Sunday, September 23, 2007
Pocaterra Ridge
The original objective was Mount Rae, and skys were reasonably clear as I made my way down 16th Avenue toward the west edge of the city. It was a bit of a surprise to see how white the western horizon was as I crested that first hill of the TransCanada at the edge of the city. And how it was draped in a dark grey mantle.
Just past the highway 22 junction, it was obvious even Moose Mountain, far in front of the front range, had been visited by the snow faeries. I wondered what I was going to find in the Highwood Pass.
The drive on the TransCanada was mostly in clear, with grey cloud reaching not too far from the highway 40 overpass. Down the Kananaskis valley, the grey got greyer and thicker, though not much lower. I could see the top of Mounts Baldy and Kidd easily enough, with rain beginning around the Kananaskis Village turnoff.
Driving past The Wedge, I looked for The Fortress, thinking that if Mount Rae was a wash, I might use Gusty Peak (right beside The Fortress) as an alternate. But it was engulfed in cloud. And the ceiling started to get lower the farther south I went.
Nearing the turnoff to the Kananaskis Lakes, the rain turned to snow, wet and sticky, thickening with each kilometre. And it got darker. And colder. Eventually the snow dried out, brushing the windshield rather than splatting on it. And it was piling up on the highway.
I reached the parking lot at the Highwood Pass in a full blizzard. A brisk wind from the south drove the snow, which began to stick again. What to do?
I'm chicken when it comes to weather. I have a fear of underestimating its severity, or overestimating my ability to cope and find my way back. But I was reluctant to call it a day.
I got out, all layers on, and walked the interpretive trail. About half a kilometre long, it's well marked, partly boardwalk, and partly sheltered in places. It took about ten minutes, and the snow was sticking to my jacket. I retraced my steps back to the car and munched some trail mix.
Another couple drove up, added a few layers, shouldered backpacks and headed down the trail. The snow was beginning to let up, and I could actually see a fair way up the slope of the Highwood Ridge, and even most of Little Arethusa, across the highway. Even the grey was lightening considerably.
I decided I would head up to Ptarmigan Cirque, and see what I could. I figured the trail through the forest would stay navigable, so I wouldn't be lost in a whiteout. And if the cirque was buried or obscured, I could just go back. I'd still get a hundred metre climb, if nothing else.
By the time I broke out of the trees, the snow had stopped, and the sun was actually threatening to break through. The snow was less than ankle deep, and the well traveled trail was obvious. Ok, once around the cirque, and if the weather stayed tame, I could make a dash up to the headwall and have a look around the corner to see what it looked like.
I should explain. Ptarmigan Cirque is backed by a huge headwall, behind which a huge pit holds the snow that feeds the creek that flows down toward the highway. Just past the headwall the amphitheatre opens toward the north, a long broad scree slope up to the ridge that eventually least to the summit of Mount Rae. I wanted to go far enough in to at least have a look at that slope.
Judging by the snow that was there, it probably wouldn't be much fun, and with the threat of more I wasn't about to risk getting lost in whiteout up there. But I climbed the trail that leads up the left of the headwall, glancing nervously over my shoulder at the cloud darkening behind the ridge across the valley.
Just past the headwall, but before I got far enough around the bend to check out the scree, I glanced behind to see a whoosh of snow running up the slope toward me. The gust of wind was strong enough that I need to steady myself against it on the rubble. And while the drifting snow wasn't nearly a whiteout, I felt it was enough of a warning. That, and the ridge across the way had disappeared. I headed back down.
It was snowing by the time I got back to the regular loop, and I continued around the cirque, back to the forest at the downslope. It never really got that bad, but like I say, I'm a chicken over the mountain weather.
I walked down through the forest, and at the highway, waited for a couple of massive fifth-wheel campers with Texas plates to go by before crossing back to the parking lot. Just past where the trail joined the boardwalk, a path lead off through the meadow, with the fresh tracks of a least a dozen hikers. There being at least an hour of morning left, and me still wanting adventure, I turned to follow.
The trail was a narrow groove in the meadow, and ran nearly straight, past a couple of sink holes, and a massive boulder, before taking a hard left and plunging into forest. This was a narrow, nearly overgrown path, more claustophobic than any I've taken. Yet it obviously was well used.
Within minutes, I was picking my way across near swamp. Water and muck were everywhere, and I kept to the edges as much as possible. In places I stepped quickly across runny mud, hoping the water wouldn't seep into my hikers if I moved fast enough. Mostly I was successful.
The trail wound through forest, for the most part, growing close as a sausage skin. And suddenly popping out in meadow at the edge of a beautiful cirque cradled by the col that bridges the north ends of the Highwood Ridge and Grizzly Ridge (according to my map). I picked my way across the rubble field and scrub forest, passing a tiny lake at the edge of the trees.
WAlking through more scrub forest, climbing a little, dropping a little, I crossed another rubble pile into Pocaterra Cirque. Dark green pine and bright yellow larch everywhere, golden grass spearing through snow, the trail meandered along the bottom of the scree slope from the rock bands above.
I caught up to a foursome where the trail split. To the left, it climbed scree to Grizzly Col, which the foursome were about to head out on. At this point, I still had no idea where the trail lead, so I asked. And they pointed out a pair of hikers climbing the ridge across the cirque, passing another pair descending.
I continued along the trail through the cirque, after bidding them good luck. While the sun was actually shining a little, heavy dark cloud was trying to crawl over the ridge above. Grizzly Col looked a little like the entrance to a massive cave, it was so dark.
The trail continued around the base of Mount Trywhitt, with it's unique arch, and clambered over rock fall peppered with huge boulders and glowing larch. Snow came and went, as did the sun.
I found myself following tracks of those ahead of me. They lead along side the slope that climbed to the ridge, that I would eventually have to get on top of. I walked along scree along side Mount Pocaterra toward a col called the Little Highwood Pass, until the footprints turned right and up to the ridge.
From here footprints consolidated into a single path that wandered up to the summit. I met a couple on their way down and chatted for a bit. And then I continued up. I was still a little nervous about weather. Across the cirque, I could see the foursome near the top of Grizzly Col, below an incredible darkness on the other side. All the while I was climbing, a wispy snowfall flipped lightly around. The wind was barely a breath.
A cairn waited for me at the top, and I walked past it down the ridge a ways. Too much snow for me to go very far, but the trail was obvious. Something for next season. I dug a lunch out of my bag. And the sun came out.
In my climbing and hiking, there are occasionally moments, when emotion rises, and I am completely overcome by the magic of the place I am in. This was one of those moments. The thin lines of white were the snow hung on the rockbands of Tyrwhitt and Pocaterra, the gold of the larch in the cirque below, the heavy grey of the cloud across the ridge, it felt too much to witness. Across the valley Ptarmigan Cirque and its walls, Mounts Arethusa and Rae. The long narrow and barren valley hidden from the highway by the ridge I was on. I just stood there, and, well, experienced it.
Eventually, some cloud moved in, I finished lunch and started down. From this point, the sun never really left, and the snow was thinning in the meadows. The trail was a little soupy in spots, and in the forest, snow melting in the trees became a constant rain, occasionally dripping down the back of my jacket. The swamp was no worse for the melting, and I was back in the parking lot by mid afternoon.
This hike wasn't a huge acheivement, or a new personal best in altitude or even all that strenuous. But that moment of sunshine will surely make it one of the most memorable.
Pocaterra Ridge
Starting elevation: 2204 m (7231 feet).
Highest elevation: 2684 m (8806 feet).
Lowest elevation: 2195 m (7201 feet).
Elevation gain: 480 m (1575 feet).
Distance: 13.5 km (8.4 mi).
Time: 5:09.
Just past the highway 22 junction, it was obvious even Moose Mountain, far in front of the front range, had been visited by the snow faeries. I wondered what I was going to find in the Highwood Pass.
The drive on the TransCanada was mostly in clear, with grey cloud reaching not too far from the highway 40 overpass. Down the Kananaskis valley, the grey got greyer and thicker, though not much lower. I could see the top of Mounts Baldy and Kidd easily enough, with rain beginning around the Kananaskis Village turnoff.
