To the unclimbed peaks

In April of 2024, Anya Boardman, Declan Dawson Taylor, our friend Mats Bjorkman (who was visiting from Sweden for a conference on tundra plant ecology) and I ended up spending three nights at Phelix. It was a wonderful ski trip filled with many beautiful memories, however one sticks out to me in particular. On our second day, we lapped each of the cols that tower over Long Lake, and at the top of the Gandalf-Frodo col we stopped to have lunch. A clear panorama of mountains stood to the west before us, rolling out of sight. Declan radiated with excitement looking out at the range. At the time, he and Jacob Grossbard were in the process of charting a ski traverse that would connect each of the VOC huts from Burton to Brian Waddington. The crux of the route would be from Harrison to Phelix, as it would involve navigating parts of the Lillooet icefield and the remote ranges and peaks that loomed ahead of us. His stoke for this plan was infectious that day, and we all looked at these mountains that few ever stepped foot in with a sense of awe.

A view of the western ranges from Frodo’s northwest ridge. Photo Credit: Anya Boardman

A question dawned in my mind at that moment. One I had never really given words to yet had been percolating around in my head for quite some time. I asked it there. The following is my recollection of how the conversation went:

“Are you guys summit people, or pass people?”

“What?”

“Like, if you had to choose between being on a summit and being in a pass, what would you choose? I think I’m a pass person. There’s no feeling to me like gaining a col or pass for the first time and being greeted by the view on the other side. It’s like opening a door to a whole new world to explore.”

Declan and Anya mulled it over for a minute before responding.

“I’m definitely a summit person,” Declan said. “Being on a summit is unreal. The idea that you are on the apex of everything around you with nowhere else to go. It’s like being on top of the world. You guys should try to summit Cayoosh if you can. You can see everything from up there. You can even just make out the ocean.”

Anya responded in agreement with me. “I think I’m a pass person too. I definitely like traversing somewhere and seeing new places more than summiting something. I feel being in a pass is part of that excitement.”

I confess I don’t quite remember Mats’ response, though I imagine it was filled with his signature brand of blunt and dry humour.

There are a few moments in life that will stick with me. Little snapshots that if I could freeze, I would try to keep myself in them forever. This was one of them. That col on that sunny April day with my three friends and I alone and dwarfed by the mountains.

Ski tracks coming down from the Peregrine-Frodo col. An iconic pass for many VOCers. Photo Credit: Mats Bjorkman
…

When I was growing up, my dad was my main conduit into the mountains. On nights before going on a day hike, he’d pull out a guidebook and pick a hike from there (and sometimes task me with finding one as well). No more research was required (aside from checking the weather of course). I rarely if ever learned the names of any of the Rockies that we explored. I never made a mental list of peaks I wanted to hike up or climb. If it was in the book and looked achievable, we would go and do it that weekend. Many times we would not complete a hike. We attempted Burstall Pass in Kananaskis four times over at least four years before we finally got to “the top”. It was simply enough to exist in the mountains. To wander up a valley beside an alpine creek bed or to meander along a rocky ridge; those were the objectives. The peak at the end of the trail was a fun bonus, but ultimately insignificant. Over the towering valley walls were some immeasurable quantity of other valleys and other peaks. The Rockies feel that way sometimes; like you’re moving through gouges in endless upturned earth, with some mystery hidden from view. Moving and being in such a grand landscape evoke a feeling that you simply will never see it all. I think that’s how I became a pass person.

When I joined the VOC, I began planning my own trips with a bit more intent. I learned many peak names from the knowledgeable people around me. I learned to research what every hike or ski or climb promised; what each crux was, what to prepare for, and what alternatives to consider. I began curating a Caltopo map of traverses I wanted to walk, lines I wanted to ski, and peaks I wanted to summit. I began making lists.

I think everyone in the VOC has a list. It’s a natural outcome of doing any sort of pursuit, let alone outdoor ones. There are so many objectives to be “completed”. So many landmarks to measure “progress”. So many test pieces. You talk to any second-year ski tourer about what they want to do this winter and the answers are all the same (I’m the most guilty of this):

“Aw man, I have to send Aussie this winter.”

“This is my Spearhead season!”

“Gotta get on Baker.”

“I hear you can see the ocean from atop Cayoosh!”

“I want to go to the Coquihalla when it’s not rainy and awful so the drive doesn’t feel like a huge waste of time.” (That one might be specific to me actually).

It’s almost a cliche at this point to bring up how this objectification of the mountains is a byproduct of our capitalist-colonial-westernized (insert other buzzwords) worldview. I chuckle to myself when I read someone in a 23-year-old journal give the same sort of rant you’d expect from your standard poli-sci student today. The more things change the more they stay the same. Yet cliches are based on truth. A mountain loses its personhood in a list. It’s a checkmark, not a living breathing entity to enter a relationship with. I mean, what’s the big deal with that?

Well for starters, mountains kill people. A lot of people. They are energetic beings, capable of creating their own weather on the fly. Capable of sending down avalanches that crush small towns. Anyone who has driven through the Frank Slide in the Crowsnest Pass has driven over the bones of over 90 lives snuffed out by what the Blackfoot and Ktunaxa historically called “the mountain that moves”. That kind of power needs to be respected.

