GIANNA: That is my wish.
BITTERSWEET
GIANNA: For me, the relationship was bittersweet. The love-hate relationship, complicated. With Gregor? Not with Gregor. Never with Gregor. With the mountains. The dos and the don’ts. Acceptance and refusal. It took me a long time to realize the tug-of-war was not between the mountains and me, exactly. It was between my two physical selves. The ambivalence generated by the active self (bitter) and the passive self (sweet). Sure, I had been active, travelling and walking, oh that, I had done in excess, but always in the flats. Otherwise, I had never leaned toward all-out physical activities, like sports. But Gregor tried to convince me mountaineering was not a sport. Mountaineering was a state of mind.
State of mind? When I create my wild headdresses and perform his stories on stage, I told him, my state of mind is activated plenty enough. And so is his, he said, doing shadowgraphy. That was not in question. But he still insisted mountains were a state of mind. Although I teased him, they’re rocks, Greggy, only rocks, I started to feel in the body that those rocks could play tricks with your head.
But when he went on to say that, with age, the blood of imagination thins out and becomes anemic, and mountains oxygenate imagination better than our workshop or the stage, I wondered about his state of mind. Still. I couldn’t contradict him when he pointed out the body was built for walking, not to be forced into a chair. Walking, yes, I agreed. But did it have to be vertical walking? I was not a squirrel scratching its way up a tree. Gregor was unfazed and recommended patience, because it takes time and effort to break the addiction of the chair.
The addiction of the chair. In the great stifling humidity of the Far East, we had nurtured the passive self (sweet). Lounging in lounge chairs. But here? This region of unpredictable seasons was reactivating our desire for movement. Greg insisted our active selves (bitter) were calling us, loud and clear.
He warned me. With my ass on my chair, my love of movement was fast going to seed. Before my time, I’d transform into a matron of the commonplace. And his hands formed the shadow of an old woman in her rocking chair.
That was shock therapy. Gregor jolting my active self. Often, at his risk and peril. He proposed a mountain. I glared at him. Not wanting to go. And yet, not wanting to miss out. I went. Reluctantly. Dragging my ass, cursing the incline. Passive self pining for that chair. On every hike, the repetition of pain in muscles and lungs seemed pointless. Masochistic, even. I cursed his pig-headedness. Pig-headed, aye, he admitted that much. Necessary pig-headedness to counteract the insignificance triggered by idleness. The chair, Gia, he said. Beware of the chair.
Gregor and his chair. That was a laugh. Over time though, I came to appreciate his pluck for prying me out of my chair at his risk and peril.
In the early days, I often gave up, sometimes fifty metres below the summit. He didn’t get it. A few more minutes, I’d stand on the top. Why come all that way and stop now?
For the day to be complete, he had to stand on the summit. For me, the top—the peak-bagger syndrome—did not matter. I’d had my fill and that was that. He went on ahead by himself. I waited in sunshine or in wind, sprawled on my pack, quieting my breath. Listening to the layers of silence. That too had to be experienced. The depth of silence, rising in layers around me. I was content. And maybe disappointed with myself. And he came back down with another summit under his belt. He was happy. A little sad we had not summited together. And, together, we returned home. The long, long way home.
THE MAN FROM MARYLAND
GREGOR: From the pass, Gia and I watched his progress through the scree. A small lone figure slipping and sliding up the steep rocky slope. Stopping often to catch his breath. To look up and assess the end of the ordeal. Never once turning around to look back and study the land as it would appear on the way down. Resolute, he resumed scrambling. The hiker made it to the pass. Grinned from ear to ear. To show courage. To hide exhaustion. He walked toward us. An American, it turned out. From Maryland, he told us.
The man from Maryland had no problem following the trail in the woods. But it was impossible to find the trail in the rubble, he said, taking off his small daypack and reaching for a bottle of Coke.
