I stared across the 6 ft expanse as he took in a deep breath. Outside, the snow pelted our nylon enclosure while the wind shook the walls with enough fervor that you could see the saturated air erratically dance and shimmy between us. Ten thirty. Time for a midmorning snooze.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Planning started in early November. The trees had long lost their leaves in Calgary and we had already made some turns in the local mountains. This stirred the creative juices deep within Scotty and in a matter of a few days he had concocted the adventure. It was born of previous experiences, pictures in guide books and an always overzealous mind. Emails were sent but positive replies were few and far between. I was still 50/50 on the whole concept. Commitment has never been my cup of tea and I wasn’t about to start with this.
I’ve already mentioned Scott’s overzealous attitude, but stubbornness is his real forte. He proceeded as if everyone had responded instantly and with great joy. Helicopters were arranged, “to bring” lists compiled and, without fail, the image of Mt. Satan was jammed in my face everyday. Bailing on this now would not only bring the wrath of my best friend upon me, it may just crush his very soul. With no apparent options left, I committed. Besides, now that there were two of us I’m sure the rest would be clambering to jump on board.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Slash Rider: Scott Thumlert
Scotty goes DEEP Rider: Scott Thumlert
Back to Back on the flanks of Mount Satan… Rider: Scotty Thumlert
Two o’clock in the morning and the alarm rings. I slowly tilt my head upwards, attempting to limit, for the moment, the amount of icy, damp air that will inevitably enter my drenched sleep bag.
“How’s it look?”
“Enghhhh?”
“Should we just get it done?”
“You think so?”
You can only converse in questions for so long. Time for action. Grabbing our wet clothes from the “water corner”, we ease into them one at a time, don our headlamps, break through our snow-encased door and emerge from our relative sanctuary, into the abyss.
After a few minutes of hand digging through the recently accumulated snow we locate the shovels and without a word shared between us, begin to go to work. Yes it’s brutal, but given that it’s also potentially life saving, we’re managing.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The rest were not exactly clambering, but to my surprise, as January came and passed we had actually established a group that if its potential was fully realized, would number six. Soon, we had four locked in and not long after a fifth officially stated his intentions to join. Two ski guides, a telemarking climber, an extremely knowledgeable backcountry enthusiast and me. I was feeling comfortable with my commitment. It seemed like things were all coming together.
Things were not all coming together. In fact, these were merely the events that allowed them to all come apart. One ski guide dropped and not long after, the telemarker backed out. As April neared there still hadn’t been a word from guide number two in months. We didn’t know if he was alive, let alone still on board. As things began to look bleak, thoughts of concern welled up inside. Did Scotty still want to head out if there were only two of us? What about glacier travel? Injuries? Bears?
He was still confident. I’m not sure if he was just putting on a brave face, if stubbornness got the better of him of if he actually thought we’d be fine. I’ll never know exactly, but that’s not really important, because on the last Saturday in April we loaded up his fiancée’s company truck and made for the hills. The destination was Tatla Lake, British Columbia. From there, a helicopter would fly forty minutes deep into the Coast Range and set us free near Mt. Monarch. After 19 days had elapsed, we intended to be at a logging road near Bella Coola. Before I even had time to comprehend what was happening, we were alone, on the edge of an icefield, drinking the two Lucky Lagers Scotty had remembered to toss in his pack.
Scott, showing skills…
All things considered, the early stages went surprisingly well. There were a few missing items, like a lid for the pot, a second pot and our pile of beef jerky, but we made due without and pretty soon we were firing on all cylinders. Some lines went down and a small storm rolled through that gave me the time to recover from the ankle problems I had created for myself at Ultimate practice the week before. I was feeling confident, Scott even more so, and we were ready to start doing some serious skiing.
As we were moving base camp up a small hill a few kilometres away in order to be ideally located for the next targets, the wind freshened and the clouds rolled in. The sun disappeared amongst a swirling mass of white and would not return again for five days.