Driving past The Wedge, I looked for The Fortress, thinking that if Mount Rae was a wash, I might use Gusty Peak (right beside The Fortress) as an alternate. But it was engulfed in cloud. And the ceiling started to get lower the farther south I went.
Nearing the turnoff to the Kananaskis Lakes, the rain turned to snow, wet and sticky, thickening with each kilometre. And it got darker. And colder. Eventually the snow dried out, brushing the windshield rather than splatting on it. And it was piling up on the highway.
I reached the parking lot at the Highwood Pass in a full blizzard. A brisk wind from the south drove the snow, which began to stick again. What to do?
I'm chicken when it comes to weather. I have a fear of underestimating its severity, or overestimating my ability to cope and find my way back. But I was reluctant to call it a day.
I got out, all layers on, and walked the interpretive trail. About half a kilometre long, it's well marked, partly boardwalk, and partly sheltered in places. It took about ten minutes, and the snow was sticking to my jacket. I retraced my steps back to the car and munched some trail mix.
Another couple drove up, added a few layers, shouldered backpacks and headed down the trail. The snow was beginning to let up, and I could actually see a fair way up the slope of the Highwood Ridge, and even most of Little Arethusa, across the highway. Even the grey was lightening considerably.
I decided I would head up to Ptarmigan Cirque, and see what I could. I figured the trail through the forest would stay navigable, so I wouldn't be lost in a whiteout. And if the cirque was buried or obscured, I could just go back. I'd still get a hundred metre climb, if nothing else.
By the time I broke out of the trees, the snow had stopped, and the sun was actually threatening to break through. The snow was less than ankle deep, and the well traveled trail was obvious. Ok, once around the cirque, and if the weather stayed tame, I could make a dash up to the headwall and have a look around the corner to see what it looked like.
I should explain. Ptarmigan Cirque is backed by a huge headwall, behind which a huge pit holds the snow that feeds the creek that flows down toward the highway. Just past the headwall the amphitheatre opens toward the north, a long broad scree slope up to the ridge that eventually least to the summit of Mount Rae. I wanted to go far enough in to at least have a look at that slope.
Judging by the snow that was there, it probably wouldn't be much fun, and with the threat of more I wasn't about to risk getting lost in whiteout up there. But I climbed the trail that leads up the left of the headwall, glancing nervously over my shoulder at the cloud darkening behind the ridge across the valley.
Just past the headwall, but before I got far enough around the bend to check out the scree, I glanced behind to see a whoosh of snow running up the slope toward me. The gust of wind was strong enough that I need to steady myself against it on the rubble. And while the drifting snow wasn't nearly a whiteout, I felt it was enough of a warning. That, and the ridge across the way had disappeared. I headed back down.
It was snowing by the time I got back to the regular loop, and I continued around the cirque, back to the forest at the downslope. It never really got that bad, but like I say, I'm a chicken over the mountain weather.
I walked down through the forest, and at the highway, waited for a couple of massive fifth-wheel campers with Texas plates to go by before crossing back to the parking lot. Just past where the trail joined the boardwalk, a path lead off through the meadow, with the fresh tracks of a least a dozen hikers. There being at least an hour of morning left, and me still wanting adventure, I turned to follow.
The trail was a narrow groove in the meadow, and ran nearly straight, past a couple of sink holes, and a massive boulder, before taking a hard left and plunging into forest. This was a narrow, nearly overgrown path, more claustophobic than any I've taken. Yet it obviously was well used.
Within minutes, I was picking my way across near swamp. Water and muck were everywhere, and I kept to the edges as much as possible. In places I stepped quickly across runny mud, hoping the water wouldn't seep into my hikers if I moved fast enough. Mostly I was successful.
The trail wound through forest, for the most part, growing close as a sausage skin. And suddenly popping out in meadow at the edge of a beautiful cirque cradled by the col that bridges the north ends of the Highwood Ridge and Grizzly Ridge (according to my map). I picked my way across the rubble field and scrub forest, passing a tiny lake at the edge of the trees.
WAlking through more scrub forest, climbing a little, dropping a little, I crossed another rubble pile into Pocaterra Cirque. Dark green pine and bright yellow larch everywhere, golden grass spearing through snow, the trail meandered along the bottom of the scree slope from the rock bands above.
I caught up to a foursome where the trail split. To the left, it climbed scree to Grizzly Col, which the foursome were about to head out on. At this point, I still had no idea where the trail lead, so I asked. And they pointed out a pair of hikers climbing the ridge across the cirque, passing another pair descending.
I continued along the trail through the cirque, after bidding them good luck. While the sun was actually shining a little, heavy dark cloud was trying to crawl over the ridge above. Grizzly Col looked a little like the entrance to a massive cave, it was so dark.
The trail continued around the base of Mount Trywhitt, with it's unique arch, and clambered over rock fall peppered with huge boulders and glowing larch. Snow came and went, as did the sun.
I found myself following tracks of those ahead of me. They lead along side the slope that climbed to the ridge, that I would eventually have to get on top of. I walked along scree along side Mount Pocaterra toward a col called the Little Highwood Pass, until the footprints turned right and up to the ridge.
From here footprints consolidated into a single path that wandered up to the summit. I met a couple on their way down and chatted for a bit. And then I continued up. I was still a little nervous about weather. Across the cirque, I could see the foursome near the top of Grizzly Col, below an incredible darkness on the other side. All the while I was climbing, a wispy snowfall flipped lightly around. The wind was barely a breath.
A cairn waited for me at the top, and I walked past it down the ridge a ways. Too much snow for me to go very far, but the trail was obvious. Something for next season. I dug a lunch out of my bag. And the sun came out.
In my climbing and hiking, there are occasionally moments, when emotion rises, and I am completely overcome by the magic of the place I am in. This was one of those moments. The thin lines of white were the snow hung on the rockbands of Tyrwhitt and Pocaterra, the gold of the larch in the cirque below, the heavy grey of the cloud across the ridge, it felt too much to witness. Across the valley Ptarmigan Cirque and its walls, Mounts Arethusa and Rae. The long narrow and barren valley hidden from the highway by the ridge I was on. I just stood there, and, well, experienced it.
Eventually, some cloud moved in, I finished lunch and started down. From this point, the sun never really left, and the snow was thinning in the meadows. The trail was a little soupy in spots, and in the forest, snow melting in the trees became a constant rain, occasionally dripping down the back of my jacket. The swamp was no worse for the melting, and I was back in the parking lot by mid afternoon.
This hike wasn't a huge acheivement, or a new personal best in altitude or even all that strenuous. But that moment of sunshine will surely make it one of the most memorable.
Pocaterra Ridge
Starting elevation: 2204 m (7231 feet).
Highest elevation: 2684 m (8806 feet).
Lowest elevation: 2195 m (7201 feet).
Elevation gain: 480 m (1575 feet).
Distance: 13.5 km (8.4 mi).
Time: 5:09.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
The Fortress
I'd only ever really seen this one from highway 40 on the east side, or long ago, from the Fortress Mountain ski resort at the base of its imposing face. It looks utterly inaccessible from the north or east.
I got a reasonably early start on a clear, cloudless morning. I had been watching the western horizon throughout the week for new snow, and while there had been some a couple of days before, much of it was gone the weekend. Obvious during the drive out was the encroachment of autumn. The slopes of the Opal Range on the east side of the Kananaskis Valley are covered in fall colours now. It seems too early for that, yet.
After a dusty drive up the Smith-Dorrien Spray Trail, I pulled into the Chester Lake parking lot behind a half dozen early arrivals. The sun hadn't quite risen above Mount Chester, and the air had an autumn chill. Across the highway, the valley to Burstall Pass was unobscured by any haze. The air was remarkably clear.
I set out along the wide ski trails that lead back into the forest and southward below Mount Chester. The plan was to hike to the Headwall Lakes to the east, then up to The Fortress. I wanted to return by Chester Lake. Basically, a loop around Mount Chester.
