Deprivation ‘tanks’ – Jasper Skyline Trail

Aug. 1999

Jasper Skyline Trail is listed by Gadd the best hike in the Canadian Rockies. But, to me, it seemed a disaster loomed. These jots were first posted in a friendship newsletter called the red-eye.

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rick_mugTruth is, I’m a city boy. I like a VCR, recliner rocker, comforter, “munching high up the food chain”.

I used to ridicule my Saskatoon friends when they dragged back into town, hypothermic & mosquito-welted from their latest canoeing fiasco.

In those days I didn’t like to walk any farther than from my car to the 7-11.

This summer, back from the under-indulgences of Asia, I’ve been overindulging bagels, ice-cream, & hot tubs. Forget my philosophy of “Voluntary Simplicity”. Deprivation tanks!

I tried a compromise once, joining my Calgary hiking buddies on a Waterton Park trip — while carrying a Sony “Watchman”. As we “trekked”, I gleefully called out the golf leader board to my grumbling companions. Greg Norman was winning the British Open!

Yet during the summer of ‘99 I spent as much time in the wild as I could, returning from overseas specifically to hike.

Actually, there’s more adventure to be had in Canada than Asia.

I had been enthusiastically anticipating the JASPER SKYLINE TRAIL; “the best hike in the Canadian Rockies”, asserts Ben Gadd, our premiere mountain naturalist.

The Skyline is high, over half above the tree line, with some long ridge walks. Panoramic vistas!

We could see Mt. Robson, the “biggest” mountain in the Rockies (from base to peak) though not highest in elevation.

However, recall our miserable “late” Spring. When we phoned from Calgary to see if the hiking trails were clear of snow we were advised that “ski conditions were poor”. (This was mid-July!)

The Skyline problem looming was “The Notch”, a high, steep, windy mountain pass. If snowed-in, it would probably be impassable due to avalanche risk.

I was the most vocal nay-sayer; beefing all the way up during the drive from Banff, complaining in the toilet at the trailhead where we fussed with our packs out of the drizzling rain.

(I only agreed to participate because I couldn’t resist the chance to hike with a manly ice ax. Picture the “blue haze of testosterone”.

We rented those axes. We didn’t actually know how to use them.

One of the guys had lifesaving instructions scribbled on a napkin. But those of us who had seen IMAX “Everest” preferred to innovate in the manner demonstrated by the Jr. Tenzing Norguay. It was great fun “glissading”, boot skiing, steep slopes then falling into an ice ax brake-stop just before the jagged rocks at the bottom.

The rain turned to snow. We slogged through slush. Waded creeks.

My spirits improved when we pulled-out the Tequila & lemon-lime Crystal Lite, clearly superior to the 100 proof Vodka & powdered Gatorade.

The Skyline is a marvelous hike. Wild and beautiful, the mountains somehow more rugged this far north.

We saw mountain sheep, a statuesque mountain goat, and even glimpsed a moose dash across the path ahead.

By the time we reached “The Notch” the weather had cleared, the morning sunshine brilliant.

This was more bad news. The sun softens the snow. We’d been strongly advised to ascend by noon latest.

No matter. It was obvious the snowy pass “would not go”. Winnibago-sized chunks of ice poised ready to come crashing down from the overhanging cornice.

No one had ascended yet this year. The only 2 other hikers (Gita & Lars from Denmark) were dissuaded to “Notch” by an unwelcoming resident wrangler. Instead they proposed to bushwhack AROUND the mountain. This stratagem was seriously crazy, as we told them.

We loitered, indecisively debating our options, watching marmots duke it out (“The Rumble in the Rubble”).

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Suddenly John Long charged up the slope. He had had enough gab. I couldn’t catch him — “he was that damn fast”.

I have to commend John (a bachelor) for route-finding, kicking steps into the snow up the entire uncertain and potentially dangerous climb. We had consensus that one of the married men should lead. A single guy still has too much to live for.

We made it!

At the pass we were euphoric, scrambling to the top of the dry adjacent peak, posing for “outrider” cliff-edge photos.

Then — the most outrageous thing I’ve ever seen in the mountains. Two tiny specks appeared on top of the even more monstrous icy cornice on the opposite side of the pass.

It was Lars & Gita, the couple who had disdained to follow us. They had short-cut to the very worst possible spot on the mountain!

Somehow, by continued improbable dumb-ass luck, they were able to descend to the pass.

We back-slapped, had a big lunch boil-up in the sunshine.

