 |
| Stopping to take in the view and contemplate life choices |
Our day started off as many of my adventurous days do; with a 4 a.m. alarm.
The day before we had hiked up to Lake Wedgemont, suffering our way up the thousand meters of elevation in the late afternoon heat. By the time we got up to the lake, it had started to cool down but a swim was still in order. This left my hair wet overnight and made me severely regret my decision to only bring a thermal liner to sleep in.
In all my clothes curled up into a ball my hair still managed to keep me cold and keep deep sleep always a step too far. Matt was comfortably stretched out in a sleeping bag next to me oblivious of my discomfort.
By the time the alarm went off, I was ready to get up and go but Matt offered to make breakfast while I wiggled into his pre-warmed sleeping bag to heat up a little.
A coffee, some sad undercooked porridge, and inevitable day-bag-packing-faff later we started our hike up towards the scree slopes of Mt Cook. (Not the New Zealand one)
Our plan was to do a route known as the Armchair traverse. Up Cook, along an exposed ridge, up an unnamed peak, along another exposed ridge, up Mt Weart, and then back down the southeast ridge and into the valley to collect our camping gear and walk out.
As you might have concluded - this didn’t go quite to plan.
It took us an hour and a half to get up to the first false peak of Cook. We had started early to avoid the heat and to give us lots of daylight to do the more difficult climbing. This meant we got to watch the colors change on the mountains behind us as we took breaks from our slog up the scree.
From the false peak, we descended a small ridge to pass between two small patches of ice on either side and around the bottom of a steep bluff. I gave Matt some room to mitigate the rockfall hazard and followed him.
This was my first introduction to the type of loose rock we would find for the next few hours. I’d barely pulled myself up the first few meters of our climb back onto the ridge when a large boulder that had seemed stable slipped out from under my feet. I threw my body around to dig my heels in and grabbed onto the solid bluff next to me escaping the ordeal without a tumble.
“I'm fine” I called out to Matt. Letting him know the rock fall hadn’t taken me with it.
I ran my hands under my legs where I knew I’d grazed the rocks to make sure I was indeed okay. My hands came up blood-free. I took a breath and kept moving up the hill.
Shit happens. I’m okay. I’m just going to have to be more careful and test my hold more thoroughly from here.
Less than 30 seconds later Matt calls out. ‘Rock!’
I see a rock more than twice the size of my head come bouncing down towards me. I’m about to lunge to the right and take a tumble down the hill to avoid it when it stops a few meters above me.
I very carefully continue climbing up and over the rock that's been stopped by a few other big but unstable-looking chunks.
“Fuck that was a bit scary” Nothing better to do than keep moving and make sure it doesn’t happen again. We discuss making sure our following distances are safer from here and continue up to the summit.
 |
| Our first view of the mountains after our hike up from the carpark |
The views are absolutely stunning. We can see all the way up the Wedge Glacier. Into the lake and to two smaller more gray-green lakes that are feeding the larger one. We can see how the colors of the smaller lakes are mixing into the larger one and where the lake drops off the edge into several hundred vertical meters of waterfalls flowing down into the valley.
We can see over to Mt Whistler and a peak of Blackcomb hiding behind Reffel.
And that's just one side of the ridge. Mountains and glaciers I have spent all season looking at, ridges I’ve only ever seen from one angle in a distance. It is a pretty special place.
 |
| Looking over lake Wedge |
I briefly consider turning around here. I’m feeling a little apprehension about the climb ahead. I know it is going to be exposed and scary. But from all the research I’ve done, all the blogs I’ve read, and the people I’ve talked to, I have no reason to believe it is not comfortably within my ability. I have energy, my brain is switched on, we have lots of food, water, and daylight, and we feel prepared.
So we continue. It’s at this point I decide I’m completely committed. This was my first mistake, but I didn’t realize it until much later.
We start our descent from Cook. It’s a short walk down some easy scree on a fairly wide section of ridge. It is stunning. One of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been.
It’s at the bottom of this ridge and the beginning of the climbing where the adrenaline really starts to kick in and my memory gets a little more hazy.
