Attempt on Ingram

Mount Ingram, when viewed from a certain angle, looks like a mean, nasty mountain. From its north face - the angle from which most people see it - the mountain is brutally steep, strewn with long slides of loose, sharp rock.

Of course, I wanted to climb it.

There isn't much in the local hiking guide books about getting to the top of Mount Ingram. There are suggestions about using a base camp, but little else. If I've learned anything about the Yukon, though, is that there is always an old trail somewhere that will get you close to where you want to go - you just need to know Who To Ask.

I called Who To Ask, but Who To Ask wasn't in. Fortunately, Maybe I Can Help returned my call and Maybe I Can Help was a huge help. She was well acquainted with a trail that led up to alpine and told me how to find it. It helped that I already had some familiarity with the area, but her directions were so good I would have found the trail otherwise.

I didn't know what state the trail would be in or how much snow I would need to pack with my snowshoes to get there. One thing was certain: In order to make my attempt on the mountain, I would need to overnight somewhere.

I was excited, but also felt a little trepidation. It had been far too long since my last winter camping trip. You see, I already travel so much for work that I'm wracked with guilt any time I think about wanting to do an overnighter just because I want to. It's so much work for Fawn and it's already so much time away from the kids. I love my family and want to be with them, but at the same time, out in the bush is where I decompress. It's where I centre myself and I always come back a better person for it. If I don't get out there, I get cranky. I'd love to take my family with me, but they're not ready for it. So which is better? Spending less time with my family but being a more pleasant father, or staying with my family in a crankier state?

Fortunately and thankfully, Fawn's parents came to town for the Christmas holidays and provided me with the opportunity to go - so I took it.

A couple of friends were poised to join me, but had to back out for various legitimate reasons. It was just going to be me and Nanuq on this trip. Having a somewhat flexible schedule, I pushed the trip back, hoping to take advantage of some warmer weather that Environment Canada had been predicting.

Packed and ready to go, armed with local knowledge of the best way up the mountain, Nanuq and I set off up the Ibex Valley with our gear in tow.

A glimpse of Ingram.

Gear in tow.

The going was easier than I expected. A local trapper was using the main trail up the valley and the trail was well-packed by his snow machine as he frequently checks his traps.

Looking up the Ibex Valley. I'm goin' that-a-way!

Before long, I reached the landmarks that Maybe I Can Help told me to look for. I donned my snowshoes, turned off the main trail, and started making my way up the mountain, looking for a good place to make camp.

It wasn't long before I found it. With a couple of hours of daylight left, I started piling snow to make a snow hut. Dusk had arrived by the time I finished building my pile. Wanting to give the snow a chance to set, I started collecting firewood to cook my supper. As I did so, Nanuq and I were startled by a sound not far up the mountain. It was a wretched short howl, not unlike how a wolf with emphysema might sound. Nanuq and I looked at each other, puzzled. He didn't seem too concerned, so we went back to our respective duties (me cooking my supper and he eating his).

It was dark by the time I began hollowing the pile of snow out, but I could still see well enough that I was able to make a perfect winter shelter before my supper had finished cooking over the fire.

A lit candle inside the snow hut gave my campsite a cheery, warm glow. The sky had cleared and the stars were bright overhead. I wished that my photography skills were good enough to capture the scene before me. I was at complete and total peace as I scarfed down a delicious pot of soup.

After inhaling my evening meal, I decided to retire early. It's an amazing feeling to have absolutely nothing to do but relax.







It was a very pleasant night. I had packed my sleeping gear for -35^oC weather and, during the night, the temperature had climbed to about -5^oC. I slept like a log, waking only to shed a couple of sleeping layers and to take a little stroll outside the shelter to melt some snow.

Because we're still so near the Winter Solstice, morning came late. I ate a hot breakfast in the dark and waited for the sun to rise so I would have enough light to pack my day bag for the trip up the mountain. It was only when I was finished my breakfast that I realised it was so warm that I was wearing only two long-sleeved t-shirts and a hooded sweatshirt on my upper body and still wasn't chilled. It was going to be a warm day, indeed!

