43-1 2024-08-23

I was still shaken by half-remembered dreams when I started out West on a cold engine. I was so sick of people, sick of wasting away, sick of self-pity and hypocrisy, sick of dragging myself through every miserable day looking forward to nightfall when I could get high and feel briefly okay. Bored commuters idled their way through the summer morning's traffic in their air-conditioned fishbowls. I slowed down for those unmarked cruisers who thought they were doing the world a favour. I watched a cyclist on the shoulder fly past and wondered what the hell they built this highway for anyway, and I thanked God when I finally reached my exit. I never wanted to resent this city nor the people who reside in it, but I can't help complain how suffocating it all feels.

The car flew up the mountain road and left faint marks at every hairpin turn. The air grew thin and cold as the resentment faded away. I tried to recall what I had dreamt about the night before but found that I could not remember. I pulled into the parking lot next to the ski lodge where workers made preparations for the day's work. Chairlifts groaned awake over grassy runs and tourists had already begun lining up to see the views from atop Black and Strachan. I threw on my pack and fixed my poles. When I reached the trailhead at the edge of the forest, I looked back at it all. The lodge, the pavement, the misplaced anger and frustration, the parts of me I wish I could keep quiet. I decided to leave it all at the trailhead, maybe come back for it later. My pack was heavy enough as is.

I tersely greeted all the day-hikers as I passed them on the way up. Children scrambled up the same rocks and roots that their grandparents carefully avoided. The trail was wide and well-trodden. Orange reflectors at every switchback made it hard to get lost. The rising sun filtered through dense evergreens and warmed the air. Soon enough, the trees thinned out. It doesn't take long to reach St. Mark's Summit. Once there, I stopped a while and ate my breakfast of protein bars and trail mix. Families and couples sat at the cliff's edge, eating and chatting, while chickadees and chipmunks fought over leftovers. The bluebird sun beamed down and lifted any trace of ocean fog so that you could see all of shimmering Howe Sound. Ferries and cruise ships wove between forested islands, rocky coasts harbouring docks and timber homes. Distant cargo ships bobbed in place like plastic boats in a soapy bathtub. Way below, toy cars raced along the winding Sea-to-Sky as if on grooved tracks. Day-hikers came and went, back down South the way the came. All this too I left behind, and I continued my northerly slog, listened to the chatter fade away.

The trail grew quiet as quickly as it became rugged and narrow. Past St. Mark's, the trail descended briefly before ascending again toward Mount Unecessary, whose name suddenly made a lot of sense. Near the summit, I caught up with a young man frequently stopping to take pictures. We rested at the summit a while and took in the solitary view.

Do you mind taking a picture of me?

Shore.

Do you want one of yourself?

Shore, thanks.

Snap, snap, snap.

You want one in portrait as well?

Nah it's fine.

Alright, here you go.

Where're you headed?

I think I'll just check out the Lions and turn back.

You gonna climb it?

He smiled and shook his head.

Ah, fair enough.

And we continued on, leap-frogging each other down Unecessary, then up again because the damn thing has two summits, then down, then up toward East and West Lion which had been looming ahead of us the whole time, growing bigger and bigger. They perked up on either side of the trail crest like a mountain lion's ears. We came to a rest where the trail came closest to West Lion and marvelled at it. It had a rounded top that fell off steeply toward a talus-field two thousand feet below. Two frayed ropes dropped down to a narrow notch that separated the trail from West Lion. Seated in a morsel of shade above the notch, I took my shirt off to dry and ate some lunch as I pondered the task before me. When I had come here last year, the fog was so dense that I could only barely see the notch and the wall of nearly vertical slick rock right across it. That time, I had reluctantly turned away. This time, the conditions were perfect and I was eager to redeem myself.

I left my poles and pack, put my still damp shirt back on, and carefully dropped into the notch using the tangle of ropes that my predecessors had left. Both to the left and the right were sheer, jagged drops. At first, I shuffled left along a sloped ledge that led to nothing but empty sky and a long way down. Backtracking, I noticed a lone trail marker off to climber's right and followed it along a slightly less sketchy traverse across a ledge covered in loose rockfall and dried pine needles. Reaching each trailmarker, another would reveal itself twenty feet higher and across yet more steep slabs. Footholds and handholds were occasional, but just frequent and well-placed enough that a scrawny fool like me could do it without straining too hard. At one point, I couldn't find the next marker and instead found my own way up a feasible section that terminated at a narrow rest occupied by a small tree, passing through which involved no small amount of scraping and cursing. It was only when I emerged from the tree that I saw the trailmarker next to me at the top of a bare slab that looked easy enough to climb, only that the ledge at the base of the slab was maybe a foot wide before dropping off into nothing. Maybe following the trailmarkers would have been easier than phasing through the tree, but I'll never know because I chose to go down the same way I came up. The summit itself was pleasant. I waved to the other guy watching from the trail and paced around the small plateau at the top. Near the very peak, people had piled a bunch of rocks because I guess it's funny to make a tall thing slightly taller. Blue paint curiously spelled out across the summit slab:

N.M.