But less drastically, one who views the world as a list watches their world get smaller and smaller with each checkmark. And as I went on in the VOC, I started to feel this shrinkage. Being in the mountains wasn’t so important as dreaming up which mountains to explore next. The magic I felt from going to Red Heather for the first time was replaced with almost a sense of boredom from going for the fourth. Days, where nothing was summited, didn’t exactly feel like failures, but there was a sense of disappointment each time it happened. The days that were successful felt a bit hollower. My most “objectively” successful day in the mountains, (when I climbed Mt. Lyell in Yosemite) was a grand old time, but left me thinking after I had finished: what now?

The view from Mt. Lyell. Proud to be the third party in the summit register that season. Photo Credit: Lucas Braun.

“Completing” one thing only led me to think about the next thing. Getting out into places that for my entire existence had been so life-affirming and healing became somewhat of a chore. When you get to the summit of a mountain, where else can you go but the next one? Seems rather Sisyphean to me.

That’s not to say I haven’t had incredibly profound and amazing “objective” driven days. The Garibaldi Neve Traverse I did in March with Anya, Declan, and Zoe Neudorf was one of my favourite days on this planet. Lyell was still an amazing test of my capabilities as a solo novice mountaineer. These things were technically “checkmarks” on a list, but led to experiences that were so much larger than any list could possibly contain or predict. But the list mindset as a whole poisoned me a little bit. I couldn’t bring myself to be super excited going into G1 this year, because there was no “objective” to check off. I had been to Brandywine three times already (the first being in the same league as the Neve for how profound I consider the experience), and while I was really stoked to teach people some glacier skills, I was not stoked to endure another rainstorm on the same cold exposed alpine ridge that we had been on the year prior. When the weather lifted, I had a fantastic time once again. However, I believe having an objective-driven mindset made it much harder for me to see the joy in sitting in a rain-soaked tent that I had once had.

But that April Phelix trip was different. For three nights, Mats, Anya, Declan, and I only had one objective: to exist in the mountains for four days. Goodbye Alpine Starts! Hello waking up at 8:00 and having nice leisurely breakfasts. Goodbye, 10 km + days! Hello, lapping the same cols a few times then turning in for the night. Goodbye, frantic camp set-ups and take-downs! Hello sitting outside in the sun for a few hours and simply staring across the lake at Mt. Taillefer. It was the most type 1 fun overnight trip I’ve ever done in the winter (Burns and Turns being a close second). And it was made better when Tom Curran, Cassandra Elphinstone, Sam Viavant, and alpine superstars Nick Matwyuk and Lena Rowat along with their son Charles showed up on the second evening.

Type 1 sunny vibes. Photo Credit: Anya Boardman.

The next day a group of us summited Mt. Peregrine and skied Return of The King under its corniced north face (on the way up, we passed Lena on her way back from a solo lap of the line in her flowery ski dress). The day after that, Declan and I followed Nick and Lena’s beta on a new ski out from the Gandalf-Frodo Col down to Tolkein and the Phelix Creek drainage (another banger ski line that we had a blast on). All in all, everything about that April Phelix trip was awesome, and we did some “objectively” rad shit with some of the coolest people ever. Yet none of us set out with these objectives in mind. We were simply there to be in the mountains with friends. And that mindset opened up the door for so much more.

…

Chris McCandless wrote in a journal as he lay dying in Alaska that “happiness is only real when shared.” It’s a simple axiom, and not one I believe is worth dying to learn. So I try to live by it as much as I can. But sometimes things aren’t as simple as that. Sometimes you need to reinternalize the same lessons. It seems the same attitudes that disconnect us from the mountains and reduce them to checkmarks can also do the same for us with our friends. The summer of 2024 that I spent working in Yosemite was mostly a positive experience. I think it was foundational to my development as a human being, and I absolutely do not regret doing it. But many parts of it were hard. So far from home, from Calgary, Vancouver, my family, and the VOC, I felt like things weren’t resonating like they normally do. Chasing these ideals, these objectives, these job opportunities, these peaks, can blind us to what’s really around us, and where the joy lies. You don’t always notice it until it’s gone.

I was becoming a summit person. Chasing each peak, and forgetting about the last ones. But standing on that col in April with my friends as we looked at rows and rows of peaks, the distinction between summits and passes was made clear to me. I don’t see it as a binary. A person can prefer summits to passes, and still hold a pass-driven mindset. For the pass person, there will always be something higher than you. Something to ground you. Something to move towards should you want to, but you don’t have to. For the pass person, peering into another world is enough. You still get a similar view, but you decide how you turn around, and where you finish. You go just as far as you want. A pass person is not precluded from summiting. Yet a pass person can look to the unclimbed peaks ahead of them, and leave them there. They can listen to the mountains, to themselves, and to each other, and not feel a pang of disappointment should one of those three beings say no. The only objective is to walk. To see new things. To exist in the mountains.

Becoming a pass person after being a summit person isn’t easy. Yet I plan to start by giving thanks. Thanks to the beautiful people and places that give me so much joy. By savouring each moment and sensation. And by letting the silly lists in my head remain what they are: silly. Besides, the Spearhead is probably overrated anyway (still gonna ski it this winter though).

The personally unclimbed Gandalf from the shoulder of Frodo. Photo Credit: Anya Boardman