Stuck in tent…brushing up on everything… Reader/Sleeper: Scott Thumlert
One or two days in a tent is fine. One or two days in a tent, in a blinding, full on raging, spring snow storm in the Coast Range is also fine. But when the numbers creep beyond that, things become interesting. Nearly everything was damp and anything that wasn’t damp was absolutely drenched. Just going outside for a pee became an annoying ordeal. When sleeping becomes as much of a chore, you know things are becoming dire.
On the fifth night of “the storm”, the alarm was set every two hours from ten o’clock through six in the morning. At each alert, we would rise, enter our already soaked clothes and head outside to eradicate the snow that was slowly burying us alive. When six finally arrived, removal was no longer a viable option as the levels around us had risen far above the tent height and any snow that was thrown above head level simply became airborne again. Hardly an efficient process.
For all we knew, the storm could have continued on for another five days. We had to start fresh. So the anchors were slowly retrieved and our water logged shelter was dragged from the depths of the hole we had so diligently created for it over the prior days. Stomping out a new pad and re-staking our slumping home brought new life to both the tent and our spirits. Yes, we were still wet but the walls were no longer slouching precipitously inwards. They were crisp, snow free and because of it, everything seemed dry. At the time, it felt perfect.
Later that morning, after a little cat-nap, it was over. The sun shone and although it still wasn’t spring on the icefield, it did all we could ask and we began the drying process on our gear.
A few days of skiing were cobbled together, although each one was cut short by the 2 o’clock cloud. We would wake up early to extremely cold temperatures and by the time it got warm enough that our feet were thawing, the clouds would come hurtling up the valley, over the ice and leave us with another afternoon of tent. Given what we had gone through, this really wasn’t that bad. We accepted our fate and with the cold air keeping the snow light and dry, we reaped the benefits of the five day storm that a few days ago had plagued our existence.
Average… Rider: Scott Thumlert
When you’re this big, they call you Mister… Walker: Scott Thumlert
This weather pattern continued, as if perfectly scripted, for the next couple days with the only blemish on its track record coming immediately after we moved to our final glacier location. Unfortunately for us, our remaining ski days were very limited and this new storm was threatening our chances of conquering Mt. Satan, the very image that had inspired us to make our way to this remote, icy landscape in the first place.
This would be the first time we got angry. Every hour of tent time before this was just bad luck, a nasty coincidence that didn’t happen to be in our best interest. This, however, was a conspiracy. Someone was out to hurt us, both physically and mentally. Whether it was a test or just plain cold-hearted, jerk attitude didn’t matter. Whoever was behind this wasn’t just getting under our skin, they were slithering through our bones, pulling at our nerves and crawling on our brains.
We had to find a way through this, before something bad happened. So we turned in the only direction we could think of and did what any twenty something, hippy/rednecks would do…we found a little help with our friends, in a big way. With freshly relaxed minds and a seemingly inexhaustible supply of new conversation topics, the day started to fly by and before we knew it the clock had struck eight. Bedtime!
An early rise was planned and early rise we achieved, with another brilliantly sunny and deathly cold morning waiting for us outside. It wasn’t six yet but we had slept enough in the last few weeks, so we decided to get a move on. Being our last day of potential skiing we did not want to waste any opportunities. We skied Satan twice that morning. A waist-deep, fluted upper pitch that mellowed slightly for a high speed cruise down to the glacier. The cold had kept the snow perfect and the only danger involving moving snow was being caught in your own slough. This was the stuff of dreams.
Wandering across a sea of white. Walker: Curt Derbyshire
A quick sampling of the local cuisine… Rider: Scott Thumlert
Satan…and his Mountain. Poser: Scott Thumlert
With the hour nearing two, a few clouds materializing and our legs exhausted, we headed to camp with hope of enjoying a meal in the remaining minutes of sunshine, but before we could even get the stove lit someone flipped a switch. The clouds did not continue to roll in as they had so often in the previous weeks, they backed off. The temperature began to rise, the wind all but disappeared and within half an hour we were in shorts, exposing our frighteningly white bodies to the sun and any heli-tours that so dared to pass by.
The gear was officially dry, ice cream was being made and the Frisbee that we had hauled around all trip was finally being put to good use. All was finally right as unbelievable skiing, sunshine and friends had united in the middle of somewhere. It is moments like these that I now look back upon and realize why I was there, why Scotty was there and why he had pushed me so hard to be there some seven months prior.