P.H.

9.9./62. (?)

A seaplane passed directly overhead, so close I could feel it rumble in my chest. I didn't spend long up there before commencing the careful downclimb, which I had already begun to dread on the way up. A man and a woman were now watching me from across the notch and we yelled at each other.

Hello!

Just takin' a picture of ya!

Oh okay, thanks!

Testing each hold before committing my full weight, I occasionally pulled loose rocks off and watched them tumble down and down and down, and I could still hear them crash against the mountain side even as they tumbled out of sight, and I never heard them stop. At times, I looked down and began to tremble, and it occurred to me how much of a mind game it really is. This climb would have been light work if it weren't for the almost-certainly fatal drop below it. Indeed, it was the fear itself that would make me fall. Electing not to spend too much time staring at the abyss, philosophizing, I safely reached the notch, climbed back up to the trail and recovered my pack and poles. My audience had turned back South before I could meet them. So, I marched on North toward unseen peaks.

Down from the Lions, up Little Brother, down Little Brother toward Enchantment Pass (where one finds a most breathtaking view of the Lions overlooking the sound), up James Peak (where I had slept on last year's ill-prepared attempt), down James, up David Peak (where, last year's bear can tumbled down the mountain and was never seen again), down David toward Harvey Pass (where a couple of trailrunners had caught up to me and gave me a bagel as consolation), past the towering Mount Harvey (which I had to climb last year to get off trail since I had no food left except the bagel), and onto Magnesia Meadows. At the start of the meadow, I saw running water for the first time all day. Of course, the trail was littered with tarns, but they were so muddy and swarmed with flies as to be practically worthless. This tarn was just as muddy and fly-infested as the others, but there was a small stream flowing out of it so that at least the running part was clean. I couldn't stay too long filling up and chlorine-treating each bottle since I was getting eaten alive by the bugs, but was grateful to have a fresh supply of water.

Amidst the setting sun, I hiked on past the bright red emergency shelter with its steep A-frame roof, past the open-air pit-toilet with an incredible view, past Brunswick Mountain and Hat Pass. I stopped to take a picture of the sunset when I was surprised by three trailrunners coming up quick behind me. Given the time of day, and that I had been hiking for at least ten hours, I presumed they had started at a different trailhead. I was about to be humbled.

Where did you guys start?

The guy in front gestured back toward the South.

Cypress.

Damn.

He smiled and the three jogged on. I hiked on after them toward Brunswick Lake.

In the clearing next to Brunswick Mountain Shelter were two tents. One had the rainfly off and a middle-aged woman's dusk silhouette greeted me through the mesh netting.

Just passing through?

Yep, I'll probably find somewhere to camp soon though.

I heard about you from those guys that just passed by.

Really, what did they say?

Just said there was one more hiker behind them and he was makin' good time.

Oh, hah, well uh, have a good night.

You too, take care.

I will.

And, taking care, mind still lingering on my social ineptitude, I trodded on down toward the lakes. There was still a bit of snow on Mount Brunswick that melted into a series of roaring waterfalls and streams with cold, crisp, almost clear water, just a hint of mineral blue, so that I dumped all my chlorine-tarn water and refilled it here. The stream fed into tranquility-base Brunswick Lake, surrounded on all sides by mountains and trees and tinted the most mesmerizing shades of green and blue. I crossed a path of perfectly-placed stones onto a narrow strip of land that jutted out onto the lake, whereupon a flat clearing called me to rest. I laid out my groundsheet, inflated my sleeping pad, and lofted my down quilt while waiting for my noodles to slowly soak in fresh snowmelt. I ate my frigid dinner to the distant sound of running water and watched the pink-orange dusk turn deep, indigo night.

