Roche Miette has always been one of my favorite peaks. It was the first mountain I ever summitted. It's close to where I live when I'm in Canada; three hours from my front door. There's seldom ever another soul on it; the fact that I only climb it in winter probably has something to do with that. There's beautiful scenery and miles of view in all directions from its summit, because this peak is the highest one in a circumference several miles wide. As a result, its exposed location puts it directly in the face of high winds and extreme wind chills in winter. Taking yourself up there and getting back down safely often feels like a real accomplishment in winter, and tests a climber's mettle and fortitude.
I think I deliberately choose to only climb this peak during the winter in order to avoid the grizzly bears that roam the region, and to avoid the terrible loose scree that comprises half of the main massif of this mountain, especially the last steep section of the route. In winter the bears are asleep and the scree freezes solid, becoming covered with a good heavy layer of snow above the approach where the route steepens. This enables a climber to kick steps up the thousand-foot-high Northeast Face instead of sliding halfway back down on every second step.
I've climbed this peak in all possible conditions; from hot, dry and stifling summer weather, when I nearly passed out several times from dehydration after running out of water while descending, to ascents made in brutally cold temperatures with winds that would have frozen my eyeballs and blinded me in seconds if I hadn’t been wearing storm goggles. It's in a dry, arid zone in the Eastern Front Ranges, and sees very little snow in the winter at lower elevations, as well as less rain in the summer than the peaks on the western side of the Continental Divide. In a half dozen winter climbs on this mountain I've never had to wear snowshoes to approach the route, or even had as much as a problem with getting stuck while driving and parking off the highway at the trailhead. I think it is safe to say you will not likely ever find yourself postholing in deep snow on a winter ascent of this peak, in spite of its geographical location in the Great White North.
I've climbed this peak in all possible conditions; from hot, dry and stifling summer weather, when I nearly passed out several times from dehydration after running out of water while descending, to ascents made in brutally cold temperatures with winds that would have frozen my eyeballs and blinded me in seconds if I hadn’t been wearing storm goggles. It's in a dry, arid zone in the Eastern Front Ranges, and sees very little snow in the winter at lower elevations, as well as less rain in the summer than the peaks on the western side of the Continental Divide. In a half dozen winter climbs on this mountain I've never had to wear snowshoes to approach the route, or even had as much as a problem with getting stuck while driving and parking off the highway at the trailhead. I think it is safe to say you will not likely ever find yourself postholing in deep snow on a winter ascent of this peak, in spite of its geographical location in the Great White North.
So I set off from the trailhead one morning well before dawn, not really too concerned about summitting the peak again, but mainly to just wanting to enjoy the outing, get away from the rat race and have some time to myself. It was minus 28 degrees below zero and a steady wind was blowing at about twenty-five miles an hour in the valley. I could see the wild clouds of spindrift blowing around near the summit, and knew the wind was going to be much stronger up there. I made good time getting to the approach ridge, having learned all the short cuts and easiest trails to take from past mistakes. I hiked up the approach ridge, which was half bare from the vicious winds that raked it from the northwest. The faint trail disappeared occasionally but I just kept on going from memory, knowing that by staying on the steep western edge of this ridge just below the trees crowning it that it was impossible to become lost, even in a near whiteout. I kept hiking up the ridge in a southerly direction, eventually leaving the tree line behind as the wind increased in velocity in proportion to the altitude gained. At tree line I passed a big bend that curved hard to the left, and then straightened out to become a very steep, striated, shattered and stepped ridge.
At this point the wind seemed to gain power, blowing upwards from the bottom of the mountain. I could literally feel it lifting me up as I climbed; it felt like all I had to do was lift my feet and the wind picked me up and did the rest for me. It was about this time I realized I had never heard a wind this loud before. It was literally howling and the volume was remarkable, in a place where there would have been total silence on a calm day. The approach ridge became more exposed as I approached the shoulder, and I had to drop down on the left side for about thirty feet below the crest to follow the usual trail. Doing so gave me my first respite from the wind in about three hours, and I took out my water bottle, already half frozen inside my pack, and had a drink and a bite to eat in a little protected niche. Leaving the wind was such a relief I hardly noticed the bite of the minus thirty below temperatures that enveloped the upper elevations of the mountain.