I played mountain teacher, as on stage I had fascinated spectators with my shadow hands shaped into an old couple mating. Once on the scree, there are no human-made trails. Only occasionally tracks the Rocky Mountain sheep make for themselves. Those tracks go where the sheep want to go, not where people want to go. The sheep are searching for food, for water. Scramblers are aiming for the summit. So, on scree, you must pick your way through the rocks, finding the places where the rubble is most stable.
The man from Maryland was perplexed. No one had informed him about that. He wanted to know where the rock was more stable. Even suggested signs should be posted to indicate where to go. Otherwise, people could get lost. And if there were signs to tell you where the rubble is more stable, it might prevent injury.
I was watching Gia, expecting a snide remark. But she kept quiet. Gianna of lost words in the mountains, preferring to let me do the talking. Instead, she grazed on the distance. Watching the man from Maryland drink his Coke, I wanted to tell him that scrambling was an acquired skill, like an acquired taste.
But he was expostulating about the boundless American genius building paved roads up fairly high mountains. High enough that, nearing the summit, car radiators used to boil over routinely; motors stalled. If the Canadians were not up to the task, and he didn’t mean any disrespect, at least, surely, signs in the rubble would save time and energy. And it’d be easier.
Easier? I couldn’t resist tripping him up. Why come to these mountains? They have wild mountains in the US too. The man from Maryland acknowledged the fact with great pride, as if their peaks had been built by their Corps of Engineers. But he had read online the Canadian Rockies were less crowded than the European Alps and the Rockies in the States. He was after the real wilderness experience.
And so, did the man from Maryland enjoy the scramble? Did the place live up to his expectations? He swore it did. Told me he was a cardiologist. This place restored heart and spirit. This spectacular landscape. Uncrowded. We were the first people he had encountered all day.
I spoke in as kind a Canadian voice as I could, pointing out, if there were signs everywhere to make his scramble easier, it wouldn’t be the same unspoiled, uncrowded place he enjoyed so much, now, would it?
Caught in his faulty argument, the man from Maryland nodded. And stared at what he and scores of others still referred to as the landscape. And proceeded to shoot the land systematically. I knew he would post those photos online, with a detailed description of where in the wilderness his unspoiled experience had taken place.
Gia and I walked a little ways off. Had lunch. Waited until the man from Maryland started scrambling back down. I enjoyed watching that urbanized, educated man get smaller and smaller as he picked his way through the scree. A lone human form in our still (relatively) unspoiled mountains.
LOOKING BACK
When scrambling, from time to time, turn around. Study the land as it will appear on the way back down. Commit distinctive features to memory. You must know that the up and the down don’t have the same aspect at all. You would be surprised how different the land looks on the way down and how easily it could confuse you. This morning, did we contour that outcrop? Is this the gully we took on the way up? Or was it that one? Careful. One of them we avoided because of cliffs.
On the way up, the land in your face is foreshortened. You see it in close-ups. You spot a spider scurrying between stones. Kinnikinnik growing close to the ground. Juniper shrubs sending green pollen into the air when you brush against their branches. A fossil revealed inside a stone cleaved by the action of freeze and thaw.
On the way down, the whole land is splayed out in front of you. You see the sheer magnitude of it. Rock faces shooting straight up from the valley floor. Twisted syncline. On your left, a long drop
and on your right, disappearing from view, the ledge system you must negotiate to reach the alpine meadows lower down. Or the endless boulders precariously stacked, over which you must descend with half-bent knees, your weight resting on your quads. And still in front of you, several kilometres of incline before you reach the car.
THE INCLINE
GIANNA: I began tentatively. Said it was the incline. Wondered if I was inclined to engage in mountaineering. Despite Gregor’s tireless incitement. The incline, I discovered, is an amazing thing. It seizes up your butt; it saws across your quads; it triggers cramps in your calf muscles. The incline shatters your knees and mashes the soles of your feet. Pumps masses of blood into your extremities. The incline cuts deep into your lungs. Grips your resolve and crushes it. The incline is more raw than the coldest day of winter. And it plays dangerous games with your head. Makes you angry. Nasty to your partner. Brings you to the verge of tears when you think the end is in sight, but it turns out there is more incline ahead; way more.
