Little miracles on Rambler Peak
A rainy weekend turns up some climbing surprises
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It feels like déjà vu all over again. Or perhaps I’ve already said that. It’s the Canada Day long-weekend, and we are hiking up the Elk River Trail in rain. Which is what has happened every time I’ve been here on this particular date. On one such trip, Sandy and I found six full beers on top of the Colonel, but expectations aren’t too high this time around. Peering out through the old growth forest across a boiling river in spate, sheets of rain drift lazily down from a great height, pale against the dark forests of Elkhorn. It’s not a sight to lighten the load, nor cheer the saddened soul.
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Momentary sky on final ridge.
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The final hour after the turnoff to Landslide Lake is the worst. Any piece of clothing that has somehow remained dry during the 3 hour hike is quickly saturated as we push through shoulder-high shrubbery, every leaf beaded with water droplets, waiting for the unsuspecting traveler to pass by. It’s like taking a long cold shower, and we are wet, cold and tired by the time we make camp under the tall trees at the valley’s end. As the light fades, rain continues to fall in steady waves out in the open, although happily it’s relatively dry under the spreading hemlock and fir.
Despite the conditions, we are hoping for a miracle – two miracles really. First, that the dawn will bring no rain, and second that the West Buttress will somehow dry overnight, allowing us a crack at this island classic. At 5 a.m. we are batting a 50% average – the rain is holding off, although as we push up through the slide alder and repeat the cold showers of yesterday, the sky above is cloud-filled and leaden. It could start again any time. The upper bowl under Elk Pass is draped in mist, and the West Buttress vanishes into a ceiling of cloud, waterfalls cascading off its lower flanks. There’s no chance of the second miracle happening.
It’s half past 8 in the morning and we have nothing to do, so hike up to Elk Pass, where there is no visibility. Streams gush everywhere, as if the whole world has suddenly risen, whale-like, from below the surface, and dry land is being formed before our eyes.
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It’s 8:30 and still not much to do. There are no views, and few prospects. We agree to climb to the South Col, just in case. In case of what, is not conjectured. The granite is a friendly change from the gloomy basalt of the lower valley, and by the time we reach the col, we are in a considerably more upbeat mood. The clouds have lifted somewhat, and we get glimpses of Rambler’s great summit, high above. There’s no wind. A few patches of blue are visible in places, and we have a whole day ahead of us. We might as well take a look at the gully on Spiral Stairs.
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Coiling rope at the bottom of couloir.
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It’s full of snow, but in fair condition, considering the soaking it must have had over the past 24 hours. We kick deep steps, ascending into the clouds. Black gleaming rock hems us in to left and right, while mist blocks the view above and below. All we lack is the sound of orc drums to convince us we’re approaching Mordor.
200 metres later we top out onto Rambler’s south glacier. Somewhere up ahead, a pale tower looms through the mist. Since we must be quite close, we continue, but more out of curiosity than determination. Passing under the east flank we begin to gain height on the snow below the north gully. At the top there’s a surprising discovery - the red rocks of the tower are dry. The mood lifts.
A hundred metres of scrambling brings us onto the summit arete where the most bizarre thing happens – there are shadows! Looking straight up, a pocket of perfectly blue sky is visible. Just don’t look sideways –white cloud that blocks every direction. A few more metres and we are at the summit in bright sunshine. Who says miracles don’t happen?
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