Climbing the Needle

Francois the Francophone, the self-proclaimed Mountain Junkie.

 This past Sunday, I summitted Needle Peak in the Coquihalla region with an old hiking cat I call Pops, and a bunch of his mountaineering friends. Needle was no different from other hikes in the way that you can learn quite a lot about yourself and your companions when you land yourselves in stressful situations.

There are days when the mountain feels anything but a friend, and each step of ascent is like a sacrifice to the mountain gods. Your legs burn, your heart throbs, your head pounds from the exertion, and yet so many of us refuse to quit and go back home before reaching the goal of clambering to the very top. I've had my fair share of days like these, the grueling ascents, but this day on Needle was a good one for me. I was flying up the mountain, at times even running, enjoying the freedom of what it feels like to be at such great heights, so light and spry and young.

We were reaching the rocky scramble, the last part before the summit, when the gal I was following took a trail of footsteps left in the snow from the day before. We traversed across a ways, which felt awkward even on a good day, and soon found ourselves before a slick slab of slippery granite. We had gone the wrong way and left our group who hadn't noticed our detour and were making their way up a safer route. We considered our options: risk going up the steep, slippery granite without any hand-holds, go back the way we had come, which would likely be tricky as it's easier to ascend than descend on that angle, or pull ourselves up through the dense, stocky thicket of trees in front of us, which was also anything but appealing. 

As I said, you learn a lot about people in stressful situations.

We didn't exactly decide on going up through the trees together, as it wasn't a joint decision. The woman I was with took off all the sudden, angrily and hastily, and what seemed to me nigh on the verge of panic, despite the situation really not being so grievous. As she made her way up onto the rock, I could hear her continuing on and was soon out of earshot, leaving me to fend for myself. I entered the trees, getting scratched, scraped and pulled at my fair share, but as I deserved for my youthful indulgence that had landed me there in the first place.

Eventually we both made it back to our group safely, by which point I knew not to go on ahead again, leaving the safety of numbers. Despite there being two of us in that small predicament, you cannot assume everyone has leadership skills and a cool head in sticky situations. Although we completed the rest of the summit as a group, there were a few more times when we all got to observe how each one of us reacted to the more technical parts of the scramble. There is often a certain level of fear that surfaces when you put yourself in the position that should you make a mistake, you will most certainly injure yourself seriously. Some people need space, others assistance. Some people react as I'd just experienced, with anger and a tendency to cast blame. Others strangely enough, become somewhat irrational, even belligerent. And then thankfully, there are the natural leaders in the group who are encouraging and helpful, and often intuitive, giving others the treatment they need most to complete the task at hand.

During scrambles I'm often afraid. I know by now that I like to feel in control, on and off the mountain; scrambles that require me to really trust in my abilities are often the times that fear and doubt make their way into my thoughts. I've never let them get the best of me, but I do sometimes let my head run wild with all that could go wrong until I have to force myself to focus on my shaky breath and ignore my shaking knees, and just put one foot in front of the other. The leaders of the group will often sense my willingness to be told what to do, and they'll instruct me, which is always a relief and also a good opportunity to improve upon my skills and my capacity to read the mountain.

The fear and the adrenaline, let's face it, are a large part of the reason we go to such great heights and distances. The views are splendid, but a minimal factor compared to the many others we have for investing so much time and energy to be in nature. 

The ascent to Needle

A tight spot during the scramble at the top

We reached the summit safely, and savoured the incredible sights in every direction. We took photos, ate our lunches, chatted merrily, and I put down a sweater in a flat spot and did a little headstand. Everyone laughed at my scraped up legs and dirty knees from the climb up, now waving around in the air like a little kid. 

The descent was speedy and so much Fun! as we got to run down in hops and giant leaps. The snow was perfect for it. A good day on the mountains can make best friends of perfect strangers, and many of us were visiting with each other as though we'd known one another our whole lives. Many in our group remarked it was one of the best hikes they'd ever done, and I would have to agree. Needle had everything: panoramic views, a rocky scramble, and to be honest, it was nice to do something a bit shorter as it was only a 13 km round trip. We were back to our vehicles in no time, cooling off our feet in the river and splashing water on our faces, some of us a little bit secretly sad that it was already over.

Views from the summit of Needle

There were so many lady-bugs right below the summit of Needle!

For insects, lady-bugs aren't the worst, but they still sort of creeped me out. I tried not to step on any. Not their fault they're creepy.

Not two weeks before I had just been across the highway from Needle's trail-head bagging Zupjok, Llama, Alpaca and Ottomite -- all of which which had made for one tired, happy gal. It had been a 20 km trek, 1600m elevation gain, and a long 10 hours of hiking, not to mention the early rise at 3:30 am and five hours of transportation.

After that hike when we were back in Vancouver my hiking buddy, Ryan, dropped me off at Ben's house where I spent the next hour zealously re-hydrating, nauseous, shivering and sweating, while Ben packed for a six day kayaking trip in the Broken Islands where he was to be a guide for three women. After a little while I had a litter of tea cups all around me, and could be seen splayed out on the hard wood floor looking pathetic and ill, holding onto my camel pack for dear life. Ben would glance at me every now and then, roll his eyes, or offer an occasional snap on how I needed more electrolytes on a hike like that, or more food, and how I should know better, something along those lines.

"You're not going to puke all over my house, right?"

I shook my head earnestly, though I wasn't all that sure. He went back to stepping over me, wandering back and forth from one pile of gear to another of clothing, muttering about what still needed to be packed for his trip.

***

It was on the road, on our way to Needle, when the thin veil of cloud and fog lifted in the Fraser Valley, and the morning revealed the beauty of the mountains in the distance. It was a combination of things, the warm chatter in the car, the sweet, old taste of coffee lingering in my mouth, the promise of adventure, and I began to miss to everything all at once. Perhaps it was the anonymity of being in a car, our destination unknown to those driving around us; it could have been the steady feeling of motion, the driving onwards, having a day that began with a dream, with the hope for something great to happen. All of this struck me in the backseat of a stranger's vehicle, where no one else on the highway gave a thought to our plans, let alone the happenings of my life, and so I began to realize the gravity of the situation, and allowed myself to ponder for the first time what exactly was passing me by.