At this point the wind seemed to gain power, blowing upwards from the bottom of the mountain. I could literally feel it lifting me up as I climbed; it felt like all I had to do was lift my feet and the wind picked me up and did the rest for me. It was about this time I realized I had never heard a wind this loud before. It was literally howling and the volume was remarkable, in a place where there would have been total silence on a calm day. The approach ridge became more exposed as I approached the shoulder, and I had to drop down on the left side for about thirty feet below the crest to follow the usual trail. Doing so gave me my first respite from the wind in about three hours, and I took out my water bottle, already half frozen inside my pack, and had a drink and a bite to eat in a little protected niche. Leaving the wind was such a relief I hardly noticed the bite of the minus thirty below temperatures that enveloped the upper elevations of the mountain.
Back onto the trail, I finally reached the cairn at the top of the shoulder where the route drops down to a little col before ascending the Northeast Face of the mountain. The wind at the shoulder was brutal, but I still had my back to it, which helped; then I dropped down into the col and began to exit the cold blast of it as the main bulk of the upper massif began to shield me from the brutal gusts coming in from the west. I climbed up the gully, kicking steps on solid snow, and made good time heading up to the mid-point of the thousand-foot-high face.
About this time the gully began to steepen considerably as the snowpack deepened. I began to become a little concerned about a slide, but figured with the cold temperatures the area had experienced lately, the pack would hold together. Near the top of the gully I could see it narrowed into a steep rock chimney about twenty feet high, followed by a little stretch of third class climbing before the summit plateau. At the bottom of this chute the snow was at about a sixty degree angle; I don't know if it was merely piled up this steep with lee-side windloading or if the gully itself reached this angle naturally. I had to protect every step up carefully with an ice ax belay, kicking crampons in hard, as the exposure and runout on this firm slope was getting a little impressive. The angle just seemed to steepen as I got closer to the chimney.
About this time the gully began to steepen considerably as the snowpack deepened. I began to become a little concerned about a slide, but figured with the cold temperatures the area had experienced lately, the pack would hold together. Near the top of the gully I could see it narrowed into a steep rock chimney about twenty feet high, followed by a little stretch of third class climbing before the summit plateau. At the bottom of this chute the snow was at about a sixty degree angle; I don't know if it was merely piled up this steep with lee-side windloading or if the gully itself reached this angle naturally. I had to protect every step up carefully with an ice ax belay, kicking crampons in hard, as the exposure and runout on this firm slope was getting a little impressive. The angle just seemed to steepen as I got closer to the chimney.
I reached the chimney and deliberated for a few seconds whether or not to dump my pack, but I knew I would not be able to downclimb that chute, especially in these conditions, and I had not brought a rope so a rappel would be impossible. The pack was going to have to come up and over with me, then then I’d have to descend back down a switchbacked section of the face further to my left. I left my crampons on and began climbing the chimney, hearing the wind roaring just above the chimney, seeing the spindrift blowing around and knowing it was going to be far worse than the approach ridge had been. About six feet below the top of the chimney I reached for a hold, pull-tested it then pulled hard while trying to raise my foot up to the last toehold that would take me up onto the uneven, rocky summit plateau.
Then the big rock I had been pulling on came loose and fell away, dropping to the snow slope, hitting it before I did, as my body took the time to bounce off of protruding rocks in the chimney before I reached the steep snow. I fell straight backwards, landing squarely on my shoulders and pack and without a second's hesitation I was sliding down the steep gully, head first on my back, reaching what felt like terminal velocity in about five seconds while my ice ax whipped around through the air, tethered to my right wrist as my legs and crampons flailed around, tearing up the left leg of my goretex shell pants. I remember thinking as the seconds went by in slow motion I'm not going to be able to stop......so this is what it's like to die... I remember feeling very lucid and unafraid, and that's about it.
Then the big rock I had been pulling on came loose and fell away, dropping to the snow slope, hitting it before I did, as my body took the time to bounce off of protruding rocks in the chimney before I reached the steep snow. I fell straight backwards, landing squarely on my shoulders and pack and without a second's hesitation I was sliding down the steep gully, head first on my back, reaching what felt like terminal velocity in about five seconds while my ice ax whipped around through the air, tethered to my right wrist as my legs and crampons flailed around, tearing up the left leg of my goretex shell pants. I remember thinking as the seconds went by in slow motion I'm not going to be able to stop......so this is what it's like to die... I remember feeling very lucid and unafraid, and that's about it.
