Ever since I came to Nahanni Butte its namesake mountain has filled my imagination. Rising more than 1500m above the village, it dominates the surroundings. Years ago the fiercly territorial Naha ("people from the land far away") used its heights as a watchtower of sorts, scanning the taiga plain below for the tell-tale campfires of outsiders. Once spotted, they would descend and attack the interlopers.
In my two years here I have made six attempts to climb it, but have never been successful. Weather has often proved the deciding factor, although last May my climb was aborted because a grizzly mother and her cub had been spotted numerous times on the main ridge leading up to the mountain proper. I went to
the cliffs instead, which proved an adventure in its own right.
This weekend, though, the conditions seemed perfect. Sunshine in the forecast, and more importantly my new packraft gave me a means to ferry myself over rather than relying on someone from town to take me and then pick me up. I planned to spend Friday evening climbing, Saturday exploring, and Sunday descending, so I packed my bag and got ready to go. I would be traveling much heavier than usual, but I didn't have a choice -- there is no water up there, and the climb would be difficult so I had to bring as much as I could carry.
On Friday afternoon, the moment school finished I hurried down to the river bank. I wanted to be on the slopes as quickly as possible, hopefully making it to the summit that night. The mountain loomed over me, shifting between light and shadow as the clouds drifted overhead. The peak looked tantalizingly close, but in reality getting there would require almost 8km of steep climbing.
I loaded up my raft and paddled across. Along the way I picked up an entourage of mosquitos, dozens of them dive-bombing me and providing an early incentive to keep moving.
The initial section of the ridge proved challenging, especially in the 27C heat. Dubbed "First Hill", it is a bald slope that is deceptively steep.
Thankfully after about a few hundred meters or so it leveled off somewhat and I entered the forest cover of Second Hill. I hiked through groves of birch and spruce, happy to get some cover from the sun. The cooler air seemed only to encourage the mosquitos, though, and they were relentless. I stuck close to the ridge, and as I moved along I glimpsed sweeping vistas of the plain below.
The next few hours passed slowly. The bush was very thick, and I essentially had to bulldoze my way through. Every now and then, though, the forest would open up and patches of wildflowers would appear -- I don't know the name of this one, can anyone help?
The troubles began once I crested Third Hill, as I soon became mired in a horrible thicket of young tamarack and jack pine. I pushed on, hoping that it would only be temporary, but things only got worse. Finding another route was impossible, as in every direction all that was waiting was a face-full of tree, so I had no choice but to try and muscle through.
It took me almost two hours before the trees thinned out, and I covered all of 300m. It was the worst bushwacking I have ever done, and at the end of it my arms were bloody ruins, criss-crossed with scratches that proved irresistable to the ubiquitous mosquitos. As you can imagine, I was not amused.
The battle with the jackpines had left me exhausted, and it was becoming clear that I wouldn't be able to make it to the summit that night. The steepest parts were yet to come, and I could tell I just didn't have the energy for that. I decided to pitch my tent at the next patch of level ground, and spend the rest of the night resting and refueling. The only problem: there was literally no level ground to be found.
It took me another two hours to find a spot that was half-way decent, and even then it was still on a considerable slope. I set up my bug net and lashed it to a tree trunk so I wouldn't slide down during the night. I crawled in headfirst, leaving my feet pointing downslope. It was surprisingly comfortable, and in any case anything was better than putting up with another minute of mosquitos.
Around midnight the wind picked up, driving away the bugs and encouraging me to go outside and have a look around. Below me the valley was filled with slanting shafts of light as the sun peered through the haze of smoke from the forest fires in Alberta. Beautiful.
The next morning I broke camp quickly and continued my climb. Three more hours of bushwacking brought me to the summit ridge where the trees began to space out, finally giving way to bare rock.
By this point I was very tired. I was beginning to think about turning back -- I realised that I had missed the cutline that would take me over to a gentler slope leading up to the top, and instead I was now stuck on the far eastern edge of the summit ridge, a section that was essentially unclimbable. I didn't think I had enough water with me to climb back down and then up the better route, and more to the point the situation was rapidly getting out of hand. The rock was loose and treacherous, and I ran the risk of climbing myself into a spot I couldn't safely descend from. The mountain seemed to agree, and promptly sent a messenger of sorts to tell me so: as I stopped for a moment to catch my breath, I heard a clatter of stones and a deep snuffling from above me. I looked up and not 50m away from me was a large grizzly! He was sitting square between me and where I wanted to go, and didn't seem too keen on moving.
I must confess: I hate grizzlies. Black bears are one thing, ("clown of the North" is their local nickname, which hints as to their disposition), but the unpredictability of grizzlies scares me. I was carrying a rifle, but didn't want to use it unless I absolutely had to. Even if I don't like them, it'd break my heart to have to kill one. In any case, that morning discretion was very much the better part of valor so I carefully retreated. I looked back once, and it still hadn't moved, but I didn't hang around long enough to see what it did next.
The way back down was hardly a respite. The same bushwacking, but this time going down instead of up. I soon had enough of that, and cut across to the very edge of the ridge. There's sections of an old trail there, although the route is not for the faint of heart. For long sections it follows the edge of the cliff, sometimes only a foot or two from a sheer drop. On the plus side, it was swept by a cool wind, and afforded views of the stone castles below.
I made it down to the river by 8pm. I was dissapointed to have failed to summit yet again, especially seeing as it's doubtful that I'll have another chance before it's time to go, but it still felt great to have had some time on the land. After all: a bad day in the bush beats a good day in the office, every time.
