

Socrates

In the universe things work best in balance; light/dark male/female masculine/feminine hot/cold wet/dry. At a given moment, on any mountain adventure I find myself striving to be aware of two inherent energies of the experience. These energies both have merit. One of them is a wild journey of celebration based simply on consuming adventure experiences for the inherent spirit. A gratification journey that fuels my motivation, sense of wonder and at times my ego. The other is an internal journey, which is about gaining self-knowledge. It is based in reflecting on the experience and gaining insights into who I am and how I need to grow and change as a person. (another perilous adventure) I have named these energies; Adventure for Gratification and Adventure for Learning. In a healthy adventure, they permeate all aspects of the experience in order to make it fun and spontaneous and also rich with useful insights that foster positive change and development.

Adventure for Gratification.

Gratification in the mountains has an important place in our lives. It fuels our passion for living through experiences and making rich memories and can lead to gratitude, celebration and the construction of our confidence. These are the key elements that keep us heading out the door to discover more. Which has the capacity to nurture us in many ways. Many mountain adventure based treatment programs have known this for a long time and use adventure-based achievement to replace a sense of worthlessness with accomplishment based self worth in the participants that attend the programs. In many instances, adventure may be just the positive outlet participants in these programs need to keep themselves moving forward which can link them to gratitude, celebration, and building self-confidence. But the effect may last only if the participants continue to focus their energies on adventurous experiences.

There is a challenging and complex facet to Adventure for Gratification, when it is out of balance, of which most of us are aware. Many of us in our mountain world have admitted, at some point in our lives, to being “adrenalin junkies”. We often say it in jest, but adventure experiences can have all of the elements of a destructive addiction. Addictions are linked to low self worth and adventure experiences may manifest as the need to prove ourselves to ourselves in order to love ourselves, or it can be an attempt to prove ourselves to others in an elusive search for their approval.

I have used mountain adventure, at great cost, in the search for a “greater high” to the extent where I constantly compared myself to others which set me apart as either. . better than. . . or not as good as others, which were both lonely places to reside.

The drive to achieve, at its extreme, made me only want to be with people who could further my achievement. For example, I remember saying to my wife, “I do not want to climb with you because you do not climb hard enough.” Narcissism. But in the grip of a manic search for the “Adventure High” we all have the potential of being self-destructive and destructive in our relationships with others. But for me these experiences themselves were a mirror. When I began to look at them I could see who I was becoming and then I engaged in the other half of the adventure experience.

Adventure for Learning: Adventure is perhaps the greatest teacher we have when we use the experiences as a mirror to view ourselves, in the interest of self-discovery and personal growth. This is a potentially very healthy use for adventure that, steeped in humility, has the ability to assist in the portrayal of the deep meaningful lessons that we need to know to develop as human beings. “In school there is the lesson then we are given a test, which we pass or fail. In the engagement of adventure we are given a test, which we pass or fail, and the lesson is ours to discover, but only if we are open to it.” (Norris 2010) Humility and curiosity are the keys to access the usefulness of the adventure experience in our lives.

Dialogue about our learning with others can bring us together in a way that would not have been possible otherwise. Shared personal insights, about adventure-facilitated learning in community can foster a sense of belonging that supports personal self worth. Exploration of my adventures have been focusing journeys into my strengths and weaknesses and have helped me turn challenges and tragedies in the mountains into “rights of passage” for me as a man. This has given me a sense of moving forward in my life that I could never have had without delving into and seeking out the personal lessons encased in the adventure experience through thought, reflection and dialogue with others. I have been able to use that information to change negative patterns and further develop my strengths which has made this life worth living.

When out of balance, Adventure for Learning, runs the risk of losing the spontaneity and playfulness that adventure has the potential of bringing. Like Sysiphus rolling his rock uphill, we are in the outdoors, but the work of it all permeates everything, making it a never-ending task that loses the passion that makes it an engaging experience. We can’t plan discovery, it has to happen on its own and through facing the unknown and all of the inherent risk that mountain experiences can have. In facilitating learning experiences for others I typically like to keep adding spice so that the adventure elements remain intact, fueling the body of potential learning.