In the early years, Gregor would often assess, with confidence, that we were ten minutes from the summit. Relieved, grateful, I believed him with all my heart. But he was wrong. Again, the incline fooled us. Eventually, I learned to ignore his affirmations. Tackled the incline with grim surrender, stopping short of calling him a liar.
One season, the incline caught up with me and reactivated my childhood asthma. The perfect excuse to abandon the activity.
We had met on another incline in the Far East. Ah, those wild days when I was a wig maker in Hong Kong! Mixing Peking opera and Western contemporary performance art, our opera company was preparing a new production of Baucis and Philemon when Gregor happened to be passing through. As a young shadowgrapher, he was offered a gig. We met backstage and ours was an operatic romance. I still see us, Gregor, the Scot with the gruff voice of fatalism and the mesmerizing hands, and me with my Italian genes, which I used to full effect in the best tradition of the tragi-comic. We milked our theatrical selves for all it was worth and we made a roaring good time of it. Then, the heat and the crowds of the Far East got the better of us. We came to Canada to discover ice, to borrow a phrase. I with a suitcase stuffed with stunning hairpieces, but renting them out would not pay the bills. And Gregor with his marketable hands, yes, but how many birthday parties can you book to amuse kids with shadow figures of galloping horses and leaping rabbits when they have video games instead? Of course, we found jobs, we adapted, even if the road was rocky for a while.
Now, with my asthma reactivated, Gregor would have to find other partners. It had been so simple for me to be his perpetual mountain buddy, as in the days of spectacular wigs and baffling finger tricks. Or he would have to go by himself. But I would not be happy for him to enter the hills alone. Solo shows have their pitfalls. The potential for a freak accident or an encounter with a bear would make me uneasy, back home. (The wife wringing her hands, eyes on the clock.) But there was more than those considerations.
We had been sharing adventures on and off stage for a long time. We had never been the kind of couple to engage in separate activities. If we did, it would have caused a rift in the deep rapport that always existed between us. And although I would be relieved to be relieved of my mountain duty, I wanted the adventure. The being there together, in full exertion mode, enduring the elements, being in the grip of the incline, testing exposure. Breathing together this amazing air. And what about afterward, reminiscing and sharing, which translate into complete understanding? That would be lost if I stopped going.
So, I took a shallow breath, then a deeper breath and, week after week, I went grudgingly. October would bring the hiking season to an end. And then, in town, began the season of dinner parties with friends. I put away hiking boots and backpack until June. And forgot about the incline.
VERTIGO
GREGOR: As for me, I was hooked from the start. Rearing to go, I wanted to try it all. Began by buying The Canadian Rockies Trail Guide and, later, Kananaskis Country Trail Guide. The former was the hiking bible in an era of few guidebooks and no Internet. Hiking was fine. It became necessary.
I still performed shadowgraphy on home and out-of-town stages, in shows with or without Gianna. Also, I was now a bookbinder and restorer, as had been my grandfather in Edinburgh. I loved, and still love, the tools and the smell of old leather and the broken spines of damaged books. Though fine, the workshop was too confining a place.
So, every week, I pored over the guidebooks, suggested this hike and that hike. Gianna bought me topo maps as birthday gifts. One year, I wrapped two mountaineering axes and placed them under the Christmas tree.
Late June, sometimes early July, signalled the opening of the hiking season and the season of blisters, though the blisters never stopped us from going out once a week until mid-fall. It took us a number of years to realize our boots, too tight, were the source of the misery. Before each hike, Gianna went through the ritual of applying moleskin to all the contact points on her feet. I didn’t think I needed any and, later on the hike, grimly endured my bleeding blisters.
With each new hiking season, we chose trails that were more involved in distance and difficulty. Until one day, when I came face to face with vertigo. I had never had it. Why should I have vertigo now?
That day, a short section of the trail hugged a rock face on our left and was exposed on the right until, further along, the trail widened again. I denied the issue. Tried to step forward. Could go no further. Was frustrated; pushed myself to go on; no wuss; then had to admit defeat. How could that happen?
