It has not snowed much here in the East Kootenays, but I have finally made it out on my first mission to find snow. There are a couple places to ski around here early season before the rest of the valley is good to go, one zone is Harvey’s Pass up off the Lodgepole Road the other is in the north facing bowls of the 3 Sisters. Behind the Sisters you can actually ski all summer long on a few small pieces of glacier up there so when it snows just a little bit, the skiing can be pretty good although access into the this zone is a bit more “questy” as Sam put it.
I packed my car with a snow bike, and all my touring gear. I drove up Hartley Lake Road and then turned off onto a little single lane access road, This road (I can’t remember the name of it) has a couple massive puddles, wider in width than my car and just as long, in the summer they are deep! Fortunately for me and my Subaru, they were frozen solid, all except one, which I almost couldn’t get out of. My mission was almost cut short and I hadn’t even put my pack on. I rallied out of the rut, which was more or less a ditch then rammed my car into the next bit of woods that I could to get off the road. From there I threw on my pack with my skis and ski boots on it and jumped on a fatbike and rode the rest of the way up the access road, then it turned into singletrack, which was a bit harder to navigate with my skis on my back and a few inches of snow on the trail, I went over the handlebars once into a large hole but managed to keep everything on my pack intact. Before I came out of the trees and into the bottom of the bowls I stashed my bike attempted to put ski boots on, which were so frozen I had to warm them with my hands before I could get them on. The thought of this being just a fatbike ride ride came to mind but as I grunted and said “I came here to go skiing…” I forced myself in. From there I walked the last little bit into the bottom of the bowls and looked up towards the zone with the most snow. I hoped I could summit the ridge in the background on the left side of the photo.
I needed to find a way up to the deeper snowpack but the bowl was full of alders so I followed a trail that I knew from past missions, then branched off and started making my own way. This was my first time accessing this terrain from the bottom and to point out the obvious, the snowpack was shallow.
As soon as I left the beaten path the fear of being on my own entered my mind. “It’s big country up here…” “Did I get to late of a start?” “What time does is get dark?” “Wow, what kind of animal tracks are those?” “Climbing down this is going to be gnarlier than climbing up!” Were all thoughts that crossed my mind more than once as I proceeded towards the deeper snow. I could see the ridge and a chute I hoped I could on, timing was everything.As soon as I left the beaten path the fear of being on my own entered my mind. “It’s big country up here…” “Did I get to late of a start?” “What time does is get dark?” “Wow, what kind of animal tracks are those?” “Climbing down this is going to be gnarlier than climbing up!” Were all thoughts that crossed my mind more than once as I proceeded towards the deeper snow. I could see the ridge and a chute I hoped I could get on, timing was everything.
I hiked up the little avalanche chute in the far right of the lower photo, then traversed, still on feet below the cliffs over to the little treed ridge, climbed up that then put my skins on and continued below the cliffs all the way until the photo cuts off. Now it was only a pretty long traverse to get below the chute then maybe a half an hour boot pack to the ridge but it was getting late, and slipping on the crust made traversing difficult.
I ended up getting roughly 60 turns, it doesn’t seem like much for the amount of effort to get there but the snow was good and the entire mission was enjoyable. I still had an exciting down climb to look forward to, then a bike ride out!
Just over a month ago my Grannie, my fathers mother passed away. She was 85, born in 1928. To say the least she has seen a lot, and the stories and views she had from all those years is astonishing. And the way she told her stories was a whole other element on its own. Sam and I were very close to her, growing up we spent almost every summer in our young years with her and our Granddad Don at their cottage in Ontario.
Of many things Sheila taught me to laugh and weep with the world; to love all creatures great and small, and to love the trees as I do my friends. She taught me to remember where I come from, and never cause any harm to anyone or anything. One of my earliest memories I have of her was her telling me never to join the army. She was a wonderful woman and I will never forget these lessons.