The sky was overcast, but the clouds were high enough that visibility at the top of the mountain was still good. I began the long march up the mountain, breaking trail as I went. The warm air temperature, lack of wind, heavy snow pants, and hard work added up and I had to stop every few hundred meters to catch my breath. The going was hard.

There are some curses that eventually reveal themselves as blessings and some blessings that eventually reveal themselves as curses. As I huffed and puffed and sweated my way up the mountain, I was beginning to curse the warm weather. I just couldn't stay cool enough to work efficiently.

On the bright side, the birds were out in force, playing in the warm air and singing their happy songs. Whiskey jacks came to investigate and finches and chickadees hopped about on the trees around me. Ravens gargled and cooed off in the distance.






Now well up the mountain, the trail looked like it branched, then thinned, and there was a moment when I thought I might have gone the wrong way, but a blaze on a tree showed me that I had it right. I continued on up, eventually clearing the tree line.









I had been hoping it would be cooler above the treeline, but it wasn't. There was scarcely a breath of wind and, when there was, it was brief and warm. I pushed ever upwards, roasting in my snow pants and feeling the burn in my muscles. One of the minor peaks loomed tantalizingly ahead.




I was torn. On one hand, I wanted to push on and reach the peak. On the other, I knew that I had given my legs a heavy, thorough, work-out and still had to haul my gear back to the car.









In the end, time was the deciding factor. It was New Year's Eve and I didn't want to get hom too late. Reluctantly - but still satisfied with my attempt - I turned around to head back down the mountain.





Oh! How much easier (and faster) it was going down the broken trail! A gnawing hunger in my belly reminded me of how much energy I had burned on the way up, so when I got back to my campsite I cooked up a hot lunch to fuel me for the last leg home.

The sun was setting quickly and the passing clouds made for dark, dramatic skies. I was feeling the efforts of the day as I pulled my sled along the main trail, grateful that most of it was now downhill.





Before long it was dark, but I knew the way back to the car so it didn't matter.

As I walked, I reflected. It had been a good trip. The entire time, whether I had nothing to do or a dozen things to do, no matter how much I exerted myself, no matter comfortable or uncomfortable I had felt, no matter what I had accomplished and no matter what I didn't accomplish, I had felt a tremendously deep sense of peace.

I smiled.

I didn't reach the summit of Mount Ingram and it didn't matter. I had reached the place I was really hoping for.

Ingram can wait for another day.

Bushcraft 101 - How to Build a Snow Hut

Ah, it was so nice to get out and do a bit of winter camping! While I was out, I took a little time to make a new Bushcraft 101 video. If you've never made a snow hut, now you can see how it's done and try it for yourself!



Tip: When you're hollowing out your snow hut, have someone standing by with a shovel just in case it collapses on you! Safety first!

Paddling through "The Tropics of the Territories"

When friends heard that I was moving to Fort Liard in the Northwest Territories, they thought that I was moving to a land of stunted trees or snowy tundra. Yeah, we've got plenty of that in the North - but you won't find it around Fort Liard.

The Fort Liard area is known as "The Tropics of the Territories". Its proximity to the mountains creates a unique micro-climate that gets just enough moisture, plenty of warm air, and lots and lots and lots of sunshine to fuel the growth of a lush, healthy forest where gigantic trees grow.

The Petitot River and Liard Rivers flow through the heart of this vibrant ecosystem. I loved tracking and paddling my canoe along these rivers when I lived there.

Recently, I was invited to paddle with someone who wanted to explore these great rivers. Having long wanted to get back, I jumped at the excuse. I contacted a Fort Liard friend, Arthur, about the trip to see if he'd like to be my paddling partner. I knew that he would. Arthur and I had been talking about paddling the Petitot and Liard together for years.

Arthur on our first night on the river.

The Petitot was unusually high for the season. Early autumn usually means low water, easy bouldery rapids and giant sandbars stretching along the shoreline. Unusually high rainfalls in the Petitot's giant watershed had raised the water to springtime-like levels. Gone were the easy bouldery rapids and giant sandbars stretching along the shoreline. In their place were fast waters and fun, playful, standing waves.








About halfway from the BC/NWT border to where the Petitot spills into the Liard, there is a five-kilometer stretch of canyon. As much as I love the sandy shorelines and towering cutbanks of the river above the canyon, it is always the canyon that is the highlight of the trip.

