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.
# posted by Kelly @ 11:20 a.m. 
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