I was in a zone, that's the only way I can describe it. After x-rays, cat-scans, an MRI and three visits to a throat specialist, all I knew for sure was that I had a huge purple lump the size of an egg in my upper throat. My doctor, and also the surgeon, had only been able to tell me that they could not confirm whether it was malignant or benign until they removed it by surgery, and followed through with subsequent testing. They appeared to be trying to soften the blow which I was sure would be forthcoming; because if I had throat cancer, (and all of the symptoms I had indicated it), the discomfort, pain, trouble sleeping and breathing were only going to get much worse. The specialist had kind of fidgeted a bit and looked away as he told me he'd never seen a case like mine; that it was very "interesting", and that none of his other colleagues or the radiologists had ever seen anything like it either. He and the resident radiologist tossed around possible scenarios like I wasn't even there, finally pronouncing it an "interesting case." "And you don't want to be an interesting case, right?" I asked him. "Well, no" he had answered.
My life was on hold, and I was truly in a place I'd never been before. Suddenly I developed an instant new respect for those facing a terminal illness. My wife, a BSCN emergency room nurse, was terribly worried; she tried really hard not to show it, but with her knowledge she couldn't help it. I could barely sleep, and it seemed I could think of nothing but slowly choking to death in front of her and my kids. Unacceptable and impossible, I told myself. So I did what I always do when life has me by the throat - I went climbing. With two weeks to wait before surgery, and not knowing what would be left of me, or what condition I'd be in when the operation was done, I couldn't sit around and wait. I'd had enough of thinking about it already.
I haven't always been a believer in fate, but my New Age wife had slowly converted me over the years. Now, I believe we were put here for a reason, we meet the people we do in our lives for a reason, and when our final day comes, nothing will speed up or slow down the arrival of that judgement day. It's preordained. I guess it sounds melodramatic, but I guess I hoped that if my day was fast approaching, that my first and preferable option would be to have a mountain take me, instead of slowly withering away and suffering in front of my family, and having to watch what they were going through, which would be the worst. I don't know if there really is a Higher Being, but just in case there was, I asked Him not to let me go that way.
My life was on hold, and I was truly in a place I'd never been before. Suddenly I developed an instant new respect for those facing a terminal illness. My wife, a BSCN emergency room nurse, was terribly worried; she tried really hard not to show it, but with her knowledge she couldn't help it. I could barely sleep, and it seemed I could think of nothing but slowly choking to death in front of her and my kids. Unacceptable and impossible, I told myself. So I did what I always do when life has me by the throat - I went climbing. With two weeks to wait before surgery, and not knowing what would be left of me, or what condition I'd be in when the operation was done, I couldn't sit around and wait. I'd had enough of thinking about it already.
I haven't always been a believer in fate, but my New Age wife had slowly converted me over the years. Now, I believe we were put here for a reason, we meet the people we do in our lives for a reason, and when our final day comes, nothing will speed up or slow down the arrival of that judgement day. It's preordained. I guess it sounds melodramatic, but I guess I hoped that if my day was fast approaching, that my first and preferable option would be to have a mountain take me, instead of slowly withering away and suffering in front of my family, and having to watch what they were going through, which would be the worst. I don't know if there really is a Higher Being, but just in case there was, I asked Him not to let me go that way.
So on a wintery spring day, with just enough visibility to find my way from my truck to the edge of the road, I arrived at one of my favorite stomping grounds; Nigel Peak in the Columbia Icefields. I had done this climb before, albeit in better conditions, and knew my way up to Wilcox Pass, over to Nigel and up its flanks to its summit well enough to give me plenty of confidence. I always went climbing in the winter, and knew that one statistical day out of three in this area was foggy, with snow, wind and rain in bountiful supply; any month of the year. I also knew that the whiteouts here often lift by noon, and I figured by the time I got fairly high on the peak, a lot of the haze and gloom would have dissipated and that I'd have enough visibility to finish the climb to Nigel Peak's summit.
