The Bugaboos Explained

I’ve mentioned the Bugaboos in the last few posts, and the whole trip served as a kind of culmination and climax of the last few months of dirtbaggery, so I figured I’d try to document the whole experience. The risk is that I’ll fall into “Then we went here and then we ate an icecream and then I was tired and then we went there” travel bloggery, which is pretty much the single least interesting thing on the internet. So be gentle with me as I attempt to do something I’ve pretty much never done and write about my actual trip.

Despite the strange name, the Bugaboos are not a group of villains from a kid’s cartoon. Instead, they are a collection of granite spires in the Purcell Mountains near the border between British Columbia and Alberta. The problem with explaining the Bugaboos (or Bugs) to people is that when I say “granite spires” you think you understand what I’m talking about. Unless you’ve actually been to or seen the Bugs, you so totally completely don’t. Think of huge fins of rock rising from glaciers and snow fields. Now make those fins bigger. Now bigger again. You’re probably still not thinking big enough. The biggest wall in the area is over 1000m high. The slightly smaller spires near us had walls of 700m or more. The place is capital B Big. And capital S Scary.

Bugaboo Spire in the pre-dawn light. We climbed up via the right hand side of the peak and descended down the left hand side. From where it steepens on the right (above the diagonal line of snow) to the top is roughly 700m. That's me in the foreground.

To get to the spires you need to hike up the valley. That sounds simple, and it mostly is, except that Rohan and I were hiking in with food for 11 days, climbing gear, and enough camping gear to get through snow and storms. Our packs were heavy. So heavy that we could not actually lift them on our own and it took both of us to heave each pack up so that the unfortunate bearer could shoulder the load and start trudging. Rohan had a larger pack which resembled not so much a bag as a structural component of some kind of poorly designed bombproof cupboard. My pack was smaller, so to carry the required equipment my regular bag had another bag piggybacking on top of it like a midget in one of those 1980s wrestling matches that would not be considered PC in our more enlightened times. The path up to the hut was buried in snow in several places from a series of avalanches that had come from the slopes above earlier in the winter. Of course, it rained, which brought enormous joy to Rohan and I as we slogged our way up above the tree-line.

 

 It's Pack Man LOL!!1!

In just three hours of suffering we arrived and set up camp. There are two campsites and we chose the lower more sheltered one and tried to convince ourselves that there were good reasons to stay there, rather than simply because we didn’t want to haul our gear any further up the hill. We did move our camp to the higher and more exposed campsite a few days later, only to be hit by a storm that confined us to our tent for the whole day.

The rain continued overnight and through most of the next day. And thus began the long and arduous process of staying amused in the tent. At the start of your trip this is reasonably straightforward – there are things to tinker with, conversations to have, you can read the guidebook, sort food, sort climbing gear and think of all the things you’re going to climb. As the days go by, these basic means of staying sane slowly lose their appeal and new methods must be found. Eventually you have tinkered with everything you own; conversed your tent-mate from interest, to feigned interest, to outright bored, to irritation and finally to sullen resentful silence; you know the guidebook by heart; and it has become impossible to hide from the fact that the weather will prevent you from climbing any the routes you dreamt of when you first arrived.

In such situations, creativity must be used to stay sane, motivated and non-violent. Eating is a reliable means of burning some spare hours, as is digging in the snow (especially if you can fool yourself into thinking it’s constructive in some way).In an attempt to make sense of our seemingly arbitrary lives and circumstances, we invented a complex mythology involving an omniscient German packrat named the Snafflehound, living atop one of the spires and controlling the weather and local wildlife to nefarious ends. Finally,we discovered that attempting to trap small critters that came near our tent was an exciting and fulfilling way to pass the time. We caught two chipmunks, the first in a devious trap and the second in a bought of brutal UFC style grappling. At one stage we tried to catch a packrat, which we suspected of being a spy for the Snafflehound, but it was too big and strong for our trap.

 The trap is set.