The diversity of the adventure experiences we have in the mountains are so rich with potential personal insights that they are really worth exploring as a window to who we are. When Adventure for Learning and Adventure for Gratification are in concert they bring a richness to adventure that brings us both self-knowledge and joy. In our modern world, with so many things out of balance, it is important to lead ourselves and nurture the richness of our adventures by striving for balance of both of these energies so that at the end of the journey which is our life, we can really know why we did it and what it brought to our life and awareness.

Never Solo

2010-11-12T13:34:00.001-07:00

Having driven the Banff Springs golf course road I steer my Jetta into,

through the dense heavy spring snow, a small pullout for the hiking trail to

Canmore. This path has taken me to visit an old friend on many an

occasion. A professor with whom I have had many important lessons

Professor falls. The classic and timeless ice climb.

I step out of the car at the edge of the Bow River some distance below Bow

Falls. Air fills my lungs. Different air. Along with the usual bits that

constitute mountain air today there is greater humidity and scents born on it,
like the distinctive smell of Balsam Poplar, that communicate something
novel. Spring. I let it fill my lungs to their bottom and my blood caries the
products around my body and I feel a part of life here as the smells are
taken into my being. Rockies Olfactoryscape.

The path follows along the river. My walk is full of birdsong. Robins,
Varied Thrushes, Winter Wrens, Nut Hatches, Pine Siskins. The Varied
Thrushes are my favorite. The single note trill that changes in pitch with
each successive call is a welcome sound after a long winter. It harkens
spring. The change in pitch mentally draws my awareness into the forest
and gives the woods more depth. Several species of Thrush exist here in the
Rockies and they all live at different altitudes. I can roughly tell my
elevation based on the species I am hearing. Here the Varied Thrush seems
to be accompanying me along the path as I amble in to the climb.

As I journey along the Bow River I notice that the water is all-open with
some ice on the banks. Dippers and a few female mallard ducks are having
their way with the river’s current. The sound of the river creates the
backdrop for the birdsong. The knowledge of birdsong, which I listened to
digital versions of, as I brushed my teeth, over the course of a couple of
weeks in order to build my repertoire, has enriched my mountain experience
immeasurably. Engaging my senses in the audioscape. The ever-present
sound of the mountains becomes part of my consciousness through
discernment. Birds not only converse amongst themselves they
communicate to me. What they articulate is up to me to explore . . . for
myself. Today I feel welcomed by their presence. As if they are guiding me
in the search for inner peace and tranquility as I travel through this space.

There is 15cm of new snow on the ground. It is close to being like mashed
potatoes in consistency, changing the feel of the path underfoot. I have
never felt this trail like this before. Today’s walk is different than any other
trip I have had to Professors, yet I have been hiking this route in for over
25 seasons. Sometimes it is hard -packed squeaky cold snow, sometimes
dirt and I can ride my bike, sometimes it is ice and I need to put my

crampons on to walk it and sometimes it is muddy. Yet it is always a
beautiful trip through this Engelmann forest. Beauty because of the novelty.

Most of us are aware that each snowflake that falls in unique. We find this
amazing. But uniqueness is around us all of the time. Each person. Each
day. Each experience. Our minds tell us that they are similar or worse, the
same. However, on more intricate inspection we clearly see that there is
novelty. The mountains and their conditions are a new companion each and
every day that I am in them. They never fail to present a fresh perspective.
This is why I love them. I am the same in the dynamics of my internal
landscape. If I am learning I change. I come to know myself anew each
time I walk this path. The time for reflection and introspection underlines
that I am a different man because I let things that happen to me change me
by owning my part in them. Walking this path today reminds me that this
journey has always been a kind of checkup on where I am at as a
human being and as a man. Today I am in tears. Tears of joy for the person
I feel myself becoming. For the first time I accept myself just the way I
am. Because of this I find myself more open to things on this sojourn that I
have never seen before. I find myself looking outward more because I am
not busy constructing, or worse protecting, my internal landscape. This is
something new for me. We are the natural world. Though sometimes we
choose to think too much. The world of thought is a form of reality but it is
too isolated and static to be able to feed our soul and explore our uniqueness.

I arrive at the base of the climb. I find myself still present with the elements
around me. The preparations I need to make to become ready to climb are
so nearly automatic that my attention can still be placed on what is going on
around me. I notice the wind as it is flowing through the forest. The sound
is like being on the ocean shore yet more arhythmical in tempo and
direction. I seek to sense this more fully today.