Gianna suggested vertigo lived in the mountains. Could she go on? She hesitated; said yes. I could see she was trying to spare my feelings. That made it worse. She pretended vertigo was like allergies. Some develop it, others don’t. Great! That made me feel a whole lot better.
I was embarrassed, Gianna could see that plainly enough, but I could tell she was not disappointed. In those early days, turning back was never an issue for her. What had become an issue was my vertigo. It had to be dealt with. As had her asthma. We managed to control both. The only way to conquer vertigo and asthma was by not giving up, was by not giving in. You keep trying.
We tested our limits and began scrambling. Endured endless scree. Tackled snow slopes. Learned to self-arrest with mountaineering axes and practised tumbling down low-angled snow slopes without stabbing ourselves with the picks. We enjoyed ridge walking. Bought more specialized guidebooks and climbing equipment. Pairs of crampons were wrapped and put under the Christmas tree. We taught ourselves to climb on rock, first at sport climbing areas, then on more secluded multi-pitch climbs. Learned to travel roped up across glaciers. Practised crevasse rescue. Began climbing glaciated mountains, such as Mount Athabasca, Mount Joffre, the President. Many more mountains. Stretched the summer hiking and scrambling season to year-round mountaineering by adding ice climbing. And in our own way and in our own time, we dealt with the incline and vertigo. Like a well-rehearsed piece of theatre—no matter how foreboding at first—that shines on opening night. Until the incline became second nature, with or without exposure.
And through it all, in the distance, in sun or rain, in clouds or snow, the persistence of Mount Assiniboine.
GETTING PSYCHED UP
We set the camp stove on a flat stone on the ground.
GREGOR: I’ll prime it. Get the fire going.
GIANNA, picking up the pot: I’ll fetch water from that spigot.
Spigot seems a luxury. Usually, you get water directly from a creek or at the edge of a lake. In this British Columbia provincial park, a pipe must have been installed to run from Lake Magog to the campground to save campers the short steps to the lake.
GIANNA, carrying her pot of water, retrieving the food bag from the safety of the metal cache, returning to the campsite with a steady pace: I know the place’s deserted, but I feel the hordes jostling at my back.
Waiting for the water to boil, we can’t take our eyes off Assiniboine.
&nb
sp; GREGOR: At least, doesn’t look like we’ll be bombarded by too many climbers.
GIANNA: How long to the hut, do you figure?
GREGOR: Let’s see. The trail around the lake, then scree to the headwall, then scramble up ledges.
GIANNA: The Gmoser Highway.
GREGOR: Aye. Then snow slopes to the refuge. People do it in two or three hours.
GIANNA: Seems a lot farther to me than a couple of hours from here. And I bet we’ll be slower.
GREGOR: And if we don’t go off route. There may be routefinding.
GIANNA: I’m more concerned about the North Ridge itself.
GREGOR: For what I’ve read, better to avoid the gullies and stay on firmer rock. From the refuge, there are cairns in the scree, then a black rock band and, after that, a red band. From there, we regain the ridge up a grey band. Good holds. And there are fixed pitons. That’s good.
GIANNA: Right! The actual climbing. Fifth-class rock bands. Hope we don’t go off route.
GREGOR: We have to stay below the cornice. Then the final ridge to the summit.
GIANNA: Reading about it, always seems straightforward, doesn’t it? Until you have rock right in your face.
GREGOR: We just have to pierce the rock bands in the right places and know where to penetrate the ridge with the good holds. We’ll be fine.
GIANNA: Pierce? Penetrate? Sounds like war up there. Like B Company being slaughtered trying to secure Hill of Beans.
GREGOR, scrutinizing the big rock: We may luck out and have the whole mountain to ourselves. We descend the same way. Only a couple of rappels. Maybe three. At least, we have dry conditions. Apparently, it’s a lot more entertaining when downclimbing in wet or icy conditions.
GIANNA: It’ll take us forever. But I’m up to the challenge. I think.
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