The big, bad “Notch” was conquered. But, like many other victors, we suffered more hurt at the post-hike celebration than in battle.

travel – Fair-Ace Memories of Europe 1976

March 1996

Jots from the 20 year reunion party of 4 friends who traveled Europe when they were 18-years-old.

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• Four highschool pals went to Europe in 1976; Rob fell in love on the plane. I was excited; sleeping only 4 of 44 hours on that flight.

• Rob’s uncle rented an orange (“Drifters”) VW van (what else?) with 8-track! In short order Ron crunched it into a parked car. “Don’t worry Ron. We won’t have any more than the usual objections to your driving”, quipped Rob. (Actually, my diary reveals that the main accident-waiting-to-happen was Glaze driving TOO far on the right side of the road.) The driver chooses the tunes; Ozark, Doobies, or Mott the Hoople?

• Holland; Raw Herring mit onions, Potat Frits with Mayonaise, Emannuele 2. The stunning Monique.

• Germany; Munich, Deutches Museum, Dachau, German beer, 10 CC.

• Austria; Vienna, Innsbruck, skiing, and a blonde hitch-hiker from Mad city, Wisconsin.

• Rich; morning horks and vivid dream tales. One even had a title: “The 500 Million Dollar Bet or The Man Who Beat God”

• Italy; Karen (the Tigress) from Bawston at Florian’s Cafe, San Marco Square, Venice. Easter Diner in a rich Italian villa near Verona, the “King Kong” dance and, later the “Sift”. Calzone. Florence!!; Ufuzi, Michaelangelo. Urbino!. Rome; Saint Peter’s was too grandiose to Grok. I rode the city on a rented Vespa wearing ski goggles. Hey! Ron bumps into Mary Forest! Wow! Flaming Arrows to celebrate!

• Greece; the highlight. Corfu, fireflies, Domestika. Wonderful breakfast. The freedom of our own co-ed dorm. Rob Dunn Kirk Wanvic’s solo dance to Kung Foo Fighting. “Jesus, he’s going to be better than Bruce Lee.” The Greek “snake dance” followed. Kirk later showboated his rented motorbike over a bridge.

• The Bazooki bar with stolen Cami; her brother’s finest. Scotch and smashing plates. Surreal.

• Rob and Kim and a slimy sleeping bag …. The “points race”.

• Papa said, “I love everybody from the orange van.” Of course the Greeks loved Ron best. Fishing trips. Free meals. Beware Greeks bearing gifts?

• Ron kissed the ticket-girl Mary Beth good-bye leaving Corfu. A nice touch excepting that she was passed-out drunk.

• Ron declared, “If I don’t get laid before I get to Den Haag, I’ll cut my wang off.”

Ron waxed poetic …

Whether Blonde or Brunette
Whether sink of Bidette
Man it’s all the same to me,
Whether skinny or fat
I’ll be hanging a rat
And baby it’ll be aimed at thee.

• Cut-offs, tanned youth splashing in white breaker waves.

• Athens; Plaka, Acropolis light show, the BEST way to hold hands, souvlaki, Tiger balm. The night we were were wined, dined and feted at the Discotek until 3:00 am?

• Olympia; who won that race, again? Glaze was Adonis for the admiring Greek tourist girls.

• Ask yourself seriously —
is there life after youth?

• Italy; I remember leaving Pompeii. It was the first time in over a month that the four R’s had the van to themselves again. The exhilaration of freedom.

• Glaze and I searched for the “perfect meat”; marble in the famous Carrara pits. A spooky hostel on the Italian Riviera. My first ugly close look at alcoholism — the ex-patriot anarchist philosopher.

• France; Nice, Driving the Grand Prix de Monte Carlo track with Alice Cooper “Under My Wheels”.

• Remember Ron’s French bread baget sandwiches? Fresh tomatoes, mayo, 4 eggs!, with creamy melted butter.

• Best is the naive enthusiasm of youth. I still love to travel, but I no longer promise to write every person I meet.

more poetry

Sunshine

Memories;
Silent fading shadows of what we were
they are our substance
wilting ever
fading never
they always will be there.

Friends;
when we meet again
and search
together
for treasured memories
the sunshine
will still make me cry.

– Ron, Europa (1976)

James Taylor

Long ago a young man sits
and plays his waiting game.
But things are not the same, it seems,
as in such tender dreams.
Slowly passing sailing ships
and Sunday afternoons.
Like people on the moon, I see
are things not meant to be.