Since I feel this connection I decided to go as light as possible. Fewer “things” to

clutter or insulate me from the experience. I wear a light polypro and “tissue paper”

thin gloves. I tag a rope up for the descent and have only one ice screw, no pack, just me

relying oh so completely on me and my ability to communicate with the
medium and negotiate a path. The ice is forgiving and soft so climbing
without a rope for protection is a natural choice. Just movement and
concentration. I even let my hair blow in the wind as I climb . . .something
I have never done before on an ice climb. A tactile gift which heightens the
beautiful random quality that is the essence of life in the natural world.
Unpredicted winds swirling my hair around. I even revel in the chaotic feel
of it landing in my eyes from time to time. Loving the unbridled quality that
is a real expression of freedom.

I walk up to the base of the first pitch. There in no nervousness today even
though I have only climbed on one other occasion this season. I am not
concerned about anything. Even though a fall would, at very least, lead to a
broken leg, and at most could be fatal. I move upward and the
concentration of climbing is automatic. I am fully engaged in what I am
doing and yet there is more. I continue to sense the world around me with a
deeper richness. The Varied Thrushes are still with me as I find my balance
and strength to swing each tool. Music to enjoy with the dance. I smell the
air and how it changes as each features of the climb presents itself, open
standing water, mist, trickles over the ice, all changing the air enough for me
to sense it. The smells carried on the wind, the conifers, budding birch or
willow. I hear the falls, not only the interaction of my tools but the sounds
they present to me . . .water over the surface, water just under the surface,
water pouring into a hole. I feel incredibly big and incredibly small all at the
same time. Big in the act of climbing these tall features confidently and the
perspective that each pitch rewards me with visually. . . of the Bow Valley.
Cascade, Inglismaldie, Mt Peechee. Yet I feel small because of the grander
of the setting of Mt Rundle. I am tiny in this massive gully. The thought of
past avalanches here harkens a respect and I intellectualize and tacitly
respond with my answer to continue up and into this powerful place.

I am without any other humans on the second and third pitches. Amazing.
A weekend. Perfect ice. Perfect temperature. After a long winter. . cold
sports lose their appeal. It is a gift to find this margin. The ebb of what is
seasonally in vogue. October with its thin ice is a madhouse of people
seeking the ice experience. After a winter of cold hands they have had
enough by May. So I am alone from humans on this treasure. But I am not
alone from myself or the life that is all around me.

I climb. It is what I do. I climb through my life. Always moving upward to
a new perspective. I have learned to meet the challenges and accepting them
humbly. Overtly it may feel like I am alone. But I never am. It is
impossible to journey alone. If we journey. It is only when we stay in one
place, physically, intellectually, and spiritually that we meet with being solo.
Loneliness as a result of being personally static in a world that abhors being
so. When we bravely step out of ourselves, we meet and experience a world
that is so rich with companions. Comrades that are moving because that is
the law of nature.

I reach a difficult spot in the climb. I slow down to consider the solution to
the problem. There is silence as I concentrate. There is no fear. Only
respect. I craft an agreeable solution by meeting the requirements of the
icefall itself. It wants me to climb over to the right so that is where I go.
Even though climbing over there requires more effort on my part. When I do
move over, all becomes easier again. Peaceful. The rest of the world around
me floods in again. Respect has a way of leading to peace and fullness.

I reach my highpoint for the day on a ledge three pitches up. I do not
question going higher. Climbing is arbitrary anyway. Or at least it should
be. Kairos time, which answers the question; “what is it time for?” There
have been many times I have done several laps on Professors in a single
day. I was locked in the self imposed prison of having too. I love the
freedom I have today. This experience is really for me this time, because an
external perspective, and its pressures, never enter my mind. Peace and
freedom.

The walk down from my high point requires great care. The snow is
perfect for snowmen. I roll a ball down a slope and it creates a pinwheel.
The cookie cutters “crampons” I have on my feet gather mounds of snow
in them making it impossible to grip the slopes I am walking on. The
solution is patience and awareness. I am mindful of each step in this
exposed place and I take the needed time to carefully craft my descent. I
clear the snow from my crampons between each and every step. This
might be viewed as tedious. However, I see it as an opportunity to go
slowly and take in my surroundings more. I use the trees, that cling to the
mountain on the edges of the climb, as spotters. I position myself above
them as I make my way down the steeper sections. They will catch me if I
make a mistake. They are my belayers, my companions that are watching
over me. And they do this job well. This gives me confidence.