After three and a half kilometres of ski trails, I crossed a bridge over Headwall Creek, and stopped to switch from jacket to light fleece, while a couple of hikers passed. Five minutes later, I caught up with them again at a small inconspicous cairn on the side of the ski trail, marking a narrow inconspicuous trail into the forest.
This is one of the most charming forest trails I've traveled. Narrow and winding, but not at all claustrophobic, the forest is open enough, yet the trees seem to grow close.
The trail quickly joins Headwall Creek, and follows it to an overgrown meadow. It winds through thick bush, never letting you see too far ahead, but giving completely unobstructed views of the ridges on either side. The bush gave way to open forest and in front of me, the first headwall.
It rose a hundred metres and was covered in loose forest, it's blobby, pillowy texture showing it's volcanic origins. A waterfall skittered down the middle, and the trail climbed beside it, switching in and out of the trees.
At the top of the headwall there was no sign of the creek. The trail split, left through stunted, open forest, or right along the edge of it. I stayed right. Past the trees and another climb of thirty metres or so, and I was at the first lake.
The trail went left, then petered out. The left side of the lake was a hump of scree, that looked barely possible to cross. The right side was a scree slope, more manageable, but farther on it looked a little steep. A quick snack and I went right. Once on the scree, the trail was obvious, and it seemed like there was a cairn marking the way, every hundred metres or so.
Past the lake, meadow alternated with rock fall for a short distance to the next headwall. It was smaller than the first and lightly covered with ground hugging vegetation. It was quick climb to the second lake. The trail went right again, and I was quickly into the broad, flat, soggy meadow behind it.
The trail quickly disappeared in the springy muskeg. It wasn't a problem, though. The mossy carpet lay thinly over rock, so even the most goopy looking quagmires were really only a thin layer of mud on rock. It was very easy walking.
A long walk ended with the valley rising on broken rock bands toward the peak of The Fortress. The idea was to climb to the col on the left between Mount Chester and The Fortress, and I could see people up there, who had come up the Chester Lake side. Another col to the right separated The Fortress from the ridge on the east side of the valley.
I'd lost the trail back at the second lake, and wasn't sure how to proceed. There looked to be a trail across the upper reaches of the rock bands to the left hand col. The scree leading up to the right hand col also looked like there might be a trail up it toward that traversing path. The direct route up to the left hand col looked steep and seemed to have to wind around an outcrop.
I gott get a better grip on my perceptions of this terrain. It's hard to judge the way, and for some reason, I tend to avoid scree slopes. I climbed the rock bands, trying to find some indication of a trail either left or right. On the right it was soon obvious there was none. Nothing to the right either, but as I climbed I could see the scree slope was actually quite gentle.
The rock bands were quite easy to climb - quite fun, actually. I checked for evidence of a trail constantly, especially on the scree to the left col, but could see nothing, and I was soon too high for an easy traverse to it. Rock bands cut across the distance between.
Eventually it got steeper to climb, and what had looked like a trail traversing to the left col from below, became invisible as I got close. I could not go much farther upward, and I was even with col now anyway. The traverse looked not too bad. It was all scree, but below it was slab which ended in a drop off. I started across.
It wasn't bad at all. I did have to descend forty metres or so at one point to get around slab, but with the poles it was an easy, if moderately exciting traverse. At the end, I was just ten metres below the col.
I climbed up and stopped for a snack, watching a trio ascend the scree from the other side. The first on up stopped and chatted a while, while his companions immediately started up the last three hundred metres to the summit. I shouldered my pack and we started up after them.
This was easy climbing, a little steep, but a well trod trail switch-backed up the ridge. It was thirty minutes to the top. Half way up, I found it came within a metre of the cliff overlooking that right hand col, perhaps two hundred metres below. Across the col, the chalet and other buildings of the Fortress Mountain ski resort spread out below.
At the summit block, the trial skirted to the right, and a quick, easy climb up a notch lead to the top. One of the trio had sprinted up, and called down to the rest of us. We climbed up to discover a party of perhaps a dozen climbers just about to make their way down. It was a busy place.
The top sloped up to an edge that dropped completely out of sight. I eventually summoned the courage to belly up to the edge to have a look, but it seemed very nearly vertical.
Another spectacular view. To the south, we looked down on Mount Chester, still high enough to hide the several glaciers far across the valley. We could just see the edge of Roberston Glacier. Just beside us to the northwest was Gusty Peak, and behind it, Mount Galatea. I managed to pick out the broad summit block of Mount Sparrowhawk, slightly west of north. Northeast was the great flat open area of the Evan Thomas Recreation Area, northward from The Wedge. Just around the shoulder of Mount Kidd, I could see the scars of the Kananaskis golf course.
On Mount Kidd, it was easy to spot the avalanche slope that I'd climbed the week before, the cirque I'd traversed, and the gully I'd descended. Just to the left of that, obvious from this vantage, was Guinn's Pass. Directly south was that massive peak I wondered about from Sparrowhawk a couple of weeks ago, that I now know is Mount Joffre, at almost 3500 metres. And of course, to the west was Assiniboine.
I hunkered down with the trio behind a small wind barrier that had been built, and chatted about past hikes and scrambles. I ate the lunch I'd brought and watched as a huge pall rose directly behind Assiniboine. Perhaps a forest fire south of Lake Louise?
I started down. I met several other hikers on their way up, and stopped to chat with a couple. At the col, I went west to complete the loop I'd started. Loose scree made it easy to descend, and I ran down most of it. Near the bottom it thinned to hard pan, but it was relatively painless to cover that. The trekking poles made it easy.
I walked through several potholes, nothing but mud at the their bottoms, and copious cairns marked the way (where were those in the other valley?) I clambered through those, and over the ridges between, before coming to a meadow with the beginnings of forest.
Larch and pine spotted the landscape. The larch is starting to turn to it's billiant yellow fall colours. I came startlingly quickly to the top of a headwall. The trail lead down its face into the forest that lay between me and Chester Lake.
After that it was through the forest, skirt Chester Lake, and a long walk to the ski trails which lead to the parking lot.
Here's a fabulous shot of my return path. Gusty Peak is the ridge up the centre of the picture, and the squared off top of The Fortress is to its right. Just off the frame to the right is Mount Chester, and farther right would be the Headwall Lakes. Behind Gusty Peak in the upper left, is Mount Kidd. At the bottom of the picture is Chester Lake. The valley on the right with the three lakes is, of course, Three Lakes Valley.
Something I need to think about after this hike and last week's adventure on Mount Kidd, is not to be afraid of scree. It might be a slow slog sometimes, but it's often the easiest, or even the only, way up.
The Fortress
Starting elevation: 1913 m (6276 feet).
Highest elevation: 3019 m (9905 feet - official summit at 3000 m/9843 feet).
Lowest elevation: 1913 m (6276 feet).
Elevation gain: 1106 m (3629 feet).
Distance: 20.2 km (12.6 mi).
Time: 7:35.
I got a reasonably early start on a clear, cloudless morning. I had been watching the western horizon throughout the week for new snow, and while there had been some a couple of days before, much of it was gone the weekend. Obvious during the drive out was the encroachment of autumn. The slopes of the Opal Range on the east side of the Kananaskis Valley are covered in fall colours now. It seems too early for that, yet.
After a dusty drive up the Smith-Dorrien Spray Trail, I pulled into the Chester Lake parking lot behind a half dozen early arrivals. The sun hadn't quite risen above Mount Chester, and the air had an autumn chill. Across the highway, the valley to Burstall Pass was unobscured by any haze. The air was remarkably clear.
I set out along the wide ski trails that lead back into the forest and southward below Mount Chester. The plan was to hike to the Headwall Lakes to the east, then up to The Fortress. I wanted to return by Chester Lake. Basically, a loop around Mount Chester.
After three and a half kilometres of ski trails, I crossed a bridge over Headwall Creek, and stopped to switch from jacket to light fleece, while a couple of hikers passed. Five minutes later, I caught up with them again at a small inconspicous cairn on the side of the ski trail, marking a narrow inconspicuous trail into the forest.
