It didn't take long before my feet and ankles were voicing protest. The further I advanced, the worse the terrain became, and I stumbled over the loose and jagged rocks. It was impossible to find level ground, and my pace slowed to a crawl. The rocks themselves, while brutal on the joints, were at least beautiful to behold. Crystaline boulders sparkled in the sun, and even otherwise drab stones were tiger-striped with ochre.
I soon noticed other things mixed in with the rocks. Dall's Sheep were evidently in the area, and piles of their droppings grew ever more frequent. It didn't take me long to figure out that staying on their trail was the easiest way to negotiate the rockslide, so I adjusted my route to follow their tracks as best I could.
Shortly thereafter, a clatter of stones betrayed the presence of a small group of sheep watching me from a nearby hillock. I was more than a little envious of the ease with which they lept from boulder to boulder and bounded upslope. These sheep would prove constant companions over the coming days.
After another hour or two of hard hiking, I made it to the cliffs themselves. I rested briefly, although even trying to find a stable place to sit down was a challenge. A route that seemed so benign from a distance was proving to be rather difficult, with loose rocks scattering and sliding beneath every step.
The cliffs themselves were stunning. From town they looked uniformly drab and grey, but up close they were rich with colour. Flecks of crystal caught the sunlight and sparkled fiercly, and sounds echoed eerily off wind-carved spires of stone.
Eventually I made it the beginning of the saddle, where the rocks gave way to dense forest and a steep slope that climbed to the ridge. All that remained was for me to cross a final rockslide. The boulders were significantly larger than what I had encountered so far, some the size of small cars, channeled down a narrow gully flanked by high ridges. I took a brief break and considered my options. I decided to stick to the high end of the slope, where a chain of rocks could serve as literal stepping stones as I made my way across. It would be steep, but if I descended there was no guarantee I would be able to scale the far side of the gully.
With that settled, I started out. The slide was perhaps 200m across, and at first I encountered no difficulty. But about half-way across, I paused. I was planning my next move, and for all I know that delay saved me from disaster. The air was suddenly filled with a horrifying, growling rumble that I could feel as much as hear. Before my eyes the rock I was about to step onto groaned and slid further down slope, taking with it a hail of smaller stones. The rock I was standing on shuddered under my feet, and all around me the boulders grated and shifted. In a heart-stopping moment I realised I was crossing an active slope. Until this point all the slides I had encountered were stable and settled, and this had perhaps lulled me into complacency, but suddenly I found myself in very real danger.
Until it happens, you never know how you are going to react to something like that. There was fear, yes, but also a certain cold clarity. I recognized both the gravity of my situation and the fact that I was the only one who could get myself out of it.
The only solution was to somehow find a route that might help me dodge being crushed or pinned by the larger rocks, should the slope give way. Going back was not an option; there were simply too many giant boulders upslope and I had no idea how stable they were now that some had shifted. The way forward was not much better, although at least that way the rocks were smaller and more managable. Either way, though, the reality was that I simply did not know if any rock I stood on would hold fast.
So I moved forward. Every clatter of stones sent a chill through me, but I made it across. A wave of relief and exhiliaration hit me, followed by profanity and a vow to never do anything like that again. From my vantage point on the edge of the gully it was clear that the way back would require some serious bushwacking to avoid the slide, but that was a price I'd be happy to pay.
With the adrenaline still surging, I pushed on towards the saddle with a new intensity. Gone, finally, were the ankle-twisting rocks of the past few hours. In their place appeared dense forest clinging to a brutally steep incline, but this was a welcome change. Moving from tree to tree, I literally pulled myself up the slope.
Gradually, the trees thinned out somewhat and I caught a glimpse of my destination: the first knoll that would lead me to the ridge. It seemed close enough to touch, but yet again - appearances proved deceiving.
After another hour of brutal climbing, I finally reached the spine of the ridge itself. There was no relief to the severity of the incline, but at least now the trees cleared out completly and I was able to switchback my way upwards. Below me the boreal plain extended to the horizon in its verdant infinity, with the mirror-like sheen of the river sparkling in the sunlight.
Close now, so close. My legs were burning and I felt crushed under the weight of my rucksack, but I couldn't stop. There was no place to rest, no level ground on which to give up and pitch my tent. Step by step, up and up...and then all at once, I was there.
Below me lay the village and all the landmarks that have grown so wonderfully familiar over the past year, and from the far side of the saddle the carved face of Tthenaago regarded me impassively.
But the true reward was what lay beyond.
My determination to scale the cliffs was never about the climb itself. No, what mattered to me was the chance to see what lay on the other side, a place the maps call the Valley of the Silent Hills. Until then it had only existed in my imagination, etched out in contour lines - so to finally see it stretched out before me was one of the most rewarding experiences of my life.
For the next few hours I relaxed, gazing down at the valley and watching the play of light and shadow as clouds made their way across the sky. The air was cool and still, and scattered birdsong rose from the trees below. After a while, I felt like I was being watched: sure enough, the little family of sheep I had spied earlier had followed me to the ridge! No doubt they were wondering what this oaf was doing, trespassing in their home.
As the afternoon stretched into evening, it was time to make camp. I dug out a firepit and pitched my tent, and then sat down to a pasta dinner. I was concerned that my campsite was rather exposed and would be vulnerable if the wind picked up, but I had no alternative.
As I ate, the light faded on the plain below. The moon climbed higher in the sky, and the air was almost eerily calm. Sound occasionally drifted up from the village; the snarl of a 4x4, dogs barking.
To the north, world slid slowly into shadow. Shafts of light would sometimes illuminate patches of the valley floor, and the effect was breathtaking in its beauty.
Sunset came around 11pm, with distant rows of nameless mountains silhouetted by the dying light.