I arrive at the bottom. I feel no sense of accomplishment. But there is
richness of experience. I have climbed this climb countless times over he
years. Was I bored? No. Did I discover? Yes. I discovered what Professors
was today and what I am today. The first occasion I climbed this route I
was filled with intensity like there was no tomorrow. I had to finish all of
the pitches even though it was -25C. So intense was I that I forgot to be
here in the moment. I forgot to be me. I was thinking about the report to
others. Such is life when we are motivated external to our being. I
remember the pain of the day. (Dave Bartell fainting as his hands warmed
up from being really really cold) But I do not remember anything special.
Something that connected me to the place. We miss the real gems when we
greedily consume experiences. We are also way more alone. I was. Then.

I walk back along the path next to the river. I pause several times along the
banks to take in the views of the Bow Valley. I feel such a presence of
more than I could ever articulate. If you have been “here” you know. And
most of us have, if we take the time to engage. I physically see Cascade
Mountain, the Fairholme Range, Mount Norquay and Mount Rundle. This is
my home. High above me are all places that I have been so fortunate to
travel and learn lessons from, with great companions. What have I done to
deserve such a life? A life so rich with experiences in this the best of

classrooms. At this moment I realize that my person is not what I have or

what I have done. My person is what I have done, and will do, with. I am

never static or solo. Knowing this brings me great joy.

Christmas 1972

2010-11-12T13:30:00.001-07:00

It was Christmas in Calgary in 1972. I was seven years old. Christmas in our household

was often anticlimactic. Difficult truth. My mother was brilliant in preparing ice-cream-

bucket-loads of treats and goodies for us to eat. This was and is her language of love,

though I did not understand it at the time. She was too busy trying to be the perfect

Mom, to be the perfect Mom for me. Months beforehand she would be busy making

cookies, fruitcake, perogies, cabbage rolls, and meatballs; all for the greatest feast of the

year . . .Christmas Eve dinner. This dinner was a Ukrainian 12 course affair; the one

dinner of the year where we did not try to get food off of each other’s plates. At that

point there were seven of us kids. Eat or be eaten.

With all of the food and celebration there was still something missing; - a shortage of one

commodity. . .time. Skilled time for each other. That is why Christmas was anticlimactic.

Among all of the food, beverages and celebration we typically did not make real and

important connections with each other that were based in acceptance and authentic

interest. An epidemic of anonymity existed in our family of nine. All of us were

wanting of attention, but each was so self absorbed that we were unskilled at giving the

outward focused attention that leads to real intimacy. Parents were just as needy and

lost as the children, so therefore forgivable.

With so many people in our household the space under the tree was heaped with gifts;

piles of miscommunications that rarely addressed a precise want or important need and

conveyed a lack of understanding. . .almost without exception for me. Feigning

appreciation for these items deepened the rift.

However, the seeds of change happened for Daryl, Shauna and myself on Christmas

1972. It was an enterprising move for my brother Daryl to offer an activity as a gift; time

together in nature. It was intrepid because it was a change to the normal pattern in our

household of sitting around the house watching the TV. . . killing time. Thoreau wrote,

“When we kill time we wound eternity”

Daryl brightened my eternity that Christmas. At age seventeen and in high school, he was

inspired by the bold Canadian Rockies. He had been on a school trip cross-country

skiing with Mr. Hergott, a science teacher at Bishop Carroll High School. Daryl

decided to spread this new found awakening to the joys of cross-country skiing to his two

youngest siblings.

I awoke Christmas morning, like most children, early. There was a mysterious pair of

wooden cross-country skis leaning against the wall next to the tinseled tree. Unwrapped.

Perfect. They had a scrap paper note on them, “To Shauna and Kenny love Daryl”,

written in Daryl’s nearly illegible handwriting. This was baffling. How were Shauna and

I to use these large skis? And there was only one pair. After what seemed like a

Millennium, Daryl finally explained that they were his skis, which were there simply to

represent the day out we would have together. He would rent Shauna and I skis for the

trip out to the mountains. This was my first real Christmas gift.