There's a bunch of easy but somewhat exposed climbing. The glacier on our left has risen up to meet us as the scree slopes on our right fall away into oblivion and down into the glacier below. It’s the first view I really get of Armchair from above after looking up at it all season from the river I’ve been rafting every day.
There are a few pools of water at the top of the glacier next to the ridge and the water is unbelievably blue. If it wasn't chilly in the wind on the ridge I would have seriously considered sticking at least my feet in.
While I was expecting exposed climbing I wasn’t expecting the super loose rock.
It’s one thing climbing easy no fall moves, it’s entirely another ball game when you have to test each hold, and when the fear demon keeps telling you your next hold may break.
We get to the end of our first ridge and approach the start of the climb up to the unnamed peak. Or as I like to tell my rafting clients - the left cat ear, because of how the points give the glacier a cat-like look.
The ridge is scary as fuck. An easy but unbelievably exposed climb up a low-angled arete. I can see a gully to the right that looks a little friendlier and I tell Matt I’d like to explore all other options before taking the arete climb. And that I would consider turning around if we can’t take an easier route.
 |
| The scary as fuck ridge in question |
Matt probes a line up the right side of the gully and declares it a no-go. I walk further up and talk him through a down climb and traverse to where we can meet up below a set of ledges. Matt goes first while I shelter out of the way of any falling rocks. This is where we made our second mistake. But, like the first one, I didn't identify it until way later.
Once Matt calls the all-clear I start the climb up.
In the way I think about fear there are several stages to it. The first is nerves, that feeling in your tummy that can be hard to distinguish from excitement. The second stage is the one that, with training, dials me in until I am completely focused and absorbed in my environment. I can feel everything, see everything. Everything slows down and I have more control than at any other point in my life. I love this feeling. Just out of my comfort zone but not all the way into freak out.
Then comes the third stage. This is when you’ve pushed it a little too far. The blinders start to come on and instead of dialing me, it starts to make me dissociate slightly. When I need to be more focused than ever my brain is too overwhelmed and can’t handle it. When I need to be more focused than ever, the clarity I rely on is unreachable.
The first half of the ledgy climb is okay, I have to move some rocks out of the way for my feet but the ledges themselves are solid.
When I get to the top we’re perched on a small ledge under an easy slab climb. It wouldn’t be harder than a 13 or 14 (5.5 or 5.6) and looking at it I know I can do it easily. Even in my approach shoes.
By this point, I’ve gotten really practiced at not looking down past my feet. While the exposure sits behind me like a hungry monster I refuse to look. I’m drawing black boxes in my vision to hide the things that are unhelpful to look at - a trick I learned from kayaking. This way I can still look at my foot placement without looking past it down the slope.
Unlike in kayaking, where I would usually look, make a risk assessment, then draw my box, making a risk assessment is pointless because if I was anywhere else this would be a hard fuck no but I don’t exactly have a choice.
I know that below me lies, depending on where I fall, a 15m fall into a tumble down the scree, or a 300m fall into the glacier. But the down climb seems even less safe and we convince ourselves it’s going to get easier. It’s just that we lost the route and ended up too far from the ridge. So long as we’re careful, it won't happen again.
For the first bit of the climb, I still had my bear spray clipped to the front of my pack straps but before Matt pulls my back up I place it inside the pack so I’ll be able to get my body closer to the wall.
Matt goes first and throws down a rope to pull my pack up. I set myself up for the climb.
I visualize my route, test my starting holds. The first move is the hardest, I need to stand up on a slopey foothold to reach up for a good jug. I take a few deep breaths to try to zone in and go for it. Once I’m on the wall I am committed and with a few words of encouragement from Matt I find myself linking several easy moves together until I’m standing next to him.
He passes my pack back telling me I’ve done a great job. I push my pack ahead of me. Too afraid to try to put it on until I’m less exposed. I wiggle my way up the loose rocks moving my pack ahead until we reach a flatter section on top of the ridge.