This is one of the most charming forest trails I've traveled. Narrow and winding, but not at all claustrophobic, the forest is open enough, yet the trees seem to grow close.
The trail quickly joins Headwall Creek, and follows it to an overgrown meadow. It winds through thick bush, never letting you see too far ahead, but giving completely unobstructed views of the ridges on either side. The bush gave way to open forest and in front of me, the first headwall.
It rose a hundred metres and was covered in loose forest, it's blobby, pillowy texture showing it's volcanic origins. A waterfall skittered down the middle, and the trail climbed beside it, switching in and out of the trees.
At the top of the headwall there was no sign of the creek. The trail split, left through stunted, open forest, or right along the edge of it. I stayed right. Past the trees and another climb of thirty metres or so, and I was at the first lake.
The trail went left, then petered out. The left side of the lake was a hump of scree, that looked barely possible to cross. The right side was a scree slope, more manageable, but farther on it looked a little steep. A quick snack and I went right. Once on the scree, the trail was obvious, and it seemed like there was a cairn marking the way, every hundred metres or so.
Past the lake, meadow alternated with rock fall for a short distance to the next headwall. It was smaller than the first and lightly covered with ground hugging vegetation. It was quick climb to the second lake. The trail went right again, and I was quickly into the broad, flat, soggy meadow behind it.
The trail quickly disappeared in the springy muskeg. It wasn't a problem, though. The mossy carpet lay thinly over rock, so even the most goopy looking quagmires were really only a thin layer of mud on rock. It was very easy walking.
A long walk ended with the valley rising on broken rock bands toward the peak of The Fortress. The idea was to climb to the col on the left between Mount Chester and The Fortress, and I could see people up there, who had come up the Chester Lake side. Another col to the right separated The Fortress from the ridge on the east side of the valley.
I'd lost the trail back at the second lake, and wasn't sure how to proceed. There looked to be a trail across the upper reaches of the rock bands to the left hand col. The scree leading up to the right hand col also looked like there might be a trail up it toward that traversing path. The direct route up to the left hand col looked steep and seemed to have to wind around an outcrop.
I gott get a better grip on my perceptions of this terrain. It's hard to judge the way, and for some reason, I tend to avoid scree slopes. I climbed the rock bands, trying to find some indication of a trail either left or right. On the right it was soon obvious there was none. Nothing to the right either, but as I climbed I could see the scree slope was actually quite gentle.
The rock bands were quite easy to climb - quite fun, actually. I checked for evidence of a trail constantly, especially on the scree to the left col, but could see nothing, and I was soon too high for an easy traverse to it. Rock bands cut across the distance between.
Eventually it got steeper to climb, and what had looked like a trail traversing to the left col from below, became invisible as I got close. I could not go much farther upward, and I was even with col now anyway. The traverse looked not too bad. It was all scree, but below it was slab which ended in a drop off. I started across.
It wasn't bad at all. I did have to descend forty metres or so at one point to get around slab, but with the poles it was an easy, if moderately exciting traverse. At the end, I was just ten metres below the col.
I climbed up and stopped for a snack, watching a trio ascend the scree from the other side. The first on up stopped and chatted a while, while his companions immediately started up the last three hundred metres to the summit. I shouldered my pack and we started up after them.
This was easy climbing, a little steep, but a well trod trail switch-backed up the ridge. It was thirty minutes to the top. Half way up, I found it came within a metre of the cliff overlooking that right hand col, perhaps two hundred metres below. Across the col, the chalet and other buildings of the Fortress Mountain ski resort spread out below.
At the summit block, the trial skirted to the right, and a quick, easy climb up a notch lead to the top. One of the trio had sprinted up, and called down to the rest of us. We climbed up to discover a party of perhaps a dozen climbers just about to make their way down. It was a busy place.
The top sloped up to an edge that dropped completely out of sight. I eventually summoned the courage to belly up to the edge to have a look, but it seemed very nearly vertical.
Another spectacular view. To the south, we looked down on Mount Chester, still high enough to hide the several glaciers far across the valley. We could just see the edge of Roberston Glacier. Just beside us to the northwest was Gusty Peak, and behind it, Mount Galatea. I managed to pick out the broad summit block of Mount Sparrowhawk, slightly west of north. Northeast was the great flat open area of the Evan Thomas Recreation Area, northward from The Wedge. Just around the shoulder of Mount Kidd, I could see the scars of the Kananaskis golf course.
On Mount Kidd, it was easy to spot the avalanche slope that I'd climbed the week before, the cirque I'd traversed, and the gully I'd descended. Just to the left of that, obvious from this vantage, was Guinn's Pass. Directly south was that massive peak I wondered about from Sparrowhawk a couple of weeks ago, that I now know is Mount Joffre, at almost 3500 metres. And of course, to the west was Assiniboine.
I hunkered down with the trio behind a small wind barrier that had been built, and chatted about past hikes and scrambles. I ate the lunch I'd brought and watched as a huge pall rose directly behind Assiniboine. Perhaps a forest fire south of Lake Louise?
I started down. I met several other hikers on their way up, and stopped to chat with a couple. At the col, I went west to complete the loop I'd started. Loose scree made it easy to descend, and I ran down most of it. Near the bottom it thinned to hard pan, but it was relatively painless to cover that. The trekking poles made it easy.
I walked through several potholes, nothing but mud at the their bottoms, and copious cairns marked the way (where were those in the other valley?) I clambered through those, and over the ridges between, before coming to a meadow with the beginnings of forest.
Larch and pine spotted the landscape. The larch is starting to turn to it's billiant yellow fall colours. I came startlingly quickly to the top of a headwall. The trail lead down its face into the forest that lay between me and Chester Lake.
After that it was through the forest, skirt Chester Lake, and a long walk to the ski trails which lead to the parking lot.
Here's a fabulous shot of my return path. Gusty Peak is the ridge up the centre of the picture, and the squared off top of The Fortress is to its right. Just off the frame to the right is Mount Chester, and farther right would be the Headwall Lakes. Behind Gusty Peak in the upper left, is Mount Kidd. At the bottom of the picture is Chester Lake. The valley on the right with the three lakes is, of course, Three Lakes Valley.
Something I need to think about after this hike and last week's adventure on Mount Kidd, is not to be afraid of scree. It might be a slow slog sometimes, but it's often the easiest, or even the only, way up.
The Fortress
Starting elevation: 1913 m (6276 feet).
Highest elevation: 3019 m (9905 feet - official summit at 3000 m/9843 feet).
Lowest elevation: 1913 m (6276 feet).
Elevation gain: 1106 m (3629 feet).
Distance: 20.2 km (12.6 mi).
Time: 7:35.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Mount Kidd, South Peak
This one needs a do-over. I didn't get too close, didn't even get to the ridge. But I got an adventure out of it.
The south peak of Mount Kidd is seen as an out-and-back diversion from Guinn's Pass. Craig Copeland had written about it as such, in his article in last Thursday's Calgary Herald. Between that article, and Daisy and I having it on our to-do list, it pretty much chose itself as a destination for this weekend.
Much of the range visible on the drive out had been touched by snow fall the night before. Banded Peak, in the area of Elbow Falls, was easily recognizable as a massive white pyramid with it's black stripe across the snow cover. Curiously, Moose Mountain was still in it's light grey summer colours.
I arrived early at the Galatea parking lot. Daisy and I had hiked this trail earlier this summer, so I was familiar with the first part it. A fog bank hung over the valley, giving the morning a grey, gloomy look.
The trail switches back and forth across the Galatea Creek several times, so the bridge count is high. I began down the long slope to the first one, a suspension bridge over the Kananaskis River beside where Galatea Creek feeds into it. By the time I crossed the third bridge, the sun had broke through the fog bank.
Lots of dripping, too. I imagine the lower elevations got mostly rain the night before, and the humidity was high. The bridges were wet and slippery, as were the rock outcroppings on the trail in the forest.
The Scrambles book mentions a trail just before the seventh bridge, that heads up a broad gully to the ridge from Guinn's Pass to the peak - a short cut of sorts. I counted six bridges, then kept watch for this trail, but soon found myself at the seventh bridge. I dithered about backtracking to find it, or continuing on to Guinn's and working from there. I opted to backtrack.