Our patience is rewarded. No, we didn't eat him, we let him go. And he pooped all over our stuff, so it was a fair encounter.

In all, we had nine days to climb, and were more or less confined to our tent for 5 of those days. We really should have spent a sixth day hiding out from bad weather, but we took a chance on some marginal conditions and got pounded with snow and rain half way up the biggest spire in our immediate area. In our three days of good conditions, we climbed three different spires in the region, including the North East Ridge of Bugaboo spire on our last day, which is ranked among the best 50 climbs in North America. Most of our other original objectives were abandoned due to a lack of time or being covered in snow, of which there was much more than usual for that time of year. The North East Ridge redeemed the trip to some extent – it would have been a long way to go and a lot of trouble to go to (especially for Rohan) to sit around in the tent watching the spires wrap themselves in cloud.

 Getting high on the North East Ridge.

As is the custom, the weather improved just as we left. There’s a big high pressure system in place now and the snow will be melting off the rock pretty fast. Despite this improvement, I was still happy enough to leave when we did. Climbing in the Bugs is epic. The approaches are epic – there are glaciers, sections of exposed scrambling, steep snow slopes with terrible things at the bottom that you wouldn’t want to fall into or off of. The descents are epic. If you’re lucky you’ll be able to rappel down somewhere near the top of the climb you finished, which will be long and fraught with stuck ropes or scary anchors. If not you’ll have to traverse some exposed ridges (we’re talking about potential falls of 500 metres or more) and probably scramble down some route that would be bad enough climbing up, but is absolutely horrific to go down. The weather is epic. You can get storms that last for days, it can go from sunny to snowing in minutes, it can (and did) snow out of a blue sky, later in the season there are lightning storms that brew up in the afternoons which have killed people. There is no dashing out for a couple of hours of climbing if the rain clears. Even if the weather comes good, you might spend a day waiting for snow to melt off your route, or avalanche hazards to clear, or the rock to dry out. Just hanging around in the tent while a storm howls outside beats you up. I’m keen to go back, but I was happy to leave the park, sit in a pub and smash a burger that the menu bet I couldn’t eat, then get a thickshake.

The Dynamic Duo

OK, this has to be quick, because I'm running out of batteries and Rohan is cooking dinner etc. etc.

Rohan got here a week and a day ago. Since then, it has rained a whole lot. We went to Squamish, where people explained that it was still Spring and that it was raining a lot. Despite the rain, we got a solid day's climbing in (plus a few bits a pieces on other days), before engaging in some time wasting to wait for more good weather. Generally, the climbing was wet.

The weather improved yesterday which gave us a chance to climb Yak Peak, an enormous granite face just off the Trans-Canada Highway. Yak Peak was also pretty wet in places, but on the whole the climbing was great. It was a little weird to climb hundreds of metres off the ground and still hear the trucks rolling by on the highway, but I guess that's the price of convenient climbing.

We got another day of good weather today, which we celebrated by having the van break down on the highway. We've limped into Kelowna and will try to get it seen to tomorrow. At this stage, the plan is to remove some parts to convert it from four-wheel-drive to two-wheel-drive. Hopefully that will get us to the Bugaboos and back without dying. The Bugaboos might be covered in snow, and even if they're not it will probably rain, but we're still planning on going there.

OK, gotta go contribute to the great mushroom risotto thing that we're going to eat tonight. I'll try to write something more interesting soon.

Extreme Parasitism

A tick that has found its way onto your body can take days to actually find a suitable site and bite you. Obviously, while they're crawling around they're easy to remove and do no real harm. The only time they become a problem is when they're lodged in place.

The same is true for climbing parasites like me. If I latch on to a group at a crag, I'm usually only with them for a few hours and it's easy enough for them to get rid of me and go their own way. But recently, I have reached new levels of parasitism. I have latched onto a host and am currently writing this post on their enormous computer IN THEIR APARTMENT.