I have here a letter Sheila wrote to Peter Gzowski a few weeks after “Remembrance Day” 1983. For those who don’t know, Peter Gzowski was a CBC radio host for about 20 years. This letter is a good example of her views and portrays her in many ways. The timing of all this amazes me, with the murder of Cpl. Nathan Cirillo at the exact Memorial she speaks of and Stephen Harper sending Canadian “troops” into battle.
Today is the day we gather to Remember her, and Celebrate her life, only a few days before “Armistice Day.” I had never heard this story before, and it has changed my view on “Remembrance Day.”
Sheila’s Remembrance Day Fantasy.
I spent the morning of Nov. 11 with you & your guests & felt reflective & thoughtful. At a few minutes to 11, I put on the tely to view the service at the National War Memorial. My family history is British Imperial Army & Anglican Church. I see now how extraordinarily similar these two institutions are, and as a female growing up in this male dominated world, I, like my sisters before me, accommodated my life according to male expectations. My secret existence, and the way things really worked, were two separate realities. As a child I was puzzled by this but as a woman, I have two states of being; one Rage & the other NUMBNESS. The only alternative to unexpressed rage is, for me, numbness.
Anyway, back to “Lest We Forget”. We don’t forget the face & the life of a son, a friend, or a lover when they are wrenched from us so violently & so soon. We don’t need bands, flags & parades for that. Those, in fact, help us to remember how to make war, “lest we forget”.
I used to mark Armistice Day, as it was then (perhaps more accurately) called, with my Mother, the daughter of the professional soldier. She had served in France in the W.A.C.’s, 1914-1918. On Nov. 11 she simply buried her face in her hands & sat quietly for 2 minutes. She told me she was remembering her friends. I went to many a parade as a child & teenager. Our church was the garrison church & I used to watch the often shabby old men stepping out as smartly as their age & infirmities would allow. I used to worry the bugler would sound a bum note. Always I felt sad, which was both the natural response & the required response. I also always felt uneasy, alarmed, puzzled.
Now in my fifties, I too have had friends killed, felt pain, seen evidence of war’s atrocities & seen man’s cruelty to man. I’ve also seen these same cruelties encouraged by cheering crowds, music, flags & prayers. I’ve borne sons & know how very precious they are.
Having been put in a thoughtful frame by your program, I slipped my sleeping grandson into his bed & watched the service in Ottawa. There was the Silver Cross Mother. Her 20 year old had been killed in Korea. The Silver Cross Mother is always the same. She is old. She wears a dark coat & hat. The Prime Minister or the Governor General always steers her by her elbow to the monument. She is always surrounded by the military, ecclesiastical, political members of the Boy’s Club. She is always dutiful, quiet, respectful. One year, I actually knew the Silver Cross Mother & her four dead sons whose sacrifice brought her to Ottawa. She too looked quiet, dutiful, respectful. Surely what these women are is numb.
I always watch & I always wonder why they are not screaming. I know why they are not screaming. It would not do to make a fuss. We learn that so very early & we learn it well, and the atrocities go on & we are quiet. What would happen if we whirled & screamed & shrieked in our grief & our pain. What if we demanded it STOP.
I have a fantasy about a possible replay of Remembrance Day 1983.
The Silver Cross Mother is late. The officials are nervous, edgy. “Where is she? Who was responsible for getting her here? Find some other old woman in the crowd to stand in for her. The clergy are nearly finished their prayers. Where is she?”
We hear the sound of pounding hooves. A sleek, excited horse, its tail & mane flying out behind it comes galloping into view. It has neither bit nor saddle. It runs with, all the energy & strength of all the horses of all the cavalry horses in history in its limbs. Its eyes are triumphant & clear, the nostrils flaring, in vengeance & pride.
