I woke early this morning with an electric mix of antipaction and apprehension. I had resolved to climb Tthenaago, with the rough plan being to start climbing before dawn, overnight on the slopes and then push on to the summit early Sunday. Everything was ready: I knew my route, had packed and organized my gear, and finally had a few days where it seemed the weather would cooperate. Imagine my dismay, then, when I woke to find that my hydration bladder had leaked overnight and soaked most of my equipment! Clothes, food, everything.
I was not going to risk climbing a mountain with so much of my gear out of order, so that was that. Despondant, I sat around the house for a while before deciding to try and make the best of things. I salvaged what I could and kitted out for a hard day of hiking. There is a massive range of cliffs about 8km from town and to the east of the mountain proper, and I thought it would be worth heading out there and having a look. Some of the elders had told me that in the past they would journey to the cliffs and follow the clear land at their base up to Bluefish Lake and beyond. Some years ago a rockslide had cleared a rough path down to the river, so if I could make it out there I would be able to follow that up to the cliffs rather than trying to force my way through effectivly impenetrable forest.
With dawn breaking I headed out, setting a tough pace to make up for my lost time. I managed to just beat the sunrise, and as I left town I was gifted with a glorious view of it staining Lookout Mountain.
As I moved further from town I came across many wolf tracks, and I paused and crouched to take a closer look. They were massive, with some prints nearly the size of my hand. A flicker of movement made me glance up, and sure enough there was a wolf crossing the river about 100m down from me. Big and black, he seemed to notice me in the same instant and we both froze. We regarded each other for a few seconds before he slunk away off the ice and into the woods.
I continued on down the river, and the wind began to pick up. I soon became aware of a dull rumble coming from the mountains, and it gained in strength until it was a continuous roar. It was my first hint of what was to come. In the distance rose the imposing rocky wall of the cliffs, and step by step it drew closer.
I made good time, and it wasn't long before I reached the junction where the Nahanni merges with the Liard. Here the river widened considerably, and I suddenly became something of a plaything for the wind. For most of the morning it had been at my back, but now it would sometimes abruptly change direction, stirring up whirlwinds of snow that would twist and writhe across the ice. They would form and dissipate in an instant, and several times they tore across the river and hit me, buffeting me about with surprising strength. At my feet the blowing snow flowed continuously, giving life to an ostensibly inanimate icescape. Jagged, frozen pressure ridges jutted out here and there, rising like the murky sails of tiny ships and providing a reminder of the powerful forces still at work below the surface.
Behind me the distant mountains sparkled in the strengthening daylight, but I was soon walking in shadow as an oily layer of clouds boiled in from the south, racing across the sky and obscuring the sun.
I soon reached the foot of the landslide, a massive tongue of scattered rock extending down from the cliffs to the river below. It was even larger than I had expected, and with some trepidation I moved from the compacted snow of the river to the thick, heavy powder of the land. Around me the forest was dense but in constant motion, the wind scouring the snow from their branches and dousing me in a haze of ice crystals. Ahead of me loomed the cliffs, and with a measured pace I began to slowly make my way towards them.
The further I moved up the rockslide, the weirder the landscape became. The trees fell away and were replaced by massive boulders half-buried in the snow, flung about at random. I swiftly realised that the only sensible way to move was to follow the emerging ridgelines of tumbled rock, because in the gullies and hollows between them I would sink past my waist. The wind boomed, growing louder with every passing moment. It was incredible, simply incredible: constant, piercing and powerful. To my west the carved face of Tthenaago emerged from behind a veil of cloud, the snow shining so brightly that it almost hurt to look at it.
I climbed further and the ground became horrendous. Moving in a straight line was impossible, and I was forced to pick my way through a nightmarish maze of jagged rock and sheer ice. It was difficult to judge distance in such a landscape, and boulders that might look only 100m or so away often turned out to be three times that. All I was really conscious of though was the wind, the constant, impossible wind. Exposed as I was on the ridges, there was no escaping the knife-edge of its blasts. It was all around me, and the noise as it crashed around the cliffs was unlike anything I could have imagined. It was truly unearthly.
I took shelter in the lee of a hillock and grabbed a bite to eat. I marveled at frozen infinity of the plain below me, rows of trees marching into the distance as far as the eye could see.
The cliffs were close now, towering above me. I could see the rich bands of black and ochre striping its face, while above a rim of frosted spruce trees kept a lonely watch from ramparts over 600m high.
Halfway along another ridge, I hesitated. Over the past few minutes a vague unease had been growing in the back of my mind, and as I approached the cliffs it grew stronger and stronger until I was overcome with a sort of inchoate dread. Then it happened - there was a pause in the wind, as if it were gathering itself, and then suddenly its roar rose to a crescendo. My ears popped and it felt like a physical force was hurtling down towards me, and I swear I could see a shimmer in the air as a gust struck me head-on. It was like a massive hand slamming into my chest, and it knocked me off my feet. I lay on my back in the snow, stunned, and my eyes tried to comprehend what they were seeing. Amidst the devilish shrieking of the wind the sky was blue, so blue, but it was deep and dark and tinged with purple. I have never seen anything like it, and it was disturbing in the extreme.
I got to my feet and collected myself. I felt as if the mountain itself had spoken to me, with the roar of the wind voicing a single word:
enough. I agreed. Pressing on was foolish, the conditions were simply too extreme and the terrain too difficult for it to be safe for me to voluntarily continue on my own. I had a sattelite distress beacon with me, but I had no intention of using it. So that was that. I turned around and got the hell out of there.
I had thought descending would be easier because I had already broken a trail, but that was not the case. The constant wind was working hard to erase evidence of my passage, and my tracks were fading with every passing moment. I could roughly follow my route, but it was very difficult. I was not afraid of getting lost because all I had to do was continue descending and eventually I would hit the river; rather, the fear was wandering off my original course and getting swamped in the snow or stuck on the rocks. A busted knee or a twisted ankle was a very real concern, now that fatigue was setting in.
After much effort, I made it through the worst of the landslide. I looked back, and in the distance the cliffs still boomed with the roiling winds sweeping in from the plains below. I began to relax, and headed back into the trees for the last stretch leading down to the river. Compared to the previous terrain, the massive drifts of soft snow were almost a luxury.
I made it to the bottom as dusk approached. I was able to strip off the snowshoes and walk back along the river, although even this was less of a respite than I had hoped. The wind had layered fresh powder over everything, and of every three steps I took one foot would sink in well past my ankle. It slowed me down and was very tiring.
I made it home just before sunset without further mishap, though, and was very thankful for a hot shower and a fresh pot of coffee. I learned that I was not alone in my fearsome experience with the wind; Bhreagh and the girls had returned that afternoon from their week in Yellowknife and had apparently encountered some vicious turbulence as they flew in by the mountains. Oddly enough, not a breath of wind had touched the town itself. I can't say I am complaining, though, I don't think I have ever been more appreciative of the peacefulness of still air.