Pictures of the canyon, however, never do it justice. They always make it seem much smaller than it really is.





The unusually heavy rainfalls prior to our trip resulted in unusually heavy erosion activity.






Near the end of the canyon is a great little lookout. People have been stopping here for... well... it could be centuries or it could be millennia. People have been inhabiting the Fort Liard area for over 9,000 years.


We took a break from our paddling to hike up to the lookout and take in the view.







Erosion has done strange things to the conglomerate rock at the end of the canyon, not the least of which is a fantastic cave. The cave is large enough to be exciting but small enough that it can be explored without a light. You enter the cave by climbing down into a pit. From the pit, the cave has a long passage that leads into a chamber with a skylight roof. You wouldn't want to fall into the cave through the skylight roof but, if you did, centuries worth of plant debris would help to cushion your fall. Every time I stand in the chamber - which is large enough to accommodate nearly a dozen people (or a half-dozen people comfortably) I wonder how it has been used over time. Leaving the cave is simply a matter of following another passage that opens out of a cliff wall. By turning around and stepping carefully down, one can exit the cave.

A mushroom forest in the pit that leads to the entrance of the cave.






After our break we were back on the river. Our destination for the night was Fort Liard and beyond.



Waterfalls.


It's always a strange experience, paddling into Fort Liard. On the Petitot you feel like you're in the middle of nowhere. It's just you, your paddling companions, and nobody else. Then, all of a sudden, there's this little village high up on the banks. You can see a few houses over the bank, but mostly it's the sounds of kids playing and the buzz of chainsaws working in the distance. It's all sounds. From the river, it feels like you're hearing a moment in time that isn't quite your own. You can try to imagine the people up there living their lives, but you can't see them so you can't really know. They're somewhere up there, over the bank. They're unreachable and, as much as you may want them to acknowledge your existence, they don't even know you're down there. They can't see you. From the river you can sense their presence but you can't be a part of them.

For all the years I lived in Fort Liard, it always felt different - strange but wonderful - from the river.


I stayed with the canoes, enjoying the warmth of the late afternoon sun, while my paddling partners ran a few errands in town.



That night, we slept on the banks of the Liard River. We pitched our tents and made supper within sight of the community, but the only things we could hear from our camp were the occasional cracks of bear bangers and gunshots that were used to deter the bison that keep roaming into town and the bear that was haunting the barge landing.

After another deep and restful sleep (the first being on the banks of the Petitot), we began a long and full day of paddling on the Liard. The Liard is a huge river with a watershed that drains from huge portions of the Yukon, BC, and even a portion of Alberta before doubling the volume of the mighty Mackenzie River.

On a windless morning, the river looks deceptively calm - but it is a powerful river, streaming along at about 10km/h or more, depending on the water level.







Just a portion of a gigantic log jam along the Liard River. A small testament to the size and power of this mighty river.

Around lunchtime there was somewhere that I wanted to stop. I had been to this place many, many times over land - but never had I been there from the river.

Luckily, I was able to find the place I was looking for. We ate our lunch and then made our way inland. Again, the bounty of the land was awe-inspiring. We were dwarfed by towering poplars that made the poplars around Whitehorse look like second-rate toothpicks. There was life everywhere, growing on everything.

Hand-sized mushrooms.

Skittle-sized 'shrooms. What the heck are these fun-looking little mushrooms called?
Balancing on a small, fallen poplar. Did you know, the first, second, and third tallest measured poplars in the world are located just outside Fort Liard? (The first tallest is now dead, making the second-tallest the first-tallest, etc.)

The place that I wanted to find was a hidden set of waterfalls that, as best as I can tell, has no name whatsoever. The closest thing I have heard to a name for the falls is "No Name Falls". Makes sense in an ironic sort of way, I guess.

First, a little creek cuts through the rock...
...before hanging a left and tumbling down a few steps...

...into a nice round pool where it circulates before...
...disappearing?

Ah! There it goes!
Tumbling down over the edge.
It hurts a LOT if you stand directly under the falling water.
Alas, we still had a lot of river to cover before making camp. An incoming weather system meant that we couldn't dawdle at the falls for much longer. We located and followed an old trail that I knew down to the river bank. I was astounded how much the trail could grow in and how much the river bank could erode in just five short years. How much longer before the trail becomes completely unidentifiable?