Falling asleep is hard. No weed, no distractions, no sedatives, no Alan Watts. Just these looming mountains, this pitch black lake, those waterfalls across the lake, these swaying trees, the moonless sky full of stars, and me, my memories and dreams, my thoughts and feelings, my damned imagination. On the night's blank canvas, I imagined terrible monsters that might jump out and eat me. I imagined masked men with pointy tools that might kill me in my sleep. I dug through my pack to find something, anything to distract me. But what came pouring out instead was everything that I thought had been left behind, back at the trailhead. Remnants of the civilization that I may never escape. Every friend I missed and every girl I kissed, all came flooding back. Fragments of conversations and stolen glimpses of unspoken emotions. All these vague notions and implied sentiments. All the follies and frustrations. The ironies, sincerities, all that is irrepressible yet painfully inarticulable. I know I chose this for myself but, God, I feel so, so alone. I long to have somebody next to me on this damp slab of rock staring up at the tangle of constellations, shimmering lighthouses glaring out through a million miles of cosmic fog. Shooting stars like fireflies dashed fleetingly across dark sky and I kept trying to catch them, hold on to them forever, but they always slipped through the cracks. I thought about all my friends who were probably too busy working or studying or jerking off. Who I always have good laughs with but who I can never have frank conversations with since that's just not how we grew up. Except, I like to think that it's better that way, that there ain't no use. That it's better to laugh it off than cry about it. I thought about all the people I pass by on these trails and wondered what they thought about at night. I thought about those pretty girls who said that they liked me when I never knew what the hell to say. I thought about all these people who I remember so fondly that don't really exist, but wished dearly that they did. I longed for my own Japhy or Hal. Somebody who knows what I mean when I stutter or sigh. I wished it wasn't so much easier to sleep out here just to waste breath complaining about the cold and the bugs and the wind and the dirt. I longed to have somebody next to me who would look up at the night sky and just be there, really, really be there. Because there really is nothing else except just this once, right here, right now.

I remember one time, sleeping on the beach and pondering all the things I could't understand. All the sick shit that people do to each other. All the things I've heard but haven't lived. I want to believe that everybody's trying their best but it's never enough, is it? God knows I've tried and tried, but it always feels like the harder I try not to hurt people the harder I fuck it all up. I think about all the accusations that might be levied against me, and all these big words that I've no defence against but to sigh and walk away. I'm fucking sick of big words, if only I could forget how to use them. I remember listening to people scream away their invisible pain. I remember watching people break down in tears and never knowing how to make them feel better. Sometimes, I also wanna break down, yell my lungs out, and I wish that somebody would hold me and tell me how everything's gonna be alright. Except, I know that there's nobody listening. Except, I know that even if you are out there, listening, I don't know what I'd want you to say.

I remember getting high every night and coming up with all these fanciful stories just to forget it all come sunrise. I remember getting secretly drunk and all this just comes flooding in from I don't even know where, muttering that it's all too much when I don't even know what it is. I remember taking too much Benadryl just to feel anything but this. I remember crying into pillows so nobody would hear. I remember just enough of my dreams so that they haunt me throughout the day, but not enough to understand why. I remember falling asleep and never, never waking up.

Except, when I finally did wake up, I was climbing toward a windswept summit, high above the clouds, everything blinding white. I held onto my ice axe with numb, white knuckles, feet digging into the slope with each sudden gust that threatened to blow me clean off the ridge. I was just another moth to the mountain's eternal flame, all my petty affairs and secret ambitions just another pretty snowflake lost in the great big avalanche. All this the wind whispered as I topped the narrow summit, and then it fell deafeningly quiet. Suddenly, there was nothing but blue sky above and white clouds below, and the ringing in my ears. But listening close, staying perfectly still, you could hear just the slightest of sobs, as if someone were crying but didn't want anybody to hear. And there, she was, sitting at the edge of the world, a snowy cornice. Her feet dangled three thousound feet above the clouds.

Hey, are you okay?

No, leave me alone!

I couldn't help coming a little closer so that maybe I could see her face.

Stay away from me, you're gonna get us both killed!

But I listened not to her voice, but her heart, which longed to have someone to sit next to, here at the end of the world.

I didn't notice that the cornice was cracking beneath my feet. I sat down next to her as if at a campfire on a warm summer night.

We can't stay here long.

The crack widened, as if the mountain was listening.

That's alright.

And we both sat there in silence a while thinking of what to say next. Clouds rolled on, our little summit just a little sailboat on this shoreless ocean. I wanted to stay there forever, but the air was thin and soon growing cold.

Are you ready? She finally said.

No, can we please stay a little longer?

She turned and smiled, twin fires in her eyes.

Wake up, it's time to go.

The crack bolted across like lightning, the cornice finally collapsed. The mountain let out a deep rumble and sent us tumbling down, down, down toward an infinite sea.

I woke up kicking and screaming. Everything was damp, and when I finally shut up and opened my eyes, there was only the morning's alpenglow turning the mountaintops pink, the chattering brook feeding the blue-green lake, the gentle chorus of unseen songbirds, and the faint memory of someone else's warmth.