I should be clear, describing this as an act of parasitism suggests that I'm somehow responsible for the pretty sweet situation I find myself in, but in fact this is all the doing of my most generous and benevolent host, Ward. I met Ward in the car park at the crag and climbed with him and another friend for the day. I had spent five days at the Skaha Bluffs trying unsuccessfully to bum rope and soloing easy climbs, so getting a chance to climb with other people in relative safety was most welcome. I ended up carrying a bunch of Ward's climbing equipment back to the cars at the end of the day and, since we were both tired and pretty chuffed about they day's exploits, I completely forgot to give it back to him.

Later that night I realised my mistake and contacted Ward to explain. He had also completely forgotten, and was near Walmart at the time, so he dropped by to collect his stuff. In the process, he noticed the slightly squalid conditions I was living in and offered me a room at his place if I wanted to get out of the van for a while. The next day the weather crapped out and I took him up.

Since then, Ward has been an incredibly warm host. I've been staying with him for a whole week now, and since the weather has been terrible for much of that time it has been great to have somewhere dry to hang out. It also means that we can climb together when he's not at work, which is great for me and hopefully means he gets something worthwhile out of this arrangement too.

Like any good parasite though, the time will come to leave this host and move to the next stage of my life cycle. If I were a tick (specifically a female tick), the next step after feeding off a large mammal would be to lay my eggs. I won't be doing that. Instead, I meet my brother-in-law, climbing buddy and all-around-good-guy Rohan on Wednesday in Vancouver (it's Monday today). We'll go on a four week climbing extravaganza across British Columbia, focusing on long rock routes in the mountains (think 1200 metres long) and then return to the Southern Hemisphere, where by all accounts winter is in full swing.

The Good Kind of Parasite

As much as I may dislike the ticks here, I share a kind of kinship with them that I cannot deny. For I, too, am a parasite of sorts. Like a tick, I hang around at the bottom of the Skaha Bluffs, waiting for a group of climbers to pass by. When conditions are right, I latch onto them and follow them around all day, draining their rope time and climbing gear. And when they are spent, and it is time for them to move on, I drop off and find a new host.

Being a singleton at a crag is a bit awkward, because ideally you need someone to belay you when you climb. Being a singleton at a crag with no rope or quickdraws is extra awkward, because when you do meet up with other people you need to use their equipment, otherwise you have no safety system and any fall will mean an ungraceful tumble to the ground and probable death or dismemberment. To further complicate matters, any other solo dirtbags that end up in the area are also unlikely to have a rope or quickdraws, so not only is it impossible to team up with them to climb, but they're also out there competing for potential climbing partners.

I have, therefore, developed a number of strategies for trying to find host climbing groups to latch on to. The most difficult constraint that I face in finding climbing partners is that I'm absurdly spectacularly Anglo, and I can not bring myself to simply ask people if I can climb with them. This isn't even as rude as it sounds, because often people are in odd-numbered groups, and an extra person will make even numbers, and that means maximum climbing efficiency (because this type of climbing happens in pairs - one person to climb and another to belay). So there are groups who would actually benefit from me joining them.

But I am much too Anglo to ask to climb with strangers. Given that this direct and simple path to climbing is taken, I adopt a more circuitous route.

If I'm looking for a new host to climb with, my work starts as soon as I arrive in the car park. As soon as I park the car I strive to look competent enough that no one will think I'll slow them down, but not so bad-ass that people will be intimidated. Admittedly, avoiding the latter concern is easy. My main strategy for the former condition is wearing my shoes without socks. Shoes-without-socks says "I'm completely comfortable in this environment." in a way that is neatly complemented by "toque/beanie-without-jumper" which has also proven to be a winner. Then, I check the noticeboard where people who are looking for partners will write their contact details, and on my way out of the car park I make eye contact with and chat to anyone who'll look at me.

Of course, I never actually find partners in the car park. But that's not the point. The point is to let people know that I'm around, and that I'm the kind of guy who will walk around their crag in shoes without socks. I also like to open all the doors of my van to make it absolutely clear that I'm living in it, which gives me all kinds of dirtbag chic.

