We hopped the bus out of the Vancouver airport for the drive up Hwy 99 to Squamish. As we drove away from busy Vancouver Island and Vancouver City (is there a difference? I'm not sure yet) we contoured around the sound- Howe Sound is its name, to the north. It reminded me of New Zealand, how the mountains jutted right out of the sound, with low clouds hovering beneath the snow-covered peaks. It felt like we had just traveled back in time about 3 months, as the temperatures (low 60's mid-day) and the snow on both the high peaks and the forested ridges looked more like early April than nearly July.
There were motor boats and sail boats on the sparkling blue water, with the occasional kayaker floating by, and I pictured my good friend Andy gliding along through this very place only a month ago on his journey up the Inside Passage to the north country. How amazing would it be to traverse this coastline by kayak heading north to Alaska? I had a brief feeling of the old but still familiar pull of the seductive nomadic lifestyle, the urge to explore unknown places that can never be satisfied for me, only fueled more when I get a little taste of the life that some inner part of me still craves. Even though I have long since joined the "real world" of a career, a mortgage, a marriage, and the never ending dead weight that is student loans, which have locked me forever into a lifelong struggle to repay the debt, it only takes a brief second to ignite the desire to venture past the boundaries of the life I've created, no matter how much it brings me happiness, and step into the vast expanse of nothing and everything that pulls at me like the moon pulls the tides. If only I could erase this debt...
We round the corner and the town of Squamish comes into sight. Towering over the town is the Chief, an enormous granite monolith whose size is apparently topped only by Yosemite's El Capitan. This is where we will play over the coming days. A look further up the valley reveals a glimpse of a serrated ridge still very much covered in snow, the steep narrow couloirs plunging earthward and disappearing into the cirque below, and for a minute I wish I had brought my skis. Clouds shroud the surrounding peaks but their presence is very much here in the valley, their energy echoing off the sound, I know they are there.
We walk down the main street of the downtown area, slowly meandering along as we check out the row of quirky shops: Grilled Fromage, the Frenchy/hippie sandwich shop specializing in sandwiches built around different French artisanal cheeses with a patio made of old bicycles; I like it instantly. Zephyr Cafe, a raw/organic food and coffee bar, with the smell of fresh bread emanating from the windows. Later, I tell myself. The town is filled with local organic food, coffee, and clothing shops; although it is small, it is easy to tell it's a climbers' town. They're everywhere, too, and easy to spot.
The town is pretty quiet on this Saturday. It's not yet high season, but the weather is perfect for the reasons we came. It's about 65 degrees, breezy, with an inviting mix of smells best identified as a combination of the sea, pine, the organic bread, with a hint of... paprika? Maybe. I breathe deeply, letting the flavor of the place infiltrate all the cells in my body, and giving me that familiar rush of happiness I know so well. I laugh out loud, feeling blessed to be alive.
We find the local brewpub and go in for a pint of suds, some food and a bit of world cup soccer. I indulged in some tasty morsels from the sea and ordered a medley of calamari, oysters, shrimp, and scallops garnished with fresh veggies. Ah, I have arrived!
It was nearly 9 pm when we walked out of the brewpub- and still very light outside, barely becoming dusk. At home it would be dark at this time. We turned up the main street towards our inn, and towards the back of the valley. Wow. The clouds had broken, and the evening alpenglow was shining over the glistening, snow-covered peaks whose presence I had felt earlier, and now they were unmistakeable. Mt. Garibaldi and Mt. Tantalus are the two highest, their imposing faces towering over the valley, terrifying and inviting all at the same time. For a moment I imagine myself on the top, clinging to the ridiculous summit in conditions I know so intimately I can feel the biting winds and the driving pellets of snow, as ferocious on the top as it appears calm from below. Someday, I muse, I should like to stand on top of that peak, the sweet taste of a successful summit mingled with the welling up of excited apprehension at knowing the summit is only half the battle- I still have to negotiate the descent. Just the thought of this sends shivers up my spine as I contemplate what it would be like to return in the spring, armed with the tools needed to undertake such an adventure: ice axes and crampons, skis, rope, a tough and impenetrable exterior, and a determined yet humbly receptive spirit. Even though I have never climbed this particular mountain, I know it as well as I have known others like it. Its energy permeates mine, challenging, inviting. I look up to its fluted spires and feel the familiar rush once again.
But that is for another time. Although it is fun to dream, on to the present adventures.
Tomorrow we climb.
No comments:
Post a Comment