I sit down on the rocks in desperate need of a brain break after being so scared and switched on. Matt has a snack and a drink of water. My sympathetic nervous system is so wired I feel like I’m going to throw up the samosa I ate at the top of Cook. I’ve lost my appetite being in flight or fight before but never to the point I couldn’t even manage a sip of water.
After a few minutes, we decide it’s best to just keep moving, slowly and carefully.
At this point, I’ve stopped looking at the view. I know it’s stunning but it’s just going to remind me of how exposed we are.
We keep making our way along the ridge, route-finding as we go. Checking every hand and foot placement. Placing one foot in front of the other. The fear demon, still whispering that my feet might just fall out from under me. Telling me that I might fall and die. Asking me what my mum would think of what I was doing. Of what Matt would tell my boyfriend if I didn’t make it back. While some of the climbing was still in that fun level of fear, more and more I felt myself slipping into the too-scared realm.
We got to another easy slab. This one with a very good horizontal crack we could get our feet all the way into but with no good hands. Matt wiggled across it and down to a series of good holds he used to get himself up onto the ridge. I followed suit, needing to stop and take some deep breaths once I’d pulled myself onto the problem.
Matt kept encouraging me to keep moving and I knew that was the only option. I slowly and carefully wiggled my feet along the crack, feeling for anything to get my hands on and finding a few small emotional support crimps to hold onto trying not to think about the drop into the glacier below me. Once I’d made it to the jugs I felt a huge sense of relief. I pulled myself up, move by move, onto the ridge.
From there we continued along the side of the ridge, one foot in front of the other. Crawling along the flat tops, refusing to look down.
 |
| Our view of the lake in the morning |
Some time later I saw Matt pull himself onto a flatter section of scree. “Ah darn, it’s a false summit” he calls down to me. “That’s okay, we kind of saw it coming” I call back and make the last few moves up to the scree slope.
It’s such a huge relief, being more than a step away from oblivion, walking on two feet up to the top of the rise. Unfortunately, it looks like our respite is temporary as the far side drops off steeply again.
I sit down and look at the smoke layer far off in the distance, observing how the tops of some of the taller peaks are poking through the blanket of smog.
“You’re not going to like this Hazel” Matt calls back to me from where he’s busy probing our line.
“Fuck.”
“Okay.”
The tears start to run. Now I’m sitting down, not on an exposed and loose climb, I’m feeling quite safe. The promise of further intense fear and forced control has me wanting to never leave this relatively safe bit of hill.
I start looking around to see if there is anywhere to land a chopper.
Unfortunately, the options are slim. Our section of hill is maybe the size of a large living room, but a steeply angled one, and lacking some structural integrity with all the loose rocks.
I don’t even know if a heli would be able to fly this high. We’re at close to 2500 vertical meters but the wind is fairly light and I know peaks around here get heli-skied so surely. (I later Googled this and discovered most helis can fly up to 6,000 m)
“There is another option” Matt calls up to me.
Absolutely no part of me wants to leave this hill. I just want to go home. To be safe. To know I’m not going to fall to my death or get killed by falling rocks.
At this point, I’m having a medium-sized breakdown. I’ve never needed external help getting out of a situation I’ve put myself in before and it feels like a huge failure. Like I am completely incompetent. I feel like a dumb city kid. But I also really really really don’t want to leave my rock.
I’m normally quite conservative when it comes to risk tolerance. If I’m doing something with unacceptable consequences I need to be completely sure I’m going to get it right. As someone who spends time engaging in ‘extreme sports’ I am comfortable accepting a level of inherent risk. But this is too much for me.
Many of my friends are incredibly skilled class 5 kayakers, and climbers and participate in sports that require high-risk tolerances. I can’t match their tolerance. I am just straight up, less willing to accept such high levels of risk and consequence.
Matt comes back up from his mission.
“There are two options. The first one, we can use the rope and get you down a small drop onto some good foot holds into a downclimb. The other option is more exposed but a bit easier. You’ll need to make a traverse along the side. There are good foot holds but the hands are a little loose and it is more exposed.”
I sit there for a minute contemplating my options while Matt patiently waits for me.