The Scrambles book drives me crazy, sometimes. The pictures are mostly informative, but sometimes, as in this case, the low contrast black-and-whites hide identifying features. And the descriptions can be pretty sparse, too. Daisy and I discussed our frustration with this, but we concluded that it wasn't a bad thing. Determined scramblers will figure things out, while those who aren't quite so serious are kept from getting themselves into unpleasant situations.
The trail is marked by a small cairn, the book says. It also says it's at the edge of tall pines that give way to stunted poplar. The main trail does pass through an open forest of tall pines, a couple of hundred metres before that seventh bridge. On the third pass, I decided to check out a dodgy looking possibility - a little overgrown, with a few dead logs across it. Three steps in, I almost tripped over the cairn.
All that moisture on the trees, from dew and rain and snow, was dribbling down from the canopy by now. The poplars were every wet, and because the trail was nearly overgrown, by ten metres in I was pretty wet. My fleece and new climbing pants kept me plenty dry, but the hikers were soggy. I was glad for the synthetic socks.
The bush backed off from trail shortly, and I found myself climbing the steep grassy meadow of an old avalanche fall. A couple of rock outcrops made it more interesting, but it was pretty smooth climbing. Eventually the gully widened, and the trail went to the right toward slabby channels beside a ridge.
This was were I ran afoul of the book. It said to stay left, and that's what I should have done. But this trail kept right. Eventually, on the slabs, I reached a point where I could go no further. I slipped at one point, and backslid a couple of metres, banging my elbow.
From this point, I began an internal debate as to whether I should retreat or continue. I felt if I could mount the ridge, all I'd have to do was walk it to the top of Mount Kidd. I backtracked a dozen metres and then started up the side of the ridge. It was mostly dirt and some small outcrops, though the top was a rock band with a couple of notches that looked accessible.
This climb wasn't bad at all. I guess I was experiencing more of that drama that Daisy talked about. Up through a short chimney in the rock band and I was on an easy slope to the top.
Nope. The lesson here is, where you want to go is always on the next ridge. And I topped the ridge to find the one I thought I was on, was actually another kilometre and a half farther on (and up) across a huge bowl of snow covered scree and scrub pine. As I surveyed the bowl, and listened to the occasional clatter of falling rock on the slab far to my right, the question on my mind was, here the heck was the trail from Guinn's Pass?
It looked to be far across the bowl, below a long rock band on top of the ridge to the west, but it was awfully indistinct. I would dearly have welcomed Daisy's take on this. On this side of the bowl, the snow covered scree gave way to snow covered slab, so if I was going to get up there, I was going to have to go way over to the other side to get around that.
It really was beautiful up there. I was traversing a couple of square kilometres of snowy terrain, mostly alpine meadow, and climbing slightly to keep above the scrub pine. It was slippery, but not overly so. And eventually, I was in snow covered scree, which not too much more slippery.
An hour later, maybe half way around the bowl, I was out of the snow and on dry scree. A couple of deep trenches swooped down from above, and curved toward the narrow gully at the bottom of the bowl. From here the indistinct trail below the rock band seemed to pretty much disappear. I climbed down and up the steep sides of the gullys, and decided that maybe I would just continue to Guinn's Pass, descend to Galatea Creek, and call it a day. Another forty minutes and I stood below the rock band, trying to find an invisible trail. Was I even in the right place?
I followed the rock band down and south toward a wide meadow, but the terrain yielded no clues as to where I was relative to Guinn's Pass. I figured it had to be on the other side of this rock band, but the meadow seemed to end abrubtly not too far along. I wasn't sure where to go from here. The pass seemed out of reach, and backtracking would be a long slog. I dropped into another gully that skirted the meadow, and continued downward.
The gully narrowed as it approached forest, and ended abruptly at the edge of a cliff. With fifty metres of straight down, I had to backtrack a little. I reached some much more climbable stuff a couple of hundred metres upslope. Time for lunch.
After scarfing down my lunch, I climbed down the rest of the rock face, then picked my way down a steep moss covered slope through stunted pine to the bottom of the bowl. Rock fall snaked along the narrow gully, and a ridge of hard pack stood out at the side. It did look like it had seen some traffic, so I kept to it.
The gully narrowed even more, to a trench filled with a thick forest of impassible pine. But the rock fall followed beside was a wide clear space of moss and lichen covered rubble. The cliff that generated this field of boulders stood to my right, close and imposing, an eagle circling overhead.
Eventually the rockfall ended and the faintest trail lead through forest at the edge of the trench. The ground was soft and springy from centuries of fallen vegitation. The scent of it, and of the pine permeated the air. The trail crawled along the side of the trench, over and under dead fall. Occasionally I had to stop to figure out the best way through. It never became really thick, though there were some tricky climbs over dead trees on the steep slope of the trench.
Eventually I found myself back on an ancient boulder field. It seemed to spill out of the forest, having formed so long ago that the trees had reclaimed the space upslope. The incredible silence that had been with me almost since I had left the main trial several hours before was finally broken by the sound of running water.
I pulled out the map and munched on some trail mix. My GPS said I was just above nineteen hundred metres. The contours of the map suggested I was very close to Galatea Creek, which the main trail to Lillian Lake hugs closely, and in fact, very close to the junction with Guinn's Pass. So I was very close to getting back on that trail, I thought.
The bottom of the boulder field was again forest, but again, there seemed to be a trail meandering along it's edge to the left, and into the forest and the sound of water to the right.
This was real bushwacking, my first experience of it. I picked my way through springy moss, and over dead trees. Centuries of layers of dead vegetation threatened to swallow my trekking poles, which ofter sunk almost a metre into the ground. Very green and very lush.
I finally pushed through to the creek, not knowing if it was Galatea or a feeder from upslope. I thought about crossing, but heavy deadfall on the opposite bank was in the way of a relatively open slope up to what might possibly have been the main trail. I couldn't tell from below. I began picking my way down the creek, first one side, then the other. A huge tree had fallen along the creek, and I balanced along it until I had to get down on slippery wet rock again. The poles again proved their worth to help steady me as I tip-toed across the water.
On another huge log, I walked along it and discovered in front of me a bridge across the creek. I'd found the trail. It turned out to be the ninth bridge on the trail, not all that far from the Guinn's Pass junction. So close. From here it was solid walking back down the path to the parking lot, maybe an hour and a quarter later.
Even though I didn't make the object, didn't even come close, I really enjoyed this adventure. I learned a lot about how to judge the scale of things - everything's a lot farther away than you think. I learned I could bushwack my way through forest. As for the objective, I think I was on the trail to the ridge from the pass. In re-examining the photo in the book, with its washed out details, it showed what looked like the rock band I'd reached on the far side of the bowl. The ridge would have been no big deal to reach, but I was intimidated by the snow on the one side and several smaller rock bands near the top on the other. And I should have checked out the far side of that meadow at the bottom of the rock band.
I won't be going back this season, but this one is definitely on my list for next year.
Mount Kidd, South Peak
Starting elevation: 1549 m (5081 feet).
Highest elevation: 2556 m (8389 feet).
Lowest elevation: 1525 m (5001 feet).
Elevation gain: 1007 m (3308 feet).
Distance: 16.7 km (10.4 mi).
Time: 7:13.
The south peak of Mount Kidd is seen as an out-and-back diversion from Guinn's Pass. Craig Copeland had written about it as such, in his article in last Thursday's Calgary Herald. Between that article, and Daisy and I having it on our to-do list, it pretty much chose itself as a destination for this weekend.
Much of the range visible on the drive out had been touched by snow fall the night before. Banded Peak, in the area of Elbow Falls, was easily recognizable as a massive white pyramid with it's black stripe across the snow cover. Curiously, Moose Mountain was still in it's light grey summer colours.
I arrived early at the Galatea parking lot. Daisy and I had hiked this trail earlier this summer, so I was familiar with the first part it. A fog bank hung over the valley, giving the morning a grey, gloomy look.