We chose another sand/clay bar just as the rain was setting in. In truth, we should have spent more time trying to locate a less-exposed site, but the rain started coming down and it was getting dark.

We pitched our tents before the sand/clay bar got too muddy, rigged a shelter for cooking, ate in the dark, and crawled into bed. We were all exhausted after a very full day of paddling.

It rained straight through the night.

When I woke, I knew we wouldn't be in any great hurry to go anywhere. The wind was pushing on the tent and the rain was still coming down. Wanting to see the state of our world, I donned my rain gear and ventured out.

A lovely day, don'tchya think?

We had chosen the very best spot on the sand/mud bar to pitch our tents. We had somewhat decent drainage. Everywhere else along the shore had become a mass of muddy puddles. Our kitchen shelter was now situated in a large pool of water. To make matters worse, the wind was much more than just a gentle breeze. Trees, those massive poplars, were breaking and crashing down in the woods around us. A strong gust and a shift in the wind pulled the tarp off our submerged kitchen area. It was just as well, I figured, it wasn't doing us much good there anymore anyway.

I spent an hour-or-so rigging a new kitchen shelter area, this time closer to the tents. Always the wind threatened to undo my handiwork but finally I had it bomb-proof.


I went to go and check our canoe. We had left it upright over the night and, much to my surprise, it was half-filled with water. I tipped the canoe on its side to drain the water. Then, with the morning's work out of the way, it was time to make and eat some breakfast.

I would have been quite content to just sit in the tent and wait the weather out but it wasn't to be. As I finished my meal I caught something out of the corner of my eye. It was flying fast toward the river and much faster than any tent was meant to fly. I pointed in disbelief and shouted "TENT!" Then, along with everyone else, leaped into action.

The tent had flown completely over the gravel bar and was now rolling over and over in place on top of the water in the the river. I was halfway to the canoe when I realized I didn't have a life jacket on. Our traveling companions did so I shouted over the wind that they should take the canoe that Arthur and I used since it wasn't half-full of water. They did.

See all that gear? There used to be a tent there.
Arthur and I worked to secure the remaining gear while our traveling companions worked to retrieve their tent - which was now rolling down the middle of the river. Fortunately, they are strong and experienced paddlers and the retrieval was successful. They both wet and cold when they returned to shore. I helped walk the canoe back upriver, also starting to feel the chill that inevitably comes with incessant wind and rain.

In the relative comfort of the makeshift kitchen shelter it was time to discuss our options. Our paddling companions had a flight they needed to catch and a one-day delay on the river meant they wouldn't make their flight. Due to time constraints we wouldn't be able to wait around for the weather to improve. At the same time, it would have been foolish to keep paddling down the river. Now with a water-logged tent, with the rain continuing and the winds getting worse, it wasn't going to be easy to stay warm. As great as my little two-person tent is, I would have made for an uncomfortable day and an even more uncomfortable night if it had to house four people.

Fortunately, we had an out. Just upstream of our camp were some cabins that belong to friends from Fort Liard. Even more importantly, there was road access.

We made the tough but responsible decision to call it a trip. We packed our gear into the canoes. Our paddling companions paddled their canoe upriver while Arthur and I took turns tracking ours.

Arthur, tracking a canoe while sporting his very fashionable three-garbage-bag and duct tape rain gear. Simple, yet effective.

The rain tapered off as we worked our way upriver but the wind never did. When we were far enough upstream, we made our way across the river to the landing where we would end our trip.

Our traveling companion had brought a satellite phone that we used to call for a pick up. All that was left now was to sit in the relative warmth and comfort of a well-made cabin and wait for our ride.

"Ahhh, this is the life!"

Even though it was cut short, it had been a great trip. And what would a visit to the tropics be without a tropical storm?

It had been a great adventure; the kind that I'll always remember and the kind that Arthur and I and our traveling companions will talk about for years to come.

Sitting in the front seat of our ride's truck, I smiled as I recounted our adventures, furiously fighting to stay awake as the warm air blowing through the vents threatened to carry me off to sleep.