Riding as one with the beast is the Silver Cross Mother, her gray hair loose & long. Her eyes are like fire & she is brandishing a sword around & around & around her head like an athlete about to hurl a discus. She is summoning energy from the very sky. The crowd parts, scatters; her rough crimson wool cape streams out behind her, leaving sparks in her wake. The Boy Scouts flee, The Girl Guides gape, the old soldiers see a vision. She mounts the steps of the Cenotaph & comes to a stop. She utters one high pitched scream. First there is silence & then the monument crumbles to dust. The men all fall into a deep ,deep sleep. The women begin to weep & to dance; they twirl, & spin & scream. All the women all over the world begin to weep & whirl & dance, dance, dance. They cry & they dance & they cry & they dance. They dance until their dance becomes a song & their song becomes a croon & their croon becomes a lullabye. It is time to wake the children. Along the lines of their eyes & their cheeks the crooning women stroke the men & the boys. They open their eyes & they have forgotten how to make war. All their lives they have been told “not to forget”, but they have forgotten how to make war.
Two days later the first American Cruise Missiles were delivered to the Air Base at Greenham Common in England. The women have been camping & protesting there for two years. I love those screaming, protesting, unseemly women at that camp.
“The chair is running!” Connor said, “come on, hurry up!” It was pre-ski season, early in the morning, the sunlight was only a bright line on the horizon as Connor, Sam and I ran up the Meadow with our skis towards the tree island above the Timber Chair, funny we didn’t have our poles…Once we reached the trees we slowed down, almost to a crawl, dragging our skis on the ground as we went. There was almost no snow at the base area, but that didn’t seem to bother us, Connor must have a plan. The ski hill was running the chairlift getting ready to open in a few weeks, but we didn’t want to wait any longer. We crept through to the edge of the trees to get a better look at the loading station and the coast was clear. “Ready? Go!” The three of us jumped up and ran down the hill, as quietly and as least awkwardly as we could, we laughed at ourselves as we went, trying not to stumble and end up with our skis in a heap at the bottom. We made it down the hill and ran towards the back of the liftie hut and Connor poked his head around the corner, looked back at us, grinning and took a few steps forward and peered into the hut. He tried not to laugh as he looked back at Sam and I peeking around the corner, “she’s asleep,” he whispered, giving us the thumbs up. Perfect. It was going to be easier than we thought. The three of us tip-toed in our boots past the open door of the hut, and Sam and I also chuckled at the liftie asleep on the job. Quietly, we placed our skis on the line, clicked in and waited for the chair to come around and pick us up. We were stoked. “Now thats what I call first chair boys!” Connor shouted, his eyes shined and so did his teeth.
We rode the chair up and up into the clouds, until it finally it let us off at the top station. When started down we didn’t ski like we do now, searching for the biggest and scariest thing to jump off of, but instead we found and made our own little trails through the woods like we did when we were kids under the Elk Chair. Sam and I followed Connor into almost unmanageably thick trees, but we didn’t care; we were exploring a new place, getting all hung up and tangled, laughing as we went and using our free hands to pull us through until we came out at the bottom. This time there was a little bit more snow and we could ski right to the chair where other people were starting to line up, so of course, the three of us followed suit.
Each run we did our skiing progressed and the snow got deeper. After a few runs we had our poles and we were skiing harder than any of us had ever skied before; Connor pushing us as he always did. Even to this day, I feel him give me a nudge in the right direction.
This is a dream I had not to long ago. Connor is still my greatest inspiration and I feel truly blessed I can still go skiing with him. If you are ever lost, or not sure what to do next, just ask him. I’m sure he will answer, or lead you in the right direction. He has led me to many untouched runs, all I had to do was ask.
Thanks for reading.
It has been a wonderful Fall here in Fernie. There has been snow, in the peaks, yes, but even a few real flakes in town. Other than that it has been quite warm so far in October. The colours are as spectacular as ever, the beauty has been making it easier to get up and go for a ride in the mornings. Here’s a few shots portraying life in my shoes lately.
This is a set I recorded live at a small Kootenay bush party called Wicked Woods. My set time was at 9:30am, I was stoked on the slot because I’ve wanted to play a live Liquid Drum & Bass set since, well, forever really. Have a listen and let me know what you think!