The trail switches back and forth across the Galatea Creek several times, so the bridge count is high. I began down the long slope to the first one, a suspension bridge over the Kananaskis River beside where Galatea Creek feeds into it. By the time I crossed the third bridge, the sun had broke through the fog bank.
Lots of dripping, too. I imagine the lower elevations got mostly rain the night before, and the humidity was high. The bridges were wet and slippery, as were the rock outcroppings on the trail in the forest.
The Scrambles book mentions a trail just before the seventh bridge, that heads up a broad gully to the ridge from Guinn's Pass to the peak - a short cut of sorts. I counted six bridges, then kept watch for this trail, but soon found myself at the seventh bridge. I dithered about backtracking to find it, or continuing on to Guinn's and working from there. I opted to backtrack.
The Scrambles book drives me crazy, sometimes. The pictures are mostly informative, but sometimes, as in this case, the low contrast black-and-whites hide identifying features. And the descriptions can be pretty sparse, too. Daisy and I discussed our frustration with this, but we concluded that it wasn't a bad thing. Determined scramblers will figure things out, while those who aren't quite so serious are kept from getting themselves into unpleasant situations.
The trail is marked by a small cairn, the book says. It also says it's at the edge of tall pines that give way to stunted poplar. The main trail does pass through an open forest of tall pines, a couple of hundred metres before that seventh bridge. On the third pass, I decided to check out a dodgy looking possibility - a little overgrown, with a few dead logs across it. Three steps in, I almost tripped over the cairn.
All that moisture on the trees, from dew and rain and snow, was dribbling down from the canopy by now. The poplars were every wet, and because the trail was nearly overgrown, by ten metres in I was pretty wet. My fleece and new climbing pants kept me plenty dry, but the hikers were soggy. I was glad for the synthetic socks.
The bush backed off from trail shortly, and I found myself climbing the steep grassy meadow of an old avalanche fall. A couple of rock outcrops made it more interesting, but it was pretty smooth climbing. Eventually the gully widened, and the trail went to the right toward slabby channels beside a ridge.
This was were I ran afoul of the book. It said to stay left, and that's what I should have done. But this trail kept right. Eventually, on the slabs, I reached a point where I could go no further. I slipped at one point, and backslid a couple of metres, banging my elbow.
From this point, I began an internal debate as to whether I should retreat or continue. I felt if I could mount the ridge, all I'd have to do was walk it to the top of Mount Kidd. I backtracked a dozen metres and then started up the side of the ridge. It was mostly dirt and some small outcrops, though the top was a rock band with a couple of notches that looked accessible.
This climb wasn't bad at all. I guess I was experiencing more of that drama that Daisy talked about. Up through a short chimney in the rock band and I was on an easy slope to the top.
Nope. The lesson here is, where you want to go is always on the next ridge. And I topped the ridge to find the one I thought I was on, was actually another kilometre and a half farther on (and up) across a huge bowl of snow covered scree and scrub pine. As I surveyed the bowl, and listened to the occasional clatter of falling rock on the slab far to my right, the question on my mind was, here the heck was the trail from Guinn's Pass?
It looked to be far across the bowl, below a long rock band on top of the ridge to the west, but it was awfully indistinct. I would dearly have welcomed Daisy's take on this. On this side of the bowl, the snow covered scree gave way to snow covered slab, so if I was going to get up there, I was going to have to go way over to the other side to get around that.
It really was beautiful up there. I was traversing a couple of square kilometres of snowy terrain, mostly alpine meadow, and climbing slightly to keep above the scrub pine. It was slippery, but not overly so. And eventually, I was in snow covered scree, which not too much more slippery.
An hour later, maybe half way around the bowl, I was out of the snow and on dry scree. A couple of deep trenches swooped down from above, and curved toward the narrow gully at the bottom of the bowl. From here the indistinct trail below the rock band seemed to pretty much disappear. I climbed down and up the steep sides of the gullys, and decided that maybe I would just continue to Guinn's Pass, descend to Galatea Creek, and call it a day. Another forty minutes and I stood below the rock band, trying to find an invisible trail. Was I even in the right place?
I followed the rock band down and south toward a wide meadow, but the terrain yielded no clues as to where I was relative to Guinn's Pass. I figured it had to be on the other side of this rock band, but the meadow seemed to end abrubtly not too far along. I wasn't sure where to go from here. The pass seemed out of reach, and backtracking would be a long slog. I dropped into another gully that skirted the meadow, and continued downward.
The gully narrowed as it approached forest, and ended abruptly at the edge of a cliff. With fifty metres of straight down, I had to backtrack a little. I reached some much more climbable stuff a couple of hundred metres upslope. Time for lunch.
After scarfing down my lunch, I climbed down the rest of the rock face, then picked my way down a steep moss covered slope through stunted pine to the bottom of the bowl. Rock fall snaked along the narrow gully, and a ridge of hard pack stood out at the side. It did look like it had seen some traffic, so I kept to it.
The gully narrowed even more, to a trench filled with a thick forest of impassible pine. But the rock fall followed beside was a wide clear space of moss and lichen covered rubble. The cliff that generated this field of boulders stood to my right, close and imposing, an eagle circling overhead.
Eventually the rockfall ended and the faintest trail lead through forest at the edge of the trench. The ground was soft and springy from centuries of fallen vegitation. The scent of it, and of the pine permeated the air. The trail crawled along the side of the trench, over and under dead fall. Occasionally I had to stop to figure out the best way through. It never became really thick, though there were some tricky climbs over dead trees on the steep slope of the trench.
Eventually I found myself back on an ancient boulder field. It seemed to spill out of the forest, having formed so long ago that the trees had reclaimed the space upslope. The incredible silence that had been with me almost since I had left the main trial several hours before was finally broken by the sound of running water.
I pulled out the map and munched on some trail mix. My GPS said I was just above nineteen hundred metres. The contours of the map suggested I was very close to Galatea Creek, which the main trail to Lillian Lake hugs closely, and in fact, very close to the junction with Guinn's Pass. So I was very close to getting back on that trail, I thought.
The bottom of the boulder field was again forest, but again, there seemed to be a trail meandering along it's edge to the left, and into the forest and the sound of water to the right.
This was real bushwacking, my first experience of it. I picked my way through springy moss, and over dead trees. Centuries of layers of dead vegetation threatened to swallow my trekking poles, which ofter sunk almost a metre into the ground. Very green and very lush.
I finally pushed through to the creek, not knowing if it was Galatea or a feeder from upslope. I thought about crossing, but heavy deadfall on the opposite bank was in the way of a relatively open slope up to what might possibly have been the main trail. I couldn't tell from below. I began picking my way down the creek, first one side, then the other. A huge tree had fallen along the creek, and I balanced along it until I had to get down on slippery wet rock again. The poles again proved their worth to help steady me as I tip-toed across the water.
On another huge log, I walked along it and discovered in front of me a bridge across the creek. I'd found the trail. It turned out to be the ninth bridge on the trail, not all that far from the Guinn's Pass junction. So close. From here it was solid walking back down the path to the parking lot, maybe an hour and a quarter later.
Even though I didn't make the object, didn't even come close, I really enjoyed this adventure. I learned a lot about how to judge the scale of things - everything's a lot farther away than you think. I learned I could bushwack my way through forest. As for the objective, I think I was on the trail to the ridge from the pass. In re-examining the photo in the book, with its washed out details, it showed what looked like the rock band I'd reached on the far side of the bowl. The ridge would have been no big deal to reach, but I was intimidated by the snow on the one side and several smaller rock bands near the top on the other. And I should have checked out the far side of that meadow at the bottom of the rock band.
I won't be going back this season, but this one is definitely on my list for next year.
Mount Kidd, South Peak
Starting elevation: 1549 m (5081 feet).
Highest elevation: 2556 m (8389 feet).
Lowest elevation: 1525 m (5001 feet).
Elevation gain: 1007 m (3308 feet).
Distance: 16.7 km (10.4 mi).
Time: 7:13.
Monday, September 03, 2007
Mount Sparrowhawk
I think this was my first climb over ten thousand feet. And probably the best view I've ever experienced.
