by Jesse Invik
[With the scrambling season approaching, we post this story from the last scrambling season]
Just what you need, another bit of philosophical glop about why we climb, right? Didn't Mallory already sew this question up with the famous quote "Because it's there"? Unfortunately it seems that we all are driven to contemplate this question for ourselves regularly. And given the damage an obsession with climbing can cause to our bodies, our relationships and the environment, it makes sense to give this some thought from time to time, contemplate if what we get out of it is worth what we put into it, or what we could potentially lose because of it.
My own reasons are a mystery to me. I'm not good at it. I don't excel at any one aspect of it. I'll never be a pro, as I once had fleeting ambitions to be. I'll never climb in the Himalayas or the Andes. I'm a gutless wonder when it comes to technical rock or ice, and getting more so with the years; just ask Shelley about that one. I made her back off Escargot Corner in perfect weather. That's right, a 5.6, how embarrassing! I tell my friends I'm going climbing but this usually means I'm going scrambling, or at best, low-end mountaineering. I've scared myself shitless in the past, and a dozen times or more I made deals with myself to quit, if I just survived the day. And yet the beauty, the wonder of it keeps me coming back. The sense of being strong enough and yet being humbled by my surroundings at the same time. And I have to face facts: it's the feeling of "wow, look at what I just did, aren't I cool?" that is most responsible for my return.
This summer, the last weekend in July during an incredible heat wave, I finally got the opportunity to climb Mt. Temple. I'd wanted to for years, but a combination of trail closures, bad weather or lack of a partner always prevented it. A few days before leaving I received an e-mail from Dave McCormick telling me the route was clear of snow, and that he'd gone solo, car to summit in 3.5 hours. Thanks Dave. I decided to aim for doubling his time, and was almost successful. Staggering out of bed in the dark, my group of three was the first to reach Sentinel Pass, though we were about 20th to reach the summit. That day we shared the mountain with about 150 people including: a seven month pregnant woman (who didn't miss an opportunity to impress that fact upon everyone she passed), a man and his wiener dog, several groups of foreign tourists clad in jeans, runners and polo shirts, and a father and son team (the son about 8 years old), also in jeans and runners, as well as the usual alpine club types. Only about 50% of the climbers were wearing helmets, and as rocks were kicked down by the dozen I envisioned numerous accidents, though we witnessed none. The rock bands were choked with people trying to weave past each other in opposite directions, and the whole peak seemed to emanate stress as much as it did heat.
Still, I felt proud of myself, standing winded and wheezing on the summit with a couple dozen new friends, all of us jockeying for a good position from which to take our photos. It seemed to me at the time a great achievement, standing at the highest point for many miles, breathing the thin air and taking it all in. And yet obviously what I had accomplished was commonplace that day. We had all helped to erode the mountain (a lot!), disturb and distress the local bears, and put ourselves at risk to do something that was not special.
Selfish perhaps, given the environmental repercussions, but I'm still glad I went. And I do feel a little special and I do feel accomplished. I have to be at least a little beyond average in fitness levels don't I? And now I'm sitting here wondering if I can fit one more trip in between now and the third week in August when I move to Ontario. Does it really make sense? All that effort and risk to get to the top only to turn around and come back down? I guess maybe Mallory had it right. There isn't a rational expression for why we do this. Perhaps next time I'll pick a less popular peak, so I can feel a bit more special.
Thanks to Deirdre O'Reilly and Claude Lapointe for helping me get up Mt. Temple.
