One More Ridge

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The road ended where it usually does in May: not at the trailhead, but at a wall of old avalanche debris a few kilometres short of it. Skis went on packs. Running shoes found every puddle. The first hour was the ordinary tax paid for a quiet basin.

By the time we reached continuous snow, the valley had narrowed and the day had opened above us. The route was not complicated. Follow the creek, gain the bench, and keep choosing the next ridge until there were no more ridges left to choose.

The long middle

Most mountain days are made in the middle: after the early excitement has worn off and before the summit feels certain. The skintrack crosses sun cups. Water runs somewhere under the snow. Conversation thins to the occasional practical sentence.

That is where the place begins to register. A cornice broken cleanly away from a lee slope. Granite warming in the sun. The blue layers of the Coast disappearing westward.

We turned below the final summit block. The snow was softening quickly and the line we came for was already tilting toward afternoon. It was an easy decision, followed by several thousand feet of excellent consolation.

Back at the road, the carries felt shorter than they had in the morning. They always do.