So without further adieu, I set out up the deep snow on the edge of Wilcox Pass, mostly walking on top of the snow and kicking steps into hard neve. I reached the top of the Pass, where it began snowing, and the wind came up, blowing spindrift around and generally taking away the ability to see more than a few hundred feet in the low areas. I could see nothing of the mountain higher than a hundred feet above the Pass. When I reached the foot of the mountain, which rises very abruptly, I couldn't tell exactly where along the Northwest Ridge I was. I'd been aiming for the southerly end, to eliminate having to traverse the steep and rotten pinnacles and gendarmes at the crest of the upper ridge. By going for the south end I knew when I topped out on the ridge I'd reach a nice, broad, rounded ridge which curled around to the left through a big avalanche bowl and intersected with the final summit ridge. So at the foot of the mountain, I put my crampons on and began kicking steps up the nice, hard neve on the face of the ridge.
As I made good time up the steep snow, grateful that I did not have to endure the notorious scree on this face, the visibility got worse until all that was visible was a thick, ghostly white and gray soup, with black rocks drifting out of it here and there. I just kept telling myself make every step a safe one. That was my mantra and I just kept repeating it over and over. I climbed the gullies to avoid the unstable rock buttresses protruding here and there. I began to notice shooting cracks running straight out from my feet occasionally; I'd take a step and a crack would race straight out sideways, left and right, and disappear into the gloom at the end of my field of vision about twenty feet on each side of me. That can't be good, I'd tell myself, but I was in such a zone and so far removed from the frightening realities of my life that I felt no fear at all on this day.
I had been climbing in a good rhythymn; plunging the ax handle into the neve at about shoulder level, kicking two steps, and repeating, over and over. Plunge, kick, kick, plunge, kick, kick. I'd climbed this face with no snow on it before, struggling up scree, and had only made a quarter of the progress I was making today. I was still getting the odd shooting cracks, but I heard nothing; the snowpack was quiet, with no whumping or squeaking, and it took all my concentration to see even a few feet in front of me now. As I was gaining altitude the whiteout was getting much worse. Still, I did not become alarmed, even as I realized the couloir here was too big and heavily buttressed on the sides for this to be the same place I'd ascended before.
Suddenly I became temporarily blinded by a big mist that swarmed in around me for several minutes, and as I kicked my methodical steps and plunged my ax, I realized the ax handle had just hit nothing. I immediately stopped and waited for a few moments. A hard gust of wind blew away part of the swirling mist and spindrift enveloping me, just long enough for me to see the whole back side of the mountain right in front of me and below me. I had reached the ridge crest far sooner than I had expected, and at that second I realized I was standing on a small, icy cornice, with open space right in front of my feet. I had nearly stepped right off the mountain unknowingly in the gloom, and had been spared right at the last possible moment. Part of the cornice a few feet to my right actually broke off as I stepped back, and I could hear the ice breaking and clattering down the opposite East Face. I immediately recalled reading how this had happened to Anderl Heckmair as he reached the summit of the Eiger Nordwand in a howling gale during his historic first ascent of the mountain. Nigel Peak is not the Eiger, but a fall down that nearly vertical East Face for two thousand feet would have been fatal; no two ways about it.
So without further adieu, I set out up the deep snow on the edge of Wilcox Pass, mostly walking on top of the snow and kicking steps into hard neve. I reached the top of the Pass, where it began snowing, and the wind came up, blowing spindrift around and generally taking away the ability to see more than a few hundred feet in the low areas. I could see nothing of the mountain higher than a hundred feet above the Pass. When I reached the foot of the mountain, which rises very abruptly, I couldn't tell exactly where along the Northwest Ridge I was. I'd been aiming for the southerly end, to eliminate having to traverse the steep and rotten pinnacles and gendarmes at the crest of the upper ridge. By going for the south end I knew when I topped out on the ridge I'd reach a nice, broad, rounded ridge which curled around to the left through a big avalanche bowl and intersected with the final summit ridge. So at the foot of the mountain, I put my crampons on and began kicking steps up the nice, hard neve on the face of the ridge.