Where do those golden rainbows end?
Why is this song I sing so sad?
Dreaming the dreams I’ve dreamed my friend
Loving the love I love to love is just a word I’ve heard
when things are being said.
Stories my poor head has told
cannot stand the cold.
And in between what might have been
and what has come to pass,
a misbegotten guess, alas,
and bits of broken glass.

Where do your golden rainbows end?
Why is the song I sing so sad?
Dreaming the dreams I dream my friend
Loving the love I love to love to love.

Only dreams, it seems;
to hesitate
to pause and think,
to alter fate.

Faces to save,
but more to lose,
a saving grace,
another bruise?

– Rick, ‘76

The Brainsport Running Club

July 1995

rick_mugToday I run INTERMEDIATE!

I know, I know. It’s serious. I’ve never run INTERMEDIATE before. My friend, triathlete Mark Boyd, energetically tries to dissuade me.

“I know. I know. It’s really serious.”

There is another problem. The ADVANCED group is canceled tonight as the top runners are expected to do a 5 km. time trial, instead. However, many of the racers don’t want to do an all out 5 km. sprint in the sweltering Saskatchewan heat. It’s +29C at 6:00 pm. The top guns must stoop to run INTERMEDIATE if they want to run distance tonight.

No matter. Tonight I run with Angie Pratt (a natural if there ever was one) in INTERMEDIATE. Angie is strangely quiet when I tell her my plan.

Forty-five minutes of 7-8 minute miles. How tough can it be?

I’m psyched. Despite my obvious obesity, lack of training, and inadequate running gear (my cross-trainers are duct-taped together), I’m certain I can make it. After all, I’d done blistering 30 minute runs for the last 3 days in series. I shot 89 at the Willows this morning, by far my best round of the year. This is my day. 🙂

We begin with a relaxed jog. Is this warm-up, or their pace? Though I know I should conserve energy, not talk, I can’t resist asking Peter (the “showboater”) what he has strapped to his chest. It is a remote heart rate monitor sending data to his wrist watch display.

“The highest I hit was 217 beats / minute at Provincials. The heart could do more but my legs were gone.”

Pete had qualified for the world Triathlon championships in New Zealand last year.

So far, so good. Steady pace but not too fast. I wanted to wear my “Pain, Sweat, Agony — Love It!” t-shirt today, but it was far too hot. Instead, I wear the lightest shorts and wife beater I own. No socks.

As we hit the river the pace increases. I drop to the last spot in the pack to acknowledge my rank in the pecking order. This hierarchy is as rigid as the castes of India. Indiscriminate of race, religion, education, or income, everyone is slotted by running ability. The group dynamics are fascinating in this other world.

Sh!t. I overhear that we’re doing two hill sprints instead of the railway bridge. Should I suggest to Don, the volunteer run leader, that I do just one?

The queue slows to a walk fighting through the tenacious bushes overgrowing the river path. This offers a chance to catch-up. I run the path, relishing the flagellation of the branches like some neo-Jesuit running martyr. Embrace the pain!

Thank God. Railway bridge.

$hit! INTERMEDIATE “surges” the railway bridge. I fall way back for the first time.

In my proper group, BEGINNER PLUS (the most incorrectly named of all the wrong-named ability groupings in this club), the lead runners circle back to pick-up stragglers. The speedsters shout encouragement to their lessors.

But everyone knows that INTERMEDIATES DON’T LOOP. If you can’t run 7 minute miles, why the Hell aren’t you in BEGINNER PLUS? The unspoken policy in INTERMEDIATE is to offer up silent embarrassment for assholes stupid enough to find themselves in my situation.

Yes! Don stops the group for water at the end of the bridge and I catch-up. This is the most he can do for me within the real rules. The better runners are understandably frustrated with this delay. They are trying to train.

Bad news. I reach a stage where I can run well for a couple of minutes, but then need to slow to recover. One guy drops back, feigning fatigue, to motivate me. It helps, but we both fall still further behind. Finally, the good Samaritan has to dash up to his friends. He tried.

At every level, every night, these runs are very competitive. No one ever admits this. Interesting. What can you expect when you put so many fitness freak over-achievers together?

Pain. I can’t go on. I’ll go on.

At least I don’t have a runner’s cramp. I take solace in that I’m running about as well as I possibly can.

Unbelievably, the group stops again at the Gordie Howe Park water fountain. Damn! I hope this is not another stratagem to help me! BEGINNER PLUS never stop.