“Honestly, at this point, I think I’d rather just pay for a helicopter and get off this ridge.”
“Really? Does your insurance cover that?”
“No idea, maybe. But I’d rather be in debt than dead.”
“Okay. That’s okay. You wouldn’t think about trying to backtrack?”
I had considered it, but with how scared I’d been going up, there was no way I wanted to downclimb the shit I’d just come up. I would have less control over how heavily I was weighting my holds. The idea of trying to downclimb the bit we’d pulled my pack up was too much. Same with the slab climb.
“Nope. That seems almost as scary as continuing. And to be honest, the level of risk is way too high for me.”
“Okay, that's fine with me. How do we go about getting help?”
We sit down just below the ridge, trying to shelter from the wind.
We turn our phones off flight mode and find we both have three bars of service. While I am familiar with New Zealand SAR I don’t know the ins and outs of SAR in B.C. The first person I call is my boss Vince who has been living and adventuring around Whistler long enough to likely know the ins and outs.
He answers almost straight away, “Hey Hazel, how’s it going?”
“Haha I’m okay, I’ve just got myself in a little bit of a predicament. We’re currently on the armchair traverse and I’m so so out of my depth and I think I might die. What’s the best way to go about getting a heli evac from here?”
“Oh, okay. But are you guys okay?”
“Yeah, we’re totally fine, uninjured, just stuck.”
“Okay, well B.C. rescues are free, you just need to call 911 and then the police will send it on to SAR.”
“Sweet, thanks. We’ll do that.”
“Do you guys have enough food and water? You’re okay otherwise?” - this was a question we would be asked a lot over the next few hours.
“Yup totally fine. We have clothes, shelter, food, and water, and can even make hot drinks and a hot meal. We were prepared, we swear.”
“Okay, stay safe and keep me updated.”
“Will do.”
 |
| Another incredible galcier |
From there we called 911 and were referred to the police where they opened a case file and took our details. The woman in the call center told us we were a lot more prepared than most of the people who called for SAR. Again, I swear, we were prepared. We’re not actually incompetent.
At this stage, we hadn’t even been able to pinpoint where we’d gone so wrong. Neither of us could immediately identify a decision that had led us here or any obvious mistakes we had made.
After taking all our details including our battery percentages, clothing descriptions and coordinates she told us the police would contact us shortly before referring us to SAR and to make sure we kept our phones on.
It is a pretty wild experience being stuck in the alpine, a 9-hour walk from civilization, completely stranded in a dangerous environment but with the ability to update my Facebook status if I had wanted to.
We put on all our warm clothes and built a little rock hollow to shelter us from the wind and curled up ready to wait a few hours. Within 15 minutes or so I got a phone call from the police, a lovely constable who had a few more questions for us, and wanted to make sure we had food and water and we were okay.
We then got a call from SAR wanting to know, you guessed it, more details. Where we were, if we were okay, what gear we had (everything we could possibly need).
| (Left) Attempting to flatten a landing spot (Right) Matt patiently waiting for rescue. |
Several hours later after eating snacks, chatting, and admiring the view we got a text saying a helicopter would be leaving Whistler in the next 20 for us. We were thrilled.
Greg, our SAR rescue coordinator then called us and gave us specific instructions on where to be when the heli came in and what to do if it landed.
Ten minutes later we could hear it coming up the valley, it circled around the far side of Cook before coming to approach our little nub of rock. It circled around several times, clearly struggling with the light wind gusts before hovering over us for a short period and then flying away again.
Goodbye chop chop, we waved it away. As soon as it wasn’t overhead Greg called us to let us know what was happening. We didn’t even have time to be sad about watching our rescue team leave without us before he told us the updated plan.
The heli was going to return to base to get more gear. Then they would fly a heli tech on a long line under the bird, drop him off to us then come pick us up and fly us out hanging underneath.
We had known there was a chance we’d be winched up into the chopper but the idea of being flown out swinging under it had never crossed my mind.
“Okay, sounds good to me.”