As I made good time up the steep snow, grateful that I did not have to endure the notorious scree on this face, the visibility got worse until all that was visible was a thick, ghostly white and gray soup, with black rocks drifting out of it here and there. I just kept telling myself make every step a safe one. That was my mantra and I just kept repeating it over and over. I climbed the gullies to avoid the unstable rock buttresses protruding here and there. I began to notice shooting cracks running straight out from my feet occasionally; I'd take a step and a crack would race straight out sideways, left and right, and disappear into the gloom at the end of my field of vision about twenty feet on each side of me. That can't be good, I'd tell myself, but I was in such a zone and so far removed from the frightening realities of my life that I felt no fear at all on this day.
I had been climbing in a good rhythymn; plunging the ax handle into the neve at about shoulder level, kicking two steps, and repeating, over and over. Plunge, kick, kick, plunge, kick, kick. I'd climbed this face with no snow on it before, struggling up scree, and had only made a quarter of the progress I was making today. I was still getting the odd shooting cracks, but I heard nothing; the snowpack was quiet, with no whumping or squeaking, and it took all my concentration to see even a few feet in front of me now. As I was gaining altitude the whiteout was getting much worse. Still, I did not become alarmed, even as I realized the couloir here was too big and heavily buttressed on the sides for this to be the same place I'd ascended before.
Suddenly I became temporarily blinded by a big mist that swarmed in around me for several minutes, and as I kicked my methodical steps and plunged my ax, I realized the ax handle had just hit nothing. I immediately stopped and waited for a few moments. A hard gust of wind blew away part of the swirling mist and spindrift enveloping me, just long enough for me to see the whole back side of the mountain right in front of me and below me. I had reached the ridge crest far sooner than I had expected, and at that second I realized I was standing on a small, icy cornice, with open space right in front of my feet. I had nearly stepped right off the mountain unknowingly in the gloom, and had been spared right at the last possible moment. Part of the cornice a few feet to my right actually broke off as I stepped back, and I could hear the ice breaking and clattering down the opposite East Face. I immediately recalled reading how this had happened to Anderl Heckmair as he reached the summit of the Eiger Nordwand in a howling gale during his historic first ascent of the mountain. Nigel Peak is not the Eiger, but a fall down that nearly vertical East Face for two thousand feet would have been fatal; no two ways about it.
I immediately backed off a few feet, took stock of the situation and realized that the buttresses on either side of me were actually some of the pinnacles and gendarmes on the upper ridge. Because of the whiteout down below I'd inadvertently started my ascent about five hundred yards too far to the north, (Wilcox Pass is a big area!) and was now smack in the middle of the pinnacles, somewhere on the knife-edged crest of the Northwest Ridge. After considering my options, I decided to start making my way south, further up the ridge, and to just see what happened.
Well, what happened was that cornices would break off before I even reached them, indicating the fragility of the snow at this place. The sides of the pinnacles and the ridge itself were too steep for much snow to consolidate, and when I stepped against it my crampons would immediately sink straight to the steep, almost featureless rock underneath. I just kept telling myself, well, that cornice didn't completely collapse under you, things are looking up. I slowly continued to traverse the ridge upwards for an hour or two, occasionally giving myself a shot of adrenaline when I would slip and lose my position or be left awkwardly trying to prevent a further slip and a long fall. At this point there was nothing happening in my life but this climb; I was totally locked into the here and now, more alive than I had ever felt.
Well, what happened was that cornices would break off before I even reached them, indicating the fragility of the snow at this place. The sides of the pinnacles and the ridge itself were too steep for much snow to consolidate, and when I stepped against it my crampons would immediately sink straight to the steep, almost featureless rock underneath. I just kept telling myself, well, that cornice didn't completely collapse under you, things are looking up. I slowly continued to traverse the ridge upwards for an hour or two, occasionally giving myself a shot of adrenaline when I would slip and lose my position or be left awkwardly trying to prevent a further slip and a long fall. At this point there was nothing happening in my life but this climb; I was totally locked into the here and now, more alive than I had ever felt.