Still mystified, I run through to communicate that I don’t want to slow down the group. If there was someone running behind me, I’d abandon them. After all, this is INTERMEDIATE.

All of a sudden I’m in the lead. What? Which route? Do we return over the low level bridge? I feel like the guy who sprints the start of the Boston marathon just to get on TV before being engulfed by the real runners.

No worries. Someone will quickly catch and pass me. One guy does but he doesn’t know the route either. We take the low level bridge. Wrong. The rest of the runners race on towards the Broadway bridge, no doubt relieved by my departure.

I stick it out to the top of the hill but then quit 2 blocks early, limping back to the store. My feet are scraped, my soles bruised. I slump into a chair for about 20 minutes, drained, but kind of proud.

Rehydration, shower, and a quick coma — then it’s off to hear Charlie Sexton with Mark and super-woman Michelle. Beer. Tequila. Scotch.

I’m going to hurt tomorrow.

Alive ‘95, hiking the Rockwall

July 1995 by Ricardo McCharles, Survivor

This is the draft copy I sent to the editor of the red-eye, our friendship newsletter. It is an expose of our hike on the Rockwall Trail.

I asked that the Reditor edit. I know everyone needs an editor. Even Hitler. His original title for MEIN KAMPF was “Four-and-a-half Years of Struggle against Lies, Stupidity, and Cowardice.”

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rick_mugI write in order that the truth be known, and to dispel the many rumours about what happened in the Rockies. This is the story of what we suffered and how we stayed alive. It is a catharsis, yet I hope it may prevent such tragedy in the future.

On Thursday, July 13th, five would-be mountaineers set off from Bragg Creek for Kootenay National Park in British Columbia. Reports of good weather elevated the spirits of our ill-prepared band, though most of us were badly hungover. To steel our nerve, we had been drinking heavily on departure’s eve. Ironically, we snacked on “prairie oysters” at Bottlescrew Bill’s Testicle Festival.

The sixth hiker in our party, Ana Farries, left her home in Kimberly, British Columbia to rendezvous at the trailhead. Ana, a journalist whose byline occasionally appeared in publications of a lesser sort, was a first-time alpinist. She didn’t yet know what she didn’t know about mountain survival. No one expected her to live.

We met as scheduled and, overconfident in the bright sunshine, our rough tribe set off. An interpretive walk … to Hell.

Party-leader Rocco (Party-on, Rock!) Ciancio feigned enthusiasm, a picture of false bravado. A professional ass-coverer for the Petro-toxin industry, Rocco’s legendary shitheadedness might help him survive.

Herr Professor-to-be, Juan Long was stoically calm. Late 30s, thin, neat, and unmarried — not that there is anything wrong with that — he was just finishing 23 years of education in order to become an electrician. Juan would be valuable if any of the flashlights went kaput at high altitude.

Ronaldo Shewchuk, the bulky “Buckfart”, anticipated a particularly grueling ascent. Tough and experienced, the cost-unconscious Ronaldo was, none-the-less, heavily laden. And he presented too tempting a caloric windfall as he lumbered up the path ahead. He was also vulnerable in that he slept in his own tent, alone or with some one night bag-boy.

I feared most the menacing Roberto Glaser — sullen and brooding, haunted by ghosts from his past. A latter day Lord of the Flies, I only barely resisted raising a war council against him. Roberto inevitably charged ahead of the group. I stayed close in order to stay in the first echelon of power, and to avoid ambush. I did not intend to go down easily, and Roberto knew it.

I had announced my intentions clearly to Rob’s wife, and mother of 3, Judith, as we departed. “Six-in, six-out. That’s the goal.”

I knew that if I failed we would be killed-off one-at-a-time. Fresh meat. But who would be first?

Most at risk was the trail-rookie Ana Farries. She immediately fell back, left behind to be dispatched by the bears. When Roberto backtracked to claim her corpse, the spunkster was still hobbling along despite gangrenous feet. Disgusted, Rob abandoned her again.

Night 1 — Helmet Creek

We got immediately, and utterly, Shewchuked. While the others tried to out-inebriate each other, I carefully substituted my own Tequila with creek water. I calculated that the highest probability of violent mortality would be at the height of a drinking binge, not on some icy ridge.

Late in the evening, Ana somehow stumbled into camp. Too bad. Now she would suffer the indignity of the rookie hazing.