Utterly content, I crawled into my tent. Fatigue and satisfaction blended together as I drifted in and out of sleep, and as far as I was concerned, the world was at peace.
I knew it was too good to be true.It started as a whisper. As I lay there, I heard a dull roar sound from the valley below. I blinked sleep from my eyes as the fly of my tent stirred in the freshening breeze. Sure enough, the roar grew in intensity until it descended upon my campsite with the full ferocity of the mountains. Howling along the ridge it buffeted my tent, and even with me as an anchor I still felt it tremble and shift. The poles bent and strained, and it became clear they couldn't take much more abuse. The fly was acting as a sail, and if I didn't take it down I could very well lose my tent.
I ventured outside and somehow managed to remove it without it blowing away. With just the fine mesh of the bug net still standing, much of the devilish flapping vanished. The downside was that now I had to try and sleep with the full force of the wind washing over me. I hunkered down, and actually managed to snatch a few fitful hours.
The next morning was sunny and calm, as if the events of the night had only been a dream. My campsite was more or less intact, although most of my firewood had been blown away. Some of my tent poles were bent out of shape, but brute force soon fixed that. It was clear that I couldn't spend another night where I was. Descending was out of the question, as it would require several hours of hiking to reach a spot suitable for camping, so I decided my task for the day was to explore the ridge and find a better location. With that in mind, after a leisurely breakfast I set out.
As I walked I encountered strange pillars of rock, carved by the wind and brilliant with lichen. Below me the boreal plain went on forever, and the lambent flow of the Liard River unfurled towards the horizon. Sometimes a boat would leave the village and head downriver, and I wondered if they knew I was watching them.
In the afternoon dark clouds began to roll in from the northwest. The forecast had called for sunshine all weekend, but it appeared that this would not be the case. More ominously, the wind began to pick up again. I didn't like the idea of leaving my campsite unattended, so I hurried back to my gear.
I had not been especially successful in my attempts to find an alternate campsite, but a few hundred meters away from my present site I had found a large boulder that might prove a reasonable shield from the wind. With no other alternatives, I packed everything up and moved up there.
With every step the wind seemed to grow stronger, and I wasn't looking forward to a repeat of the previous night. The boulder wasn't big enough to shield my entire tent, but so long as I hugged the base of the rock I was quite well protected. I built up a windbreak at my feet and was soon nestled in my sleeping bag.
The hours slid by slowly, but I was warm and dry and happy for an excuse to stay put. I needed the rest. My body was still aching from the climb, knees and ankles sore and swollen from scrabbling over the jagged rocks below. I passed the time by mulling over my descent. I pictured my route and broke it into stages, tracing out every step. Much as I might tell myself otherwise, I knew that it was going to be difficult. Very difficult.
As dusk approached, the temperature dropped and it started to snow. For once I was thankful for the wind, as it was steady enough to blow it horizontally rather than letting it fall on me.
Several times the wind carried with it the sound of hoofs clattering on rock. I would catch a glimpse of a sheep poking his head over the edge of a hillock before ducking back down and out of sight. I know they were just curious, but I preferred to think that they were checking up on me.
Just before sunset the conditions seemed to improve. The clouds began to break up and the sun burned the sky a deep red. I settled deeper into my sleeping bag, closed my eyes, and tried to sleep.
I slept surprisingly well, considering my location, and I woke to find dawn staining the sky with its peacock colours. I limbered up and busied myself with making a solid breakfast. All too soon it was time to go. My ride was going to meet me on the Liard River at 6pm, which gave me a good 12 hours to descend.
The first step was to make my way down to the saddle. I knew it would be difficult, but it proved even trickier than I expected. There is something very disheartening about only being able to see 50m of the slope in front of you before it drops away out of sight. It was so steep that it was actually easier to climb up rather than down, but eventually I made it.
Next I had to pick my way back through the dense bush at its base. Once again, finding my way through the scrubby spruce trees was easier said than done, and several times I wandered off course and had to double back in order to avoid a sheer rock face.
As I descended I caught a glipse of a large cavern bored into the side of a stony tower on the face of Tthenaago. Some of the locals told me that the mountains are home to the "boss of the wind", and after my experience on the ridgeline I was inclined to believe them. If ever there was a home for such an entity, that cavern would be it.
It was nearly noon before I made it to the bottom and could consider how to make my way back along the base of the cliffs. Given my earlier experience on the rockslide my original route was out of the question, so instead I looped down through the forest and crossed it far from the danger area.
With that out of the way, I began to relax. The way home was still difficult, but it was safe. For long hours I laboured up and over the rocks, sweltering in the heat and battling a swarm of mosquitos that had decided to make an appearance. I quickly finished the last of my water, but I knew I was near a spring and that lent haste to my step.
I found its source and followed the trickle that seeped out from under the cliffs. Further down the mudslide it collected in large pools before birthing a fast-flowing creek that ran down to the Liard River.
I filled my bottles and took a much-needed break. Behind me loomed the cliffs, silent and imposing, guarding the valley beyond.
I was bone-weary but content, and the final hike down to the river passed without incident. I timed things well and made it to the riverbank just before 6. There were fresh bear tracks but thankfully no bears - just the sound of a woodpecker burrowing out a home on the other side of the river.
My ride arrived soon after. John had to go out of town, but Romeo and Brad were kind enough to fill in for him. The roar of the outboard ruined any chance of conversation, but I didn't mind. As we glided back to town I reflected on my days on the cliffs.
I knew I had been lucky with that rockslide. I was well prepared for the climb, but there is always a fine line between challenge and risk. Things can still happen that push you across that line whether you want them to or not.
So much of who we are is defined by such moments, flashes of colour in the otherwise drab familiarity of daily routine. And what else is life but the sum of these moments? They illuminate the path of our souls, and show us the way.