Walking into the Norseman cross-country ski shop to rent skis is a focused memory for

me. I recall the bell on the door, the sight of the dimly lit rental room downstairs,

with the long shag carpeted bench, the smell of pine tar and the pungent leather rental ski

boots, the feel of purple kick wax (as it made strings between my fingers). We sized

the skinny wooden skis to vertically extended wrists, bamboo poles to our armpits and

boots with thick woolen socks on. Daryl paid the rental fee for the skis, poles and boots,

which cost a few dollars for each set, and we clattered out the door.

The drive out west to the mountains is as clear and crisp in my memory as the day was.

We were in Daryl’s first car, a Rambler sedan. It was cold. Really cold, and the car

strained through the thick -20˚C air. At Scott Lake hill we all lurched forward in our

seats in an effort to help the car make it up the grade. We passed Morley, and as we were

walled in by the mountains on either side of the road, the anticipation of the day

also enveloped me. The tall and striking summits on either side of the car carried strength

yet at the same time were inviting. Daryl knew some of the names of the peaks, which I

found impressive. Their names hinted to a history which gave them character and

mystery.

What I recall most about the drive was the park gate. For a boy of seven, with a natural

draw to the outdoors, this was the equivalent to the gates of heaven. The post and stone

architecture of the National Park gate booths, laden with snow, completely fit the

landscape and hinted to the magic beyond. The deep snows of 1972 created a

twinkling world I had never experienced before. Everything was quiet, pristine and

peaceful. Cold comfort. We crossed the threshold and I felt like I had come home for the

first time in my short life. . . home to the nurturing spell of the mountains.

We slowly rolled into the parking lot for Johnston Canyon ski trail with the car tires

squeaking on the cold snow, decreasing in pitch, as we slowed to a stop. We tumbled

out of the car and were finally immersed in the wonderful snow white visual and tactile

world that we had glimpsed out of the frosty car windows for the past hour. Everything

was deeply buried, the trees, the buildings, the old log sign-posts and the bridges (with

the railings rendered useless from the meter of snow laying on the bridge deck) straining

from the weight of it all. The allure of the snow was not only from the weighty depth.

Cold, fluffy features hung and drooped making improbable soft white garland

sculptures throughout the forest, on logs, trees, stumps, branches and sign posts. I poked

at all of it with the large basket of my bamboo pole making my own artistic impressions.

There was also a silence that came with insulating snow. It made everything seem quiet

through the dampening of sound.

After coloring green wax on our skis, we learned how to secure the three pin bindings by

lining up the pins with the holes in the sole of our boots. Once mobile, we tested the grip

of the wax by pushing off a weighted ski and seeing if the other would glide. With all of

our equipment operating we started up the Johnston Canyon trail.

Daryl showed us how to slap our skis against the snow lightly then hold our foot still in

order to get the wax to grip as we went uphill. This was my second home coming of the

day. Human power. Moving uphill is as natural a communication with the mountain and

ourselves as one can get. Secrets about the mountain, and ourselves, are only released

with personal effort and the balance between stillness and movement. My search for my

skiing rhythm was a little awkward initially.

My mistake was to stare at my skis. They were called Gresshoppa Finse and were brown

and had a snowflake like pattern on the tip. Shauna’s were blue. Because of my staring,

my balance was poor. That was what the poles were for I thought. Daryl encouraged us

to look ahead on the trail and we would have better balance. I found this more difficult. I

would observe as each ski overtook the other in a rolling rhythm of momentum. . .uphill.

Eventually, after enough striding, I would stop, look around, and allow myself to be

embraced by the place.

It was the invitation of the landscape that kept us fueled. The magic of the soft blue light

cast on the trees, with long winter shadows, all dressed in snow. The trail with two

sinuous tracks impressed in the hoary snow surface and countless ski pole holes, winding

through the Engelmann spruce forest, taking the natural line that fit the terrain. The gentle

path communicated the promise of sights ahead, the notion of adventure, the hope of

discovery, and stillness that invited self-knowledge. We moved through but also yielded

to the place, allowing it to consume us.

Our path eventually brought us to several waterfalls. Winter waterfalls. Frozen, still and

silent. Anyone who has visited a mountain waterfall in summer knows that they are

things of beauty with their movement and powerful sound. Waterfall ice, is an order of

magnitude more beautiful. The ice refracts the blue/green spectrum, which gives them

more colour than liquid cascades. As we drank in the view of these sculpted ice

cathedrals, Daryl said another thing that was to change my life.