It was steep enough to lose it in a fall here; if I slipped more than a couple of feet, that would be it - I knew I would go all the way to the bottom a couple of thousand feet below, and those gullies were big, winding and studded with rocks and rock formations. Oddly enough I felt no fear and my mind was probably more lucid than it's ever been. This is not to say for a moment that I was feeling heroic; I just didn't feel anything at all. It felt like I was removed from all of this and watching it happen to another person, or watching it on television.
I reached a spot where the ridge widened to about three feet and I could actually walk on it. The sky was starting to clear a bit and I could see up to forty or fifty feet around me and occasionally look down the East Face and see the jumble of ice, rock, snow and the frozen Lake Wilcox at the bottom of it. Once in a while the mist would clear for a few seconds and I could see the summit; closer now and within reach, once I gained the final gendarme and climbed around the loaded North Bowl. Ahead of me I could see what I believe was the last big gendarme to be traversed. On the other side of it I would find that nice, round broad ridge that had been my intended target on the Northwest Ridge. Just at that moment, a small cornice about five feet in front of me just snapped off neatly and went tumbling down the West Face, breaking into little pieces as it went. That was it. A switch in my brain seemed to come on and I was back to reality.
I reached a spot where the ridge widened to about three feet and I could actually walk on it. The sky was starting to clear a bit and I could see up to forty or fifty feet around me and occasionally look down the East Face and see the jumble of ice, rock, snow and the frozen Lake Wilcox at the bottom of it. Once in a while the mist would clear for a few seconds and I could see the summit; closer now and within reach, once I gained the final gendarme and climbed around the loaded North Bowl. Ahead of me I could see what I believe was the last big gendarme to be traversed. On the other side of it I would find that nice, round broad ridge that had been my intended target on the Northwest Ridge. Just at that moment, a small cornice about five feet in front of me just snapped off neatly and went tumbling down the West Face, breaking into little pieces as it went. That was it. A switch in my brain seemed to come on and I was back to reality.
I was not afraid, but that last gendarme looked steep and wicked, and I sure had not come up here bent on suicide; my survival instincts were strong, and I decided right at that moment I'd had enough. The climb was not over; I knew I'd have to cross back over all of the difficult and dangerous terrain I'd already covered. That wasn't a pleasant thought, but I didn't think I could traverse that big tower, and the exposure below it convinced me that I didn't want to try. I began the long traverse back to try and find the entrance gully I'd accessed the ridge on. I noticed that in spite of the slight clearing, the wind and snow were filling my tracks in pretty well, making it hard to tell which gully I'd come up. Some of the couloirs were so steep I didn't dare try to downclimb them. Ocassionally when standing on a reasonably safe stance, I'd take a quick photo of the ridge for posterity and continue on.
So, not being able to follow my old trail, and not wanting to try a different gully and possibly become trapped or cliffed out, I traversed back over the rock and powdery snow, aware that I had not planned on having to climb the pinnacles at all, much less both ways. I reached the worst spot I'd found, a bare expanse of steep rock covered with fluffy snow, and only a tiny snow I ledge about fifteen feet below. One of my crampons slipped and my leg slid straight downhill about two feet, leaving me awkwardly balanced with all of my weight on a single crampon point, and no real handholds within reach. I knew that little ledge below would probably not stop my fall if I went off here. I pressed the pick of my ice ax into a slight feature in the rock; hard, and with more deliberation than I've ever done anything in my life. I managed to get my other crampon biting against the rock, allowing me to take another step towards safety. Fifteen seconds later I was standing on a safe snow stance, totally wired and wondering what was going to happen next.
So, not being able to follow my old trail, and not wanting to try a different gully and possibly become trapped or cliffed out, I traversed back over the rock and powdery snow, aware that I had not planned on having to climb the pinnacles at all, much less both ways. I reached the worst spot I'd found, a bare expanse of steep rock covered with fluffy snow, and only a tiny snow I ledge about fifteen feet below. One of my crampons slipped and my leg slid straight downhill about two feet, leaving me awkwardly balanced with all of my weight on a single crampon point, and no real handholds within reach. I knew that little ledge below would probably not stop my fall if I went off here. I pressed the pick of my ice ax into a slight feature in the rock; hard, and with more deliberation than I've ever done anything in my life. I managed to get my other crampon biting against the rock, allowing me to take another step towards safety. Fifteen seconds later I was standing on a safe snow stance, totally wired and wondering what was going to happen next.