With my round of the car park complete, it's time to walk down the main access track into the climbing area, which goes past a number of popular cliffs. Again, I am sure to make eye contact with and at least greet everyone I see. This is another chance to let people know that I'm mooching around. If I see a group of more than two climbers, I usually hang around and casually watch them climb in a way that I sincerely hope doesn't look creepy. If they make anything more than the most fleeting form of eye contact, I drop some cool questions like "What climb is that?" or "Are you comfortable wearing socks like that?" or something equally aloof but also approachable. I'm trying to give the impression that I'm cool enough to have friends, but not so keen on those friends that I'd turn down a chance to go climbing that to actually see them. This is made more difficult by the somewhat intrenchable fact that I don't have any friends, but I try not to make that obvious.

Hopefully, at this point someone in the group will think "Wow, I want to see if that guy without socks still wears his toque/beanie while climbing." (Which, if it's cold, I do. It's like a poor man's helmet.) Then they'll offer me a chance to climb. This is where I pull out my best moves.

It's important not to seem too eager, or they'll get the impression that I'm a desperate loner. I must cover that fact up at all costs, because everyone hates desperate loners. I usually say something like "Sure, but I don't want to take up your rope time if you're in a rush." which doesn't make any sense at all, but it seems to put folks at ease. So far, everyone has responded to this approach favorably, and I've ended up climbing quite a lot. Once I latch onto a group, I can climb with them for several days. So far no one has tried to ditch me or hide from me, so I guess I'm doing something right.

Of course, not all of my climbing hookups have come about in this way. I've met some people in the campsite, and one of my most successful parasitic episodes came when someone mistook me for a friend of theirs and I ended up climbing with a group of Calgarians for several days. Unfortunately, hanging around looking like other people's friends is not a viable long-term strategy.

Actually, now that I think about it, I'm so Anglo that many times I don't even have the courage to speak to people about what they're climbing. Sometimes I just peruse the climbing guidebook (to make it obvious that I'm a climber, rather than out walking my dog) and wait for people to talk to me. I still play it cool though, so I guess that's OK.

I'd better head back to the campsite, because tonight (or maybe tomorrow morning) I'm going to get a shower. Also, last night I slept near a lookout next to the highway and a strange, well dressed lady with a nice car spent ages rummaging around in a bin, then rummaging in the back of her car, and then woke me up by walking around my van at midnight shining a light inside to see what was there. It was one of the most baffling episodes of my life, which has contained probably more than its fair share of baffling moments. I would have asked her what she was doing, but when I woke up because a torch was being shone in my eyes I blurted "Hello? What?" and the lady made an incomprehensible excuse and very quickly got in her car and drove away. So perhaps $7.50 to spend the night in a campsite is not such an unreasonable price.

A Token Desert

Dearest reader, last time we met I was in a trailer park in Golden about to go ski touring in the Canadian Rocky Mountains. Now I am writing to you from the back of my van in a campground near Penticton. I don’t have internet here, so by the time I actually post this I’ll be writing to you from the car park of a nearby fast food restaurant with free wifi (my spellcheck doesn’t think that’s a word, in fact, it also doesn’t think spellcheck is a word, which seems somewhat defeatist). Thanks capitalism!

Anyway, I didn’t write this post to praise capitalism (although I do intent at some stage to write something about how grateful I am for the existence of rich people). Instead, I intend to fill you with wonder at my recent exploits, and explain how I came to be sitting in the back of my van in a desert next to an enormous lake in the rain. Be warned that this post is about my actual life, so all those people who just read this to laugh at my misfortunes can just skip to the next post.