In desperate need of a tan, man. Poser: Curt Derbyshire
The next six days were filled with a completely different kind of adventure. For those that have bushwhacked through coastal forests before, you know exactly what I’m talking about. For those that haven’t, I will make the recommendation that you do it, but only once. Even after we had made it through the boulder fields, waterfalls and alder groves, around the bears, rivers and slide paths and down to the logging road, our work was far from over. We were in Bella Coola and our car was 4 hours southeast at White Saddle Air, near Tatla Lake. Hitching a mid-week ride out of the Bella Coola Valley is not as easy as we thought it would be, but the locals were more than welcoming. They fed us burgers, a few beers and even brought us to one of the most interesting parties I have ever been a part of. All while we patiently loitered around town for the better part of two days.
I have heard and know of many people who have gone on adventures just like this and when the topic came up the same thoughts always crept into my mind: Too much planning, too much time away from everything, no partying or girls and FAR too much commitment. It’s very easy to quickly think of a thousand reasons why you shouldn’t do something. It can be a simple task like waking up for first chair on a hungover, powder Sunday or striking up a conversation with the cute girl next to you at the bar. It can be more daring, like moving to a new city or putting your entrepreneurial ideas into motion. They’re all the same in that they are adventures where you never know what might happen when all is said and done. As easily as you could succeed, you can fall flat on your face, but the only way to ever find out is to commit, fully and whole-heartedly.
I’ve made it a life-purpose to avoid commitment. I don’t RSVP to weddings until the bride or groom actually call me, the longest relationship I’ve been in didn’t quite hit the one year mark, and second place is probably around two months. This has left me very free to do what it is I want, whenever I want. Unfortunately, I’ve failed to find what it is I want and just as an avalanche slides down a mountainside, I’ve simply taken the path of least resistance.
River camp…Firestarter: Scott Thumlert
This path has led me to a point that is comfortable. I have an easy job that pays well and too many friends to count. Everything is set up perfectly for my journey into upper-middle class, western society and there is nothing more I want than to fuck it all up. Maybe it’s the “quarter life crisis”, maybe it’s an overactive brain or maybe, hopefully, it’s a true realization of myself. Finally figuring out what things are actually important in this life and not just accepting what someone else has claimed. You have to do what you love and commit to it without fear. I’ve always known what it is I loved to do, I was just too afraid to do it and too mindful of what others might say or think. It’s special, little fractions of time, like the perfect day of skiing and sunshine on the Icefield, that can bring all these thoughts together and help you to truly understand them as they’re meant to be.
Before we left on our trip to the Monarch Icefield Scotty and I were out for a few (lots of) beers. I can’t remember what bar it was or even what city we were in at the time but I clearly remember one statement he made that night. Naturally, skiing was being discussed and the conversation wound its way to a previous adventure he had made to the Coast Range and more specifically, the Waddington Icefield. He prepared me for what he was about to say with “I know this may sound super cheesy but…”. When someone starts a sentence like that, you better listen to it intently, because the odds are that the rest will be extremely important. I turned towards him to take in the remainder, “…the trip I did to Waddington changed my life”.
At the time, I didn’t really know what he meant, but I certainly do now. I can make that very same statement to someone else and fully, unequivocally believe my message. I don’t exactly know what I’m going to do with all this newfound enlightenment but I know that nothing would have happened and nothing will happen without a little commitment. Maybe there’s hope for me getting married one day after all…although I wouldn’t hold my breath on that one.
Words by Curt Derbyshire
Photos by Scott Thumlert and Curt Derbyshire
Inspiration by Scott Thumlert
Ed’s Note: This article was first published on Biglines in fall, 2007 and was hailed by many in the community as “the best Trip Report in the history of the site”. So we’d like to thank both Scotty and Curt for their help in resurrecting the piece on the new site.
And for those who are curious about Curt’s current relationship status eight years after this article was published, the wordsmith had this to say: “While I’m not married yet, we are just a few weeks away from a one year anniversary with my awesome girlfriend. Making it my longest relationship to date!”