The drive south of Canmore seemed long, but it wasn't really. Mostly it was a dusty crawl behind a slow moving Cadillac, as we wound along the Smith-Dorrien Spray Trail.
I parked at the Sparrowhawk Day Use picnic area, and crossed the road to the trail head. This was the first time I got to use my new trekking poles, and once in the forest, I wasn't too impressed with them. They kept getting snagged in the junipers and bush, and at times I was tripping over them when I wasn't stabbing myself in the foot.
Anyway, I traipsed through forest on an easy trail along side noisy Sparrowhawk Creek. The map said the trail branched at 0.7 km, and the scrambles book seemed to be saying what the I wanted to take wasn't too obvious. It warned about climbing a rock spur called Read's Tower, which would put me at the top of an impossible climbdown (so it said). At 691 metres, by my GPS, an obvious trail branched left, marked by a small but picturesque cairn.
The trail rapidly steepened through thinning forest, and I found myself looking over my shoulder at the rapidly improving view of the Spray Lakes Reservoir and the valley it occupied. The map called this the Read Ridge Trail, and I wondered if I was on it, or on the spur. I couldn't see anything beyond it, except the broad scree slope to the north that lead to my objective.
Even after I was more or less out of the trees, the hump of the ridge I was on hid what was ahead. But here is where the poles really started to work for me. Once out of the denser bush, I found myself using them to help with the climb. In fact I was feeling the effort in the arms and shoulders, and in my elbows. I felt much more sure-footed with them, and even on some slabby parts, the tips would grab what looked like smooth rock quite nicely. Cool!
Eventually the ridge began to level off a bit, and the trail stopped slashing back and forth. Read's Tower rose above the few trees in front of me, and it was obvious it was still far ahead of me. At the end of the ridge, it dropped gently to a col between ridge and tower. The slope of the south side of the tower was quite steep, but the west and north sides were pretty much vertical. Just below a valley that paralleled the ridge on the north side continued up the north side of the tower.
Across the valley, a rock band formed the north wall of the valley, and separated it from the scree of Sparrowhawk. This scree slope extened from well west of me, to almost the road and lake, to out of sight behind the wall of the tower to the east. At least two kilometres left to right, and at least a kilometre up. A huge flat slope covered in crumbled rock.
I descended down to the bottom of the rock fall from the tower, and began climbing up the obvious trail through it. To the left, water sheeted down the rock band, draining out of the scree. The sound of running water was everywhere. In the small gully I was climbing, water sprouted out of the rock, only to disappear a few metres farther on. I had the unique experience in a couple of spots of hearing rushing, gurgling water under the dry dusty rock under my feet.
At the col below the tower, I looked down on the valley that ran on the other side of the tower continuing up to a hanging valley to the south, which held a couple of small lakes called the Sparrowhawk Tarns. Mount Bogart towered above.
From here, it was pretty straight forward. Trudge up scree for over a kilometre to a hundred metre high block of rock that formed the summit. The book said to go to the right. I missed the part that said what to go to the right of, though. There are actually two peaks, and the book meant the right peak. It wasn't obvious to me that the left peak was part of the mountain, so I thought it meant to go to the right of the summit block.
I basically went straight up toward the right side of the summit. To each side scree stretched for a kilometre or more. Nothing too difficult, and at times a little tedious. About two thirds of the way up, one of the sight-seeing helicopters from Canmore passed low over the summit. It seemed awfully close to me, and I waved. No idea if they saw me or not.
Once I got up to the side of the summit block, I saw I wasn't going any farther that way. I found myself on the edge of the ridge that formed the top edge of the scree, and it dropped sharply to the north. Across the wide expanse of the valley below, two or three broad gullies ran up to the broken ridge between Wind Mountain and Mount Lougheed. Farther left was The Windtower, and behind that the backside of Big Sister.
I back off and started trudging along the base of the summit toward the east side. The path I followed traced a looping path along walls of rock, probably pushed up by snow to form large pits, perhaps twenty metres across and two or three metres deep. There were half a dozen of these and most of them still had snow in them, surprising on such an exposed south-facing slope. These were likely the source of the water I kept hearing below the scree on the way down.
At the last of these, a couple of cairns showed I was on the right track. At the ridge I's just left behind, the GPS had topped three thousand metres for the first time in its existence. Along these snow pits, it hovered around 2995 metres. Ahead, a small weather shack was planted on the col between the two peaks, and the path wandered toward it.
Another spectacular view. Just below the shack, a still large snow cornice clung to the cliff face. Below was a broad valley was bordered by a steep scree bowl to the left, and ragged sheer cliffs to the right. The ridge that climbed to the left peak was jagged and insanely narrow. It looked paper thin, even up close. Below, an almost perfectly square emerald lake below a large spur, and above that, in another hanging valley, another small lake. This was Memorial Lake, nestled behind Bogart Tower. And at the end of the valley, several kilometres away, Kananaskis Village.
To my left, the trail charged up the ridge, and was soon zigzagging through a broken rock band. On the southeast side it was out in the wind, which blew hard and cold. Eventually, it moved father around the back of the summit block, and the wind lessened, but still swirled through the chimneys above. A party of three were descending another path to my right. They said the wind wasn't bad at all at the top, some thirty metres above.
I popped up beside another weather station of some kind, and a few steps to the right, the true summit was marked by a small cairn. Two summit registers were stuffed between the rocks, so I sat in the lea of the cairn, and signed both.
The cairn didn't really stop the wind. It wasn't all that strong, for sure, but it was cold. I ate my lunch and enjoyed the view. Aside from what I've already described, I had the entire Spray Lakes Reservoir in view. A couple of boats marked the water with the thin white line of their wakes. Old Goat Mountain rose across the lake, but I wasn't able to see its glacier from my vantage.
Beyond, straight west, the pyramid of Mount Assiniboine poked into the cloud, with a ragged wall of rock just south of it, and a pointy spike rising above and to the south. Slightly north and much father, was Mount Temple, I think. And straight south, another monster, at least as high as Assiniboine. I have no idea what it is, as nothing that high shows on my maps. Similar in shape to Assiniboine, but much broader. It must be a monster.
And behind me, between The Windtower and Big Sister, I could see part of Canmore sprawling across the valley on the other side of the range.
After twenty minutes. I was starting to get cold, so I started down. The final trail up was rather tricky. Lots of steep rock and gravel, which the poles made relatively easy to climb. But on the way down through this mess, the poles really proved their worth. I don't think I moved any faster than I would have without them. But I felt immensely more sure-footed, and at a lot of places where I would have normally stopped and considered, I just charged down. It was great!
As I rounded the shoulder of the summit block, the wind blasted me again, and I discovered five more hikers just below. Two pairs and single young Austrian, who stopped to chat. After that, it was the long trudge down the scree to the base of Read's Tower.
As I neared the lower edge of the scree, I noticed two hikers at the summit of the tower. I waved, but I don't think they saw. I got to the col, and briefly considered going down the east side of the tower, but finally opted to retrace my steps to the west. Again the poles proved incredibly useful in descending the rock fall into the valley. Two more hikers were working their way up for a late afternoon hike.
At the top of the ridge, I stopped for a snack, and scanned the scree and the summit for the other hikers. It's just too big a place to pick out any detail, though. I started down the ridge, and as the trail steepened, the poles again came in handy. Meanwhile, the Austrian gentleman caught up with me. Would that I could move that fast in this terrain.
I soon dropped into the forest, and met the other trail at the cairn. A few minutes later, I was back at the car, easy my aching feet out of my hikers, and enjoying the last few handfuls of trail mix.
A note about the following: The numbers are from my GPS, which seems to be reading a little on the high side for elevation. Officially, the summit of Sparrowhawk is at 3121 metres (10,240 feet.)
Mount Sparrowhawk
Starting elevation: 1731 m (5679 feet).
Highest elevation: 3160 m (10,367 feet).
Lowest elevation: 1728 m (5669 feet).
Elevation gain: 1429 m (4688 feet).
Distance: 11.9 km (7.4 mi).
