frail snow memory of Edith Cavell
January 28, 2007
Clouds and frail snow end this day. I have been waiting for you, snow, I think. It has been too much of this eight above and then 28 below and not a sniff of snow. So now, with temperatures around minus 1C, there are hints of snow fretting past this office window. Good. I find falling snow to be very comforting. It makes me happy. Don't know why.
Well, there was one time, when an overly ambitious group consisting of Dean, Bob and I, decided we'd cross-country ski up into the Tonquin Valley. (Jasper National Park, Rocky Mountains, Alberta, Canada) We made the reservations at the huts, overstuffed our backpacks, and set out on the Cavell Road at around 5 p.m. (Don't ask. A strange set of circumstances caused this late departure. Sane people would have left mid-morning!!!) Regardless of the time, we set off, and in 45 minutes it was pretty much dark. In an hour the snow began to fall, quite literally like a blanket. It was thick, thick, thick and showed no signs of letting up. None of us had ever been to the Cavell Hostel in winter before. Nor had any of us skied 13 kilometres up hill, with heavy backs on our backs, in the dark, in a raging snow storm. After three hours, we were exhausted. After four hours, Bob wanted us to leave him behind, find the hostel and come back for him! Right. That would have worked.
I can't recall how long it actually took us. I do remember finding the hostel only by smell -- as we were about to ski past it, somebody smelled smoke. Inside the main cookhouse, we interrupted a couple who were in the throws of love-making. I remember not caring. We cooked something, ate like dogs, drank huge portions of whisky and bedded down for the night in one of the outer cabins. I remember thanking god, or Buddha, for Dean's small bladder, because every time he got up to relieve himself, he stoked the fire too. We were warm, and I slept well and hard, like a marmot. The next day, with blistered, ruined feet, and with the snow fresh and the cold steady, we decided to spend the three days smoking cigars and drinking (Bowmore Cask-strength, I believe) at the Cavell Hostel. The Wates-Gibson Hut, actually in the Tonquin Valley, could kiss our cold whisky butts. Nothing like having to chop the ice on the river to get water for you whisky!!! We did make a few timid day trips into the Narnia-like avalanche zones. For us, the Tonquin Valley in winter remains a distant dream. Yes, I know, we are BRAVE mountain MEN!!!!
Ah, in retrospect, I even loved that snow.
2 Comments
1. LF had this to say: Feb 04, 2007 ~ 22:46 ~ #
Edith Cavell…historically a fine nurse…a healer.
And her mountain referent heals when in the company of friend climbers, who will remind you to add hard-gotten water for the cask strength, so it comforts but steals not the consciousness of granite traversing. Reading this took me to Jasper, provoked winter want, re/minded me of shoving mortal time in a snow storm and laughing bravely in the snow dark. I like myself that time.