There are a few different ways to gain the icefields. But no matter what, both distance and labyrinthine crevasse-fields guard their wintery spoils. Our party opted to make our way up the Athabasca Glacier. With some barely legal maneuvering that allowed us to leave from the snowcoach parking lot, WE FOUND OURSELVES SKINNING ON SNOW WITHIN FIVE MINUTES. We shared the icy road with the diesel spewing behemoths that continuously ferry wide-eyed tourists to the toe of the glacier. Nothing beats the serenity that our “protected areas” are able to provide.

It took a couple hours of some critical routefinding before the hum of mechanical beasts and the chatter of blue-haired tourists was behind us. But there we were, surrounded by ice and snow with a stinging breeze. A quick glimpse at our map confirmed that none of these new peaks in front of us were the one we were looking for. Nope. That one was around the corner--a very large corner.

As soon as we had a visual on our objective, we made camp for the night. While we were eating dinner, the cloud that had been hiding the summit dispersed, and we had our first look at our descent; it looked perfect—a rollover ramp snaking its way through some big holes.

We all knew that the safety of our mission depended on a solid overnight freeze. As the setting sun sent silky pink light on the peaks of Mt.Bryce, the temperature started to drop. We bundled up accordingly, stoked on the prospect of linking turns the next day. We slept dreamlessly until 5:00 am. Sluggishly, we made ready for the day. At 7:00 we started our long approach across the white-dessert icefield.

I think we all gauged the distance to the base of the peak. It looked close; it looked like it was only an hour away. We crested one of the Glacier’s many horizons and realized that we were horribly wrong. The trench. The suggested campsite that had eluded us the night before lay between us and Columbia’s flanks. Holy Shit. We were really wrong. In the first hour of walking, we’d completed about a fifth of our approach.

We quickened our pace to compensate for our slight miscalculation. Roped up, we had a little mini shred down into the trench. Our first turns of the trip.

It was starting to get hot. The heat reminded us of the time of year. Midsummer sunshine was blasting our line and our tiny window of opportunity was beginning to close. Concern was mounting within the group.

We were distracted momentarily when we noticed that another party, apparently more liquid than ourselves, had just been helidropped at the foot of the peak. They were following our tracks though and we laughed like bastards to mask our jealousy.

We decided how we were going to make our way up the face and pointed to a spot where we would trade skins for crampons. It was 11:30. Our line had been seeing sun since the day’s first light. With the overnight freeze there would have been a brief corn cycle. The snow sticking to our skis was telling us that we’d missed it.

Finally, we were at the bottom our run. It looked sick. Super dangerous, but sick. It was July. We were keen. Every one of us was ready to forego sensibility, roll the dice and kick steps up that mother. We wanted to shred.

And then the mountain sent us a message. A small but powerful wet avalanche kicked off climber’s right of our route. It poured over the bergshrund and erased our skin trail. As it swept past us it seemed to push reason back into our minds. We were exposed above crevasses. We were tied together. Our run was just over 40 degrees. It was July.

Today was not the day to shred Columbia. We debated the call at our precarious turnaround point for about ten minutes, but the choice was clear. Reluctantly, we put our climbing gear away, the skiers locked their heels down, I made a snowboard and we made some sloppy turns down Columbia’s lower flanks.

It wasn’t first prize but the decision had made itself. Despite exhaustion, our spirits were high as we trekked back to camp. Turning your back on a line is never easy, especially if you’ve worked really hard to get there. There is however a satisfaction to be had in making a safe call and staying alive to ride more lines in the future.

That night high winds and violent weather systems ravaged our tents. When we woke up we expected to fumble home through whiteout conditions. Our trip remained smooth though: another bluebird day took us home. And there was Mt.Columbia, further away than we once thought, reminding us that it was still there. We said our good-byes and moved on.
We’d kinda forgotten how much vert we’d ploughed on the way up and the descent home was pretty badass. Tied together again, the boys at the front straightlined in snowploughs as the boys in the back made turns. The ride down was as uneventful as the way up, only much faster. An hour and a half after breaking camp, we were off the Athabasca Glacier.

There was one more patch of snow between us and that strange society of tourists. I wasn’t even planning on strapping on my board until I saw Fieldie clicking in and linking some turns. DESPITE REALLY HAVING TO POO, HE MADE IT LOOK LIKE A LOT OF FUN. We were back amongst the snowcoaches. We posed for the tourists, clicked in once again and rode their road like it was Wiwaxy at Lake Louise.

We had chased winter into the vastness of the Columbia Icefields. As it turned out though, the best turns were right above the road.

Check out Nixons other Articles:
Finding Balance
Whistler. The Gnar Bo-bo Cherry

Comment on Mikes Article