On another section of steep, icy rock, a crampon bail slipped off the worn front welt of my boot, and it flopped around there, held on to the boot by only the strap. With one hand holding a rock outcrop, perched in a very exposed stance, I had to snap the crampon back over the toe welt of my boot and tighten the strap again with the other hand before I could proceed. This was a rather complicated maneuver, since I was holding my ice ax with that hand. I had to just let it go, dangling by its wrist leash as I adjusted the errant crampon. I finally made it to the gully I'd reached the ridge crest on, luckily finding it by way of my half-filled footprints on the broken cornice I had almost plunged over. I cautiously began to softly plunge step down the couloir, conscious now of the avalanche danger I had ignored signs of on my way up. The snow and neve had softened considerably, there were no shooting cracks going down, and in an hour I was safely back at the foot of the mountain in Wilcox Pass and hotfooting it out of there. You might say I was out of my "zone" by now, and frequently looking over my shoulder on the way down to the bottom of the face to ensure I didn't get wiped out by an avalanche. If I did, I at least wanted to see it coming.
Three quarters of the way back to the trailhead, I encountered a large adult bighorn sheep. He was right in my path, and showed no signs of being in a hurry to get out of my way, either. And I was too tired from all the adrenaline I'd blasted through my system in the past eight hours or so, and decided I wasn't going around him. I actually walked right by him, close enough to reach out and pat his head. I expected him to butt me with those massive curled horns as I walked past him, but he didn't even flinch; just stood there staring at me as I passed, two feet away.
On the highway just east of Jasper on the way home, I noticed a big black wolf just standing there in the ditch. I stopped the truck, watching him, then slowly moved along with him as he started walking away along the road. I must have gotten a good eyeful of him from thirty feet away for about three minutes before he tired of me and loped off into the bush. Later on my wife (one of those New Agers, as I previously mentioned) told me the wolf was my spirit guide. I don't know about that, but somebody was sure watching me that day. I'd never felt more alive than I did on that climb.
Two weeks later, the surgeon removed a 45 mm cyst from my throat, which afterwards was tested and deemed to be benign. It was actually a genetic occurence, something I was born with, and not a result of all the dope and cigarettes I'd smoked in my life.
I never felt better in my life than the moment he gave me that good news. The whole experience, the illness, the harrowing mountain trip....it all seems unreal to me now and I'm glad I took the few poorly exposed shots I did that day on the mountain. They help me to remember this wild experience, keeping it vivdly stamped into memory.
Three quarters of the way back to the trailhead, I encountered a large adult bighorn sheep. He was right in my path, and showed no signs of being in a hurry to get out of my way, either. And I was too tired from all the adrenaline I'd blasted through my system in the past eight hours or so, and decided I wasn't going around him. I actually walked right by him, close enough to reach out and pat his head. I expected him to butt me with those massive curled horns as I walked past him, but he didn't even flinch; just stood there staring at me as I passed, two feet away.
On the highway just east of Jasper on the way home, I noticed a big black wolf just standing there in the ditch. I stopped the truck, watching him, then slowly moved along with him as he started walking away along the road. I must have gotten a good eyeful of him from thirty feet away for about three minutes before he tired of me and loped off into the bush. Later on my wife (one of those New Agers, as I previously mentioned) told me the wolf was my spirit guide. I don't know about that, but somebody was sure watching me that day. I'd never felt more alive than I did on that climb.
Two weeks later, the surgeon removed a 45 mm cyst from my throat, which afterwards was tested and deemed to be benign. It was actually a genetic occurence, something I was born with, and not a result of all the dope and cigarettes I'd smoked in my life.
I never felt better in my life than the moment he gave me that good news. The whole experience, the illness, the harrowing mountain trip....it all seems unreal to me now and I'm glad I took the few poorly exposed shots I did that day on the mountain. They help me to remember this wild experience, keeping it vivdly stamped into memory.