All I could think of was the big rocks protruding out of the gully several hundred feet down and what they would do to me when I hit them. Then by some stroke of fate I hit a very soft and uneven area of deep, sun-cupped snow that grabbed the pack below my shoulders and flipped me over in a complete backwards somersault, leaving me stationary in the snow, lying on my belly half covered in snow while looking up at the slope I'd just fallen down. There were big rocks in the gully about two hundred feet below me; another few seconds and I'd have hit them. I had been extremely fortunate that there was no ice on the gully surface for crampon points to bite into during my fall, or a broken leg or ankle would have been the likely outcome. I gave myself a few seconds to relax and contemplate what had just occurred, then took out my camera, pointed it up towards the chimney and took a picture for posterity. This is as good a reason as any to bail now, I told myself. Nothing to be ashamed of, most sensible climbers wouldn't have even left the trailhead in a wind like this... But I decided I was close enough to the top to hit the left side of the gully, switchback up the easierbut less direct face, traversing upwards to the left onto easier ground and top out that way. It was only three hundred vertical feet.
So I did that. The summit was an absolutely frozen Hell, the wind churning around violently around the maze of uneven rock formations that make up the "flat" plateau, whipping around corners, blinding me in seconds. I took shelter behind a huge rock formation and took off my pack, found my storm goggles and put them on. There - I could see again. The wind was alarming. It gusted with raw power I had never experienced before, humbling me and reminding me that this place where I'd been before was now a place where a human could die very quickly. Not bothering to tag the actually summit about three hundred yards to the north, I moved to the edge of the plateau, satisfied, and started following my trail back down. Within minutes I was out of the main force of the wind and in about one hour after picking my way through a very careful downclimb.
So I did that. The summit was an absolutely frozen Hell, the wind churning around violently around the maze of uneven rock formations that make up the "flat" plateau, whipping around corners, blinding me in seconds. I took shelter behind a huge rock formation and took off my pack, found my storm goggles and put them on. There - I could see again. The wind was alarming. It gusted with raw power I had never experienced before, humbling me and reminding me that this place where I'd been before was now a place where a human could die very quickly. Not bothering to tag the actually summit about three hundred yards to the north, I moved to the edge of the plateau, satisfied, and started following my trail back down. Within minutes I was out of the main force of the wind and in about one hour after picking my way through a very careful downclimb.
I climbed up to the shoulder from the little col and began to pick my way down the crest of the ridge as quickly as I could. The wind was still blasting uphill, but now I was moving into it, whereas before it had been blowing me up the hill. The wind literally picked me up and blew me off my feet at least a half dozen times. It is far easier to be blown off your feet when facing the wind than when it hits you from behind - it's simple body mechanics. It blew in my face so hard I couldn't breathe; I literally felt like I'd been hit by a vaccuum and could not get any air. I'd pick up a foot to take a step forward and the wind would catch me balanced on the other foot and send me flying. A couple of times I actually crawled behind a few large rocks, cowering there, helpless in the midst of Mother Nature, who I had never seen so angry. I would estimate the wind was moving at between sixty to a hundred miles an hour from one minute to the next. Living in Canada and working outdoors all my life I was generally unfazed by cold, but this was different.
The wind roared like a freight train, and my goretex shell flapped wildly, sounding like a row of flags cracking in the wind. I thought the wind was going to actually rip the goretex right off of me, and my right thigh was half-frozen from where my right crampon had torn a ten-inch rip into I when I fell off the chimney. Agonizingly I picked my way down the bare upper ridge, which is a place where it is impossible to move fast without sliding down and possibly right off the face of the ridge on the thin film of loose crud lying on the frozen-solid scree and shattered rock. After what seemed to be an eternity, I reached the lower end of the steep upper ridge, made a sharp left turn onto the gentler lower section at tree line, and took what shelter I could find in the trees. At this point I realized I was becoming clumsy and weaving slightly. While my hands and feet were all right, my body felt numb and chilled to the bone by the relentless wind. Looking back up to the summit, I now could scarcely believe I'd been up there, fallen down that gully without breaking my neck or killing myself.
The wind roared like a freight train, and my goretex shell flapped wildly, sounding like a row of flags cracking in the wind. I thought the wind was going to actually rip the goretex right off of me, and my right thigh was half-frozen from where my right crampon had torn a ten-inch rip into I when I fell off the chimney. Agonizingly I picked my way down the bare upper ridge, which is a place where it is impossible to move fast without sliding down and possibly right off the face of the ridge on the thin film of loose crud lying on the frozen-solid scree and shattered rock. After what seemed to be an eternity, I reached the lower end of the steep upper ridge, made a sharp left turn onto the gentler lower section at tree line, and took what shelter I could find in the trees. At this point I realized I was becoming clumsy and weaving slightly. While my hands and feet were all right, my body felt numb and chilled to the bone by the relentless wind. Looking back up to the summit, I now could scarcely believe I'd been up there, fallen down that gully without breaking my neck or killing myself.