To be honest, the fact that this option was waaay less scary than the proposition of continuing along the ridge told me that I had for sure made the right call.
20 minutes later we watch the heli come up from the valley with a man in a bright yellow jacket hanging underneath. We wave at him as he gets close and he waves back. It takes several passes for them to get close enough and stable enough to carefully lower him onto our rock patch.
The man walks up to us and introduces himself as Drew. He gives us some harnesses to put on and a helmet to Matt, I’ve already got one on.
The chopper returns. Drew is sitting between Matt and I on the ground and the pilot manages to drop the longline directly into Drew's outstretched hand. Absolutely the most impressive piece of flying I’ve ever seen.
Drew clips himself in and we get lifted off our patch of rock. Goodbye patch of rock, I don’t think I’ll miss you too much.
I open my eyes and look down to get the most stunning view of the glacier below us before we accelerate and I have to close my eyes to stop the wind tearing my eyelids back.
Less than two minutes later a ride was way smoother than anticipated we were touching down on the valley floor, people coming in to unclip us from Drew and directing us away from where the heli is now landing.
The flurry of activity and people is quite the contrast from the quiet we had become accustomed to on the ridge.
It is way warmer in the valley than it had been on the ridge and Matt and I both de-layer in the humid warmth.
Less than 15 minutes later we’re all back at the bottom of the valley at the heli base getting a lift back to Matt's truck that's still parked at the trailhead.
We got lucky. While we were well prepared and only made a few small mistakes many elements out of our control could have easily made this experience a lot more traumatic. If it had been even slightly more windy on the ridge it is unlikely they would have been able to long line us out which would have led to a much longer rescue.
While I would have gone into debt to pay for the rescue I am so grateful to not be thousands of dollars in the red. Thank you, BC.
I want to say a huge thank you to Whistler Search and Rescue. I was incredibly impressed by the speed of response, the professionalism, and how skilled they all were. Without those guys and gals, we would have ended up in a way worse situation.
Additional thanks to the Whistler police, in particular the constable I dealt with - maybe Luke? - he stayed in contact with us throughout to make sure we were getting the help we needed and even gave us a ride back to the truck. Bloody legend.
Thanks to Vince for staying in touch and making sure we were okay. And an absolutely massive thanks to Matt for being cool, calm, and collected, pulling me through some hard sections of climbing, and for fully supporting my call to pull the pin. I couldn’t have asked for a better climbing partner.
 |
| AHHH so PRETTY |
While at the time we couldn’t quite pinpoint where we had gone so terribly wrong, with some reflection we have had some important learnings.
Learning number one: Beta
Based on the information I had I felt the route was within my abilities. While I had done research on the route most of the beta I got was from people who have spent more time in the alpine, who have generally higher risk tolerances than me. In future when looking for beta I am going to ask the ‘how does this compare’ question. Even if the route people find comparison in isn’t one I’ve done I will be able to research the other route and see if the descriptions match up.
I will also compare my level of experience to their level of experience. Using this knowledge combined with information on how they found the route I will be better able to assess what the route will likely look like to me.
Learning number two: perceived vs real commitment.
‘Perceived vs real’ is a concept most people are familiar with from risk assessment, but I never considered applying it to commitment.
The concept of commitment is mentioned in the human heuristic risk factors. While used in avalanche awareness, these generally apply to most outdoor pursuits. The idea is that being committed, in whatever way that may be, can cause flawed decision-making. This was absolutely the case here.
In my head, I was fully committed from the top of Cook, in reality, I was actually physically committed a few kilometers further into the ridge. What we should have done, when we reached the point of physical commitment, was re-assess whether we should be continuing.
At that point, I was already quite scared, and if I had stopped to think: ‘This bit here is likely representative of the rest of the route. If I am not totally confident, this would be a good place to consider turning around’ Our day might have ended quite differently.
In future, I will be making an active effort to check the HHRFs in play to help prevent them from impairing our decision-making as a part of counting my lemons.
This experience hasn’t deterred me from further adventures, but it has taught me some very valuable lessons to take with me into my future exploration.
Comments
Post a Comment