So, let’s start with the trailer park. Last post I told you I’d explain how I ended up staying in one. It turns out that one of the ski touring crew from Rossland, the inimitable Brace, knew some folks living in Golden, and we stayed with them on the way to the Rockies. This worked out to be a fine arrangement, because we ended up barbequing snags over a fire in their front yard and Justin, one of our hosts, even came with us on our trip. Anyway, these folks lived in a trailer park, which I have unilaterally decided makes them the best kind of people. I’m glad that Brace was with me in the car as we drove to their house, because to get there you basically drive through Golden, out the other side, then up a narrow winding road until you come to a trailer park near a motocross riding area. It’s the kind of place that, if you were following written directions, would cause you to wonder if you hadn’t made a navigational error at some stage. However, despite the stigma of trailer parks, it was a super cool place. Everyone we met was friendly, there’s no traffic, people have big yards for dogs and barbeques and everyone leaves their cars and houses unlocked. Plus the view across the valley to the Purcell Mountains on the far side is pretty amazing.

Touring in the Rockies reminded me very much of New Zealand. Firstly, it’s alpine. You bumble through some trees on the way up to the real skiing near the peaks, but once you’re up there it’s rock, snow and ice all round. After the veritable forests of the Rossland area it was actually a bit unnerving to get up into the big mountains. Another way in which the Rockies are similar to New Zealand is the conditions. They are often bad. Visibility is frequently poor, the snowpack is variable, it’s very windy, and every gift that the mountain gives you (fresh snow, or a sunny day) is balanced by something the mountain takes away (windslab, or afternoon avalanches). The fact that you have to hike up everything complicates matters, because conditions are probably only going to be good on whatever you want to ski for a few hours, and you might spend all of those hours just walking towards your objective. Despite this, it’s clear that getting lucky in the Rockies would make for some amazing skiing. And by that I mean getting lucky in the good-weather-and-snow way, not the Justin-woos-all-the-ladies way.

So, with five days of glaciers and hiking and big mountains successfully completed, the time came to change from skiing mode to climbing mode, and commence The Great Climbing Improvement of 2012. The Great Climbing Improvement of 2012 is different from The Great Climbing Improvements of 2010 and 2007, because unlike the last two times I tried to get into shape to climb with Rohan, it will actually happen, and it won’t end in an ACL reconstruction before I even get to go climbing.

The GCI 2012 has kicked off in Penticton, in the Okanagan valley west of Rossland. Do you like the way I always explain the locations of things relative to landmarks you’re unfamiliar with? It’s always a feature of travel writing that I particularly enjoy. For example, I am currently south of Kelowna, and east of Vancouver, which outlines an area that’s probably the size of Victoria. Just look it up on Google Maps.

Anyway, I came to Penticton to climb in the Skaha bluffs, which are a couple of kilometres from town on the eastern side of the Skaha Lake. Skaha is known for having lots of sport climbing and is popular at this time of year because it’s warmer and drier than anything else nearby. In fact, the Okanagan is considered something of an arid zone by BC residents. In fact, I’ve even heard this region referred to as a desert. I suspect this is a relative concept. Maybe the Okanagan is dry compared to the rest of BC, where it rains (or snows) with the persistence and diligence of a model Newstart recipient (that’s an Australian dole/EI joke for those of you not familiar with the terrible burden of a jobseeker diary). But compared to somewhere actually dry, it still rains here a lot. Perhaps, to extend the simile, with the persistence of an actual Newstart recipient – it’s common to get a tiny bit of rain (just enough to say that it did, without actually achieving anything), and then it seems to hammer down every now and then to make up for all the time it spent slacking off.

Skaha is lucky that I got some climbing in yesterday, otherwise my assessment would be pretty harsh. To be honest, the crag doesn’t look very inspiring – it’s a few small chunks of rock set into some rolling hills next to a lake. But it turns out that the rock quality is really good and the climbing is actually pretty nice. This is good, because if I’d just rocked up, looked around and then gotten rained on I’d be questioning the judgement of the local climbing scene.

Of course, a bit of rain is not a big deal. There are plenty of things I need to do and a day without climbing is a great chance to sort them out. The big deal is that my van won’t start in the rain. So I’m stuck in a campsite outside town with no internet, no way to do laundry and most importantly, no way to renew my vehicle registration. Obviously, that registration expires today. As the kiwis would say, crepe.