A Day In The Cascades

by Darrell J. Farrant

When I last had the pleasure of writing for the Journal, I explained that after many years of experience among the British mountains I was about to go to live in western Canada. I referred jocularly to some of the new challenges: Mount Robson, Mount Baker, even Mount McKinley, but without any real feeling that I was ever likely to be involved in expeditions of such magnitude.

And so it has proved, though I suppose I can squeeze out a tenuous connection with these great mountains if I try really hard. A colleague of mine has explored the lower region of Mount McKinley, with the thought that if he can travel one summer to climb Kilimanjaro, why not attempt another of the world’s major peaks this year, especially when, relatively speaking, it is only just down the road? However, Alaska is colder than Tanzania and, with regular summit temperatures at 70° below, one has to be certain of the strength of one’s commitment. A former pupil wrote to me the other day of an enjoyable ascent of Mount Robson, whereas a walk of half a mile from my present home provides a superb view of the volcanic snow-cone of Mount Baker. Parties from my School Outdoors Club have three times been repulsed on Baker in the last couple of years, but on the most recent occasion only by an unexpected blizzard when they were already over the 10,000 ft. mark with most of the difficulties apparently behind them.

Before I left Scotland, I remember being amazed at a comment of a Canadian friend, who marvelled at all the open space that one could enjoy in Britain. This remark from a citizen of the second largest country in the world, with a population of only 24 million and renowned as containing some of the most remote and uncharted terrain on earth! Yet, the remark is strangely true. The open moorland or fell-side that we are accustomed to in Britain is a priceless heritage; how fortunate one is to be able to open a farm gate, or even strike up directly from the side of the road into free walking country of matchless quality. As a self-imposed exile, I probably miss this aspect of Britain more than any other single factor. In Canada, the mountains are in abundance and it is of little significance to suggest that one has climbed quite a few peaks of over 3,000 ft. – the main road through the Rockies at Rogers Pass reaches twice that height. Nevertheless, the Canadian mountains are inevitably enclosed in a thick blanket of coniferous trees that rise to at least five or six thousand feet. As a result, they are virtually unclimbable because the hillsides are extremely steep and access is almost impossible. Furthermore, the effort to reach the summit ridges is very demanding, especially when one has no view whatsoever for most of the way. There are exceptions to this, of course, and some better known mountains have trails blazed along them. In certain areas, as, for example, the Yoho National Park in the Rockies, it is possible to enjoy some magnificent skyline hiking, but such places are not easy to find. As a result, mountaineering in Canada is a serious sport for the well-trained professional, and there is virtually nothing to offer the casual fell-walker who likes a gentle day on the hills from time to time.

I suppose, in a boastful moment, I might be prepared to include myself in the former category, but the demands of my present job prevent me from getting out on the mountains very often. There is no such thing as the round of Wasdale Head on a nice Sunday; it is either a proper expedition or nothing.

Last summer, however, I decided that an initiation to Canadian mountaineering was essential and my young companion and I selected Mount Cheam in the Fraser Valley, about fifty miles east of Vancouver. As one drives eastwards through British Columbia, Cheam (pronounced Shee-am) dominates the valley, partly because of its dramatic Matterhorn shape, but also because of its steepness. The summit is 6,913 feet and this is gained immediately from a valley floor of only 100 feet. The climber is thus faced by quite a strenuous challenge.

We had been led to believe that it was possible to drive the first miles up an old logging road but, after negotiating a fallen tree, a fast-running creek and a steep stony bend within the first half-mile, we decided that a motorized approach was distinctly unwise. This led to a careful selection of gear, as we now had to back-pack everything and, in the considerable heat of mid-August, we were able to reject a number of items as not strictly necessary. At the foot of the trail (which remained clearly, but tactfully marked throughout – a thread of tape on a tree, a daub of paint on a rock) we found an indicator which proclaimed 29 kilometers, 12 hours walking and an elevation gain of 6,800 feet, so we were under no illusions.

We set off along the stony trail in the early afternoon and climbed steadily up a steep and unrewarding gradient. The track switchbacked up the mountainside and we caught only occasional glimpses of the green dairyland of the Fraser Valley at points where the trees grew slightly more thinly. A large garter snake coiled lazily away from us at one point: there is an abundance of them in British Columbia and they are quite colourful, with dark red and black markings. They are warm to the touch and non-venomous.

After a couple of hours walking, we reached the creek where the road forked and took a welcome rest. We almost persuaded ourselves to camp here, but felt that we should probably put some greater distance behind us before doing so. The next part of the trail was very attractive as it reached a plateau and thus provided a level section of walking, with attractive views down to the valley, as well as glimpses of snowy peaks way up over our right shoulders. Another switch of the path though, and there was a further long haul with our shirts now sticking closely to our backs and the rucksacks getting heavier. Eventually, we found a flatfish patch of reasonably soft ground and I set about cutting away some clumps of bracken to pitch the tent, whilst Tim set off to find some water. One more thought-provoking observation in a muddy spot on the track as we got busy with the preparation of our meal was a large paw mark that could only have been made by a bear. Fortunately, we did not meet him, but overnight we slung all our food well up in the trees to deter him and any predatory companions.

The cloud had gathered overnight and was still quite fleecy as we set out soon after 8 o’clock the following morning. A further forty-five minutes on the track saw it wind round a final bend to the valley head, and at last we were at grips with the mountain proper. The first section lay through waist-high ferns and old tree stumps, as well as some very colourful wild flowers: lupins, fireweed, Indian paint¬brush; then we moved on to a steep and rather slippery track through a wood, where we had to cling to the trees for support. Finally, we emerged on the back of the ridge in a beautiful alpine meadow, richly carpeted with brilliant flowers. Cheam is one of the terminal peaks of the long spine of the Cascades, a range that runs deep into the United States, extending into California almost as far as San Francisco. Suddenly to have this view burst upon one’s sight is an unforgettable experience: chain after chain of snowy spires stretching far down into Washington State and offering a lifetime of mountaineering if one chose.

When we got up to the higher plateau, the wild life at once became more abundant: a pair of little striped chipmunks chasing each other at frantic pace over a tree stump, a vivid goldfinch in a bush, a darting red hummingbird sipping from a flower, a grouse with four chicks, and a pica nipping across the top of a rock. The most interesting meeting though were with the marmots. These are chubby, chocolate-brown animals with a natural curiosity which allows you to approach them closely. Their mountaineering skills are enviable, and they live in colonies in shallow depressions between the rocks. They have a distinctive whistle, which offers warning of your arrival, and they also have an endearing habit of popping their heads out from behind a rock and then giving you a quizzical glance as you approach them. Only then will they scamper off with marvellous agility.

The final section of the ridge looked very steep, and I thought we were in for some Skye-type scrambling among the gendarmes. The trail, however, moved skilfully between the rocky turrets and, whilst care was necessary, there was nothing of any difficulty to contend with. Finally, there was a stony plateau and a short walk to the summit cairn.

The views varied considerably, as we spent half an hour basking in the sunshine. There was a cool breeze that suggested a sweater, but otherwise it was pleasantly warm. There were patches of snow on our peak, but the higher mountains to the south were well covered and were sparkling in their clarity. A bald eagle soared close overhead at one point, but decided not to risk a snatch at our lunch. Eventually, we reckoned that the descent was necessary and so set out to retrace our trail. The return journey was just as enjoyable on the ridges and pastures of the upper section, though the logging road grew less attractive as we lumbered stickily down later in the day. At last we emerged at the car, footsore but satisfied, having spent eleven hours on the climb and, in my case, having been granted a delightful introduction to the mountains of the West.