Time: 7:21.
The drive south of Canmore seemed long, but it wasn't really. Mostly it was a dusty crawl behind a slow moving Cadillac, as we wound along the Smith-Dorrien Spray Trail.
I parked at the Sparrowhawk Day Use picnic area, and crossed the road to the trail head. This was the first time I got to use my new trekking poles, and once in the forest, I wasn't too impressed with them. They kept getting snagged in the junipers and bush, and at times I was tripping over them when I wasn't stabbing myself in the foot.
Anyway, I traipsed through forest on an easy trail along side noisy Sparrowhawk Creek. The map said the trail branched at 0.7 km, and the scrambles book seemed to be saying what the I wanted to take wasn't too obvious. It warned about climbing a rock spur called Read's Tower, which would put me at the top of an impossible climbdown (so it said). At 691 metres, by my GPS, an obvious trail branched left, marked by a small but picturesque cairn.
The trail rapidly steepened through thinning forest, and I found myself looking over my shoulder at the rapidly improving view of the Spray Lakes Reservoir and the valley it occupied. The map called this the Read Ridge Trail, and I wondered if I was on it, or on the spur. I couldn't see anything beyond it, except the broad scree slope to the north that lead to my objective.
Even after I was more or less out of the trees, the hump of the ridge I was on hid what was ahead. But here is where the poles really started to work for me. Once out of the denser bush, I found myself using them to help with the climb. In fact I was feeling the effort in the arms and shoulders, and in my elbows. I felt much more sure-footed with them, and even on some slabby parts, the tips would grab what looked like smooth rock quite nicely. Cool!
Eventually the ridge began to level off a bit, and the trail stopped slashing back and forth. Read's Tower rose above the few trees in front of me, and it was obvious it was still far ahead of me. At the end of the ridge, it dropped gently to a col between ridge and tower. The slope of the south side of the tower was quite steep, but the west and north sides were pretty much vertical. Just below a valley that paralleled the ridge on the north side continued up the north side of the tower.
Across the valley, a rock band formed the north wall of the valley, and separated it from the scree of Sparrowhawk. This scree slope extened from well west of me, to almost the road and lake, to out of sight behind the wall of the tower to the east. At least two kilometres left to right, and at least a kilometre up. A huge flat slope covered in crumbled rock.
I descended down to the bottom of the rock fall from the tower, and began climbing up the obvious trail through it. To the left, water sheeted down the rock band, draining out of the scree. The sound of running water was everywhere. In the small gully I was climbing, water sprouted out of the rock, only to disappear a few metres farther on. I had the unique experience in a couple of spots of hearing rushing, gurgling water under the dry dusty rock under my feet.
At the col below the tower, I looked down on the valley that ran on the other side of the tower continuing up to a hanging valley to the south, which held a couple of small lakes called the Sparrowhawk Tarns. Mount Bogart towered above.
From here, it was pretty straight forward. Trudge up scree for over a kilometre to a hundred metre high block of rock that formed the summit. The book said to go to the right. I missed the part that said what to go to the right of, though. There are actually two peaks, and the book meant the right peak. It wasn't obvious to me that the left peak was part of the mountain, so I thought it meant to go to the right of the summit block.
I basically went straight up toward the right side of the summit. To each side scree stretched for a kilometre or more. Nothing too difficult, and at times a little tedious. About two thirds of the way up, one of the sight-seeing helicopters from Canmore passed low over the summit. It seemed awfully close to me, and I waved. No idea if they saw me or not.
Once I got up to the side of the summit block, I saw I wasn't going any farther that way. I found myself on the edge of the ridge that formed the top edge of the scree, and it dropped sharply to the north. Across the wide expanse of the valley below, two or three broad gullies ran up to the broken ridge between Wind Mountain and Mount Lougheed. Farther left was The Windtower, and behind that the backside of Big Sister.
I back off and started trudging along the base of the summit toward the east side. The path I followed traced a looping path along walls of rock, probably pushed up by snow to form large pits, perhaps twenty metres across and two or three metres deep. There were half a dozen of these and most of them still had snow in them, surprising on such an exposed south-facing slope. These were likely the source of the water I kept hearing below the scree on the way down.
At the last of these, a couple of cairns showed I was on the right track. At the ridge I's just left behind, the GPS had topped three thousand metres for the first time in its existence. Along these snow pits, it hovered around 2995 metres. Ahead, a small weather shack was planted on the col between the two peaks, and the path wandered toward it.
Another spectacular view. Just below the shack, a still large snow cornice clung to the cliff face. Below was a broad valley was bordered by a steep scree bowl to the left, and ragged sheer cliffs to the right. The ridge that climbed to the left peak was jagged and insanely narrow. It looked paper thin, even up close. Below, an almost perfectly square emerald lake below a large spur, and above that, in another hanging valley, another small lake. This was Memorial Lake, nestled behind Bogart Tower. And at the end of the valley, several kilometres away, Kananaskis Village.
To my left, the trail charged up the ridge, and was soon zigzagging through a broken rock band. On the southeast side it was out in the wind, which blew hard and cold. Eventually, it moved father around the back of the summit block, and the wind lessened, but still swirled through the chimneys above. A party of three were descending another path to my right. They said the wind wasn't bad at all at the top, some thirty metres above.
I popped up beside another weather station of some kind, and a few steps to the right, the true summit was marked by a small cairn. Two summit registers were stuffed between the rocks, so I sat in the lea of the cairn, and signed both.
The cairn didn't really stop the wind. It wasn't all that strong, for sure, but it was cold. I ate my lunch and enjoyed the view. Aside from what I've already described, I had the entire Spray Lakes Reservoir in view. A couple of boats marked the water with the thin white line of their wakes. Old Goat Mountain rose across the lake, but I wasn't able to see its glacier from my vantage.
Beyond, straight west, the pyramid of Mount Assiniboine poked into the cloud, with a ragged wall of rock just south of it, and a pointy spike rising above and to the south. Slightly north and much father, was Mount Temple, I think. And straight south, another monster, at least as high as Assiniboine. I have no idea what it is, as nothing that high shows on my maps. Similar in shape to Assiniboine, but much broader. It must be a monster.
And behind me, between The Windtower and Big Sister, I could see part of Canmore sprawling across the valley on the other side of the range.
After twenty minutes. I was starting to get cold, so I started down. The final trail up was rather tricky. Lots of steep rock and gravel, which the poles made relatively easy to climb. But on the way down through this mess, the poles really proved their worth. I don't think I moved any faster than I would have without them. But I felt immensely more sure-footed, and at a lot of places where I would have normally stopped and considered, I just charged down. It was great!
As I rounded the shoulder of the summit block, the wind blasted me again, and I discovered five more hikers just below. Two pairs and single young Austrian, who stopped to chat. After that, it was the long trudge down the scree to the base of Read's Tower.
As I neared the lower edge of the scree, I noticed two hikers at the summit of the tower. I waved, but I don't think they saw. I got to the col, and briefly considered going down the east side of the tower, but finally opted to retrace my steps to the west. Again the poles proved incredibly useful in descending the rock fall into the valley. Two more hikers were working their way up for a late afternoon hike.
At the top of the ridge, I stopped for a snack, and scanned the scree and the summit for the other hikers. It's just too big a place to pick out any detail, though. I started down the ridge, and as the trail steepened, the poles again came in handy. Meanwhile, the Austrian gentleman caught up with me. Would that I could move that fast in this terrain.
I soon dropped into the forest, and met the other trail at the cairn. A few minutes later, I was back at the car, easy my aching feet out of my hikers, and enjoying the last few handfuls of trail mix.
A note about the following: The numbers are from my GPS, which seems to be reading a little on the high side for elevation. Officially, the summit of Sparrowhawk is at 3121 metres (10,240 feet.)
Mount Sparrowhawk
Starting elevation: 1731 m (5679 feet).
Highest elevation: 3160 m (10,367 feet).
Lowest elevation: 1728 m (5669 feet).
Elevation gain: 1429 m (4688 feet).
Distance: 11.9 km (7.4 mi).
Time: 7:21.
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