Yet, somehow Ana survived the profane song, nudity, the physical abuse. I admired her tenacity! Venus envy, I guess.

Night 2 — Tumbling Creek

Camped for the night., we got Shewchuk-faced, again. Roberto decided to give away some of our food to two starving dike fingerers. “What the Hell was he thinking? What’s coming down?”, I fumed, re-checking my secret stash of life sustaining licorice jaw breakers.

Forebodingly, Rocco sang Dolomite. Would it be his swan song?

Day 3 — Tumbling glacier

Roberto’s bestial passions rose as we gained elevation, approaching the high and hideous Tumbling glacier. The impassable and lifeless rock wall loomed immense on our right.

In environs of utmost desolation, astoundingly, that metamorphic shist disturber Rocco collected … rocks, adding them to his pack even as he sucked at the oxygen depleted air.

Night 3 — Numa Creek

Somehow, still alive. Unwashed savages, somehow few peccadilloes offended. Unstated, we knew that we must stick together if we were going to get out alive. But we trusted no one.

What about tomorrow? Would we be lost? Poisoned? A Swiss-army-knife-related fatality at a luncheon boil-up? I slept fitfully.

We had to hike dry — no booze and scarcely any food unless you count the dozen packages of strokanoff which we all refused.

Live dangerously, dread naught.

At low ebb, I could smell freedom. Ana and I took the last of the food and fled the group in a race for civilization.

We got immediately lost. Done for. I had sabotaged Roberto’s pack to discourage pursuit but forgot to nick his map. We were forced to simply follow the creek down the mountain.

At midday on Sunday, July 16th, we walked out of the mountains. No rescue team. No helicopters. Simply eyes-closed-home-run-hitting, numb, dumb luck.

Six-in, six-out? How did our tribe of 8-balls; of back-country boozers, do it? I have no idea.

Somehow, life had won out over death.

There’s no moral. No reason. No justice.

Live dangerously, dread naught. Who dares, wins. You can hike and survive. It happened to us.

—-

Inspired by the novel Alive and the Himalayan writing style of Hunter S. Thompson.

The Myth of Sissy-fuss, hiking O’Hara

Aug. 1994

This was my comic review of our annual hike. It was first posted in a (pre-internet) friendship newsletter called the red-eye.

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rick_mugThe Gods condemn me to hike with sissy-fussers at the lake of O‘Hara.

“There is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labour.”

To hear them boast, to gawk at horse and pony, you may conclude they are admirable men.

Nay.

I speak from that hellish overworld to tell truth.

I am the absurd hero of this tale — not the sissy-fussers. Mine is the …

“unspeakable penalty in which the whole being is exerted toward accomplishing nothing.”

If you could see me; face screwed up, cheeks tight, shoulder bracing the day pack (I, of course, carried beer for ALL), arms outstretched to grasp the heavens ….

But noooooooooo!

Ron forgets his new wet fly. Rocco needs lip balm. Rob dreads perspiration. John Long seeks the mild man within. And where is Ian?

The sissy-fussers balk at 2.8 km over well-groomed trails. They fear bears. They fear avalanche. They fear porcupine. They fear fear itself. Four year old children skip by as the fussers decide to pack it in for the day. It is 11:00 am.

“My face that toils so close to stone is already stone itself!” I go back down to the plain with heavy, measured step.

The sissy-fussers came. They saw. They went for mocha.

Oh, the travesty of Le Roleaux gourmet coffee in the Rockies! Merde!

In a saga less Homer than Homer Simpson, the sissy-fussers are a gaggle of giggling school girls. The soundtrack is Gershwin and Mantovani. Yoho-ho, indeed!

A meal with these pantywaists is punctuated by a Flanderian up-tempo “God is Great”. They pooh-pooh single-ply bog roll. Ron contemplates busing down the mountain to use a flush toilet. (The MegaGorp was too fiber-rich!)

Actually carrying a pack is anathema for a sissy-fusser. Ian arrived for the hike with an “ugly dog” — a suitcase with wheels on a leash. Ron and Rocco used a wheelbarrow to move their goods from bus stop to liquor cabinet.

If this myth is tragic, it is because I am conscious. Hope is my torture.

“My boundless grief is too heavy to bear.”

“You, too, work every day at the same tasks. Your fate is no less absurd.”

“The absurd man says yes and his effort will hence forth be unceasing.”

But, “imagine me happy.” I smile an absurd victory smile.

“There is no fate that cannot be surmounted by scorn.”