“People climb these”

The wonder of that statement captured my imagination.

“How?” I asked

“With ice picks, ropes and screws”

I stood there trying to imagine what ice climbing must be like. I knew I would like to try

it. Someday.

The immediacy of -20˚C pushed us onward up the path and eventually to the Inkpots.

There were white spots in a meadow, I thought, “big deal.” We came all this way for

this? This was a lesson in discovery. One can’t plan to discover. It happens

unexpectedly. We found a spot in the meadow for lunch, took our skis off and

immediately plummeted into the snow up to our waists. Rockies snow pack. The cold

inland air removes the snow’s strength so it can’t support the weight of a person. I

learned right then how desperate winter travel would be without skis in the mountains. I

was building respect. Discovery. Daryl taught us to manage and stay out of the snow by

stomping a hole for our feet and to sit on our skis. We had made our

spots, brushed the snow off of ourselves and kept our woolies dry. The lunch that mom

packed for us all, including the leftover Christmas cookies, never tasted so good. But it

was a quick lunch because the cold quickly crept into our bodies, mostly through our

bums. In short order we high stepped out of our lunch holes, onto our skis to put them

back on and began the glide back to the car . . . but there was much more to it than that.

I can still hear Shauna’s giggles today, in my mind’s ear, as she and I made our way

down the slopes of the Johnston Canyon trail. Daryl was ahead. He was near

enough just to hear our laughter but stay out of our path.

Rockies ski trails in reality are summer trails with snow on them. They are not designed

for skiing. But that is what makes them fun. Narrow, fast, tree lined edges, long, steep

sections with 90˚ corners at the bottom, bumps, roots, and ice. Whistling past the

lodge-pole pines was exhilarating to say the least. Our only breaking mechanism was to

fall. We did not know how to snow plough. Or stop. The limp Nordic equipment made

the descent all the more challenging. We fell, flopped, peeled out, and tumbled our way

down the mountain, narrowly missing the trees as we crashed, occasionally getting

tangled in the Labrador tea bushes. Our red faces still gleamed with delight as we picked

ourselves up from fall after fall. Once in a while we had a thrilling ride that ended

victoriously on our feet by gliding out on the flats to a stop with our arms in the air. . .

which made it all worth it. Through it all we discovered another element to the

landscape. Gravity. The take home message for me was. . . speed-is-good. I have lived it

ever since. It seemed as though we were just becoming weary when the welcome sight of

the parking lot came into view. The mountain had shown us a great time. And I was

hooked.

What was I hooked on? True friendship. I grew in admiration and closeness with

Daryl, because of his ability to take care of us yet also let us do our thing. He also

mentored his connection to wild places, not by his words but by his reverent gaze at his

surroundings. I grew in closeness with Shauna because of her ability to handle the

struggles of the day with good humor and delight. I made a new friend with Banff

National Park and the Rocky Mountains, which is a relationship that is still rich and

rewarding. I became a better companion to myself because I began to know what kinds of

experiences fuel my spirit.

This was the first lesson in boldness that the Rockies had to offer me in my life. Their

bold nature had inspired Daryl to embrace all of the risks of taking his two young siblings

out for a day in Banff in -20˚C temperatures. Lots could have gone wrong. We could

have been frozen, hurt, killed or worse yet, we might have hated him for it. Nothing

negative happened. We loved him for it. We loved him for the time he took. We

loved him for being connected to us. We loved him for introducing us to skiing, the

mountains, Banff Park, and each other. We loved him for providing a shared experience.

We loved him for making us feel special through his undivided attention. We loved him

for creating common ground. To this day I believe that the three of us have connection

that is rooted in this day together.

Daryl was the first to be socially courageous in our family. He broke the pattern of

inactivity. He broke the pattern of valuing only work. He broke the pattern of the

purchased expression of love. He expressed it directly with the gift of time . . .and

adventure on the landscape.

This lesson has helped me understand Christmas and what people need. We do not need

more stuff. We need to be bold. Bold enough to take the time to make memories with

family. Bold enough to be challenged so that we are presented a window to our

character. Bold enough to take physical risks. Bold enough to tell people not only that we

love them but why. Bold enough to embrace each other. Bold enough to embrace the

landscape and the challenges it may present. Bold enough to truly live. All of this made

possible simply by willingly exploring a Rockies ski trail.