On a sleepy Sunday in early March—the sort where ideally (if you live in Alberta that is) you'd be snuggled in front of a fire with a cup of cocoa aprés-ski, or have fled the last days of winter to sip from alcohol-infused coconuts in a tropical location somewhere, 'snow-bird'-style—I lugged my-toddler-clad-in-a-snowsuit-self and camera down a knee-deep, snow-covered hill, and across a frozen river to stare at an equally frozen waterfall for several hours. I had successfully avoided engaging in this sort of activity for years, as my husband will attest, because I had yet to see the advantage of strapping oneself to said-frozen-waterfall for those several hours. As far as I can tell, clinging to a giant block of ice like it's your long-lost love of twenty years is the sort of pursuit that would qualify one for a quick ushering through the doors of a mental hospital elsewhere. But not in Canada, they tell me. Or perhaps, even in parts of central Europe? (Can I trust these sources?) And especially not in southern Alberta.
The snowy hike departing from near the Frank Slide Interpretive Centre.
But my dear friend Puneet, silver-tongued wangler (dare I say Lothario?) that he is, persuaded me with the prospect of 'sporty' photographs of the madness that is 'ice-climbing'—something that my husband had been attempting to do for...oh say, going on seven years. We all have that friend who's able to bend our ear to marvellously fool-hardy capers, like midnight polar-bear swims, trying elicit substances in a foreign country, entering an all-you-can-eat 'anything' contest (insert disgustingly delicious, sodium/fat-filled artery-bomb here). In my case, he'd previously persuaded me of the necessity of finishing a languishing Master's degree (insert sadomasochistic, grey-hair inducing exercise in self-loathing here). Despite considering myself an outdoorsy kinda girl—the sort who's hiked, mountaineered, wilderness-canoed, downhill and cross-country skiied, and sailed, for example, at varying proficiencies—I didn't see the draw. I get COLD. Another friend, the sort that you can text for a review of the latest Star-Wars flick, who succinctly replies with the following, 'I was entertained watching it, but on reflection thought worse of it...[s]o its sucks, but I enjoyed it'—perfectly summarizing your feelings a day later—regularly described me as 'reptilian'. He isn't wrong, though his judgemental tone suggests he's at least speciesist. I've been known to don two shirts (short-sleeve under long-sleeve), a hoody, and a jacket in blustery plus 15 weather, only to remove the jacket when the sun finally peeks through the clouds at noon. (Needless to say, my fingers resembled the frozen prongs of ice that had formed on the falls' neighbouring trees at the end of the day.) I'd like to pretend my ineptitude is a consequence of my heritage: 'brown' (and I use that term loosely, I'm mixed-race) people don't climb. If you doubt that, and have unquenchable urge to provide examples, just know that once on a hike my mother was congratulated by a 'peaches and cream'-skinned passer-by; she didn't know what to make of it—friendly, subtly/woefully racist? But my claim denies an upbringing with a hard-as-rocks father, who's a certified canoe-tripping guide and owner of a legitimate and purplish crampon scar on his upper left calf. It also doesn't explain why Puneet—whose name you've no-doubt noticed is not Anglo—feels more at home on the ice than myself. Nor the long and oft unsung history of sherpa-dom. But who's counting.
Partially iced over Gold Creek, running along the base of Gold Creek Canyon, near Frank, Alberta.
Noon (my sunshine window!) came and left, and five men of varying ages climbed on—going up and down a perpendicular sheet of ice at what seemed a monotonous pace. I took the planned photographs, kicking and stamping my feet like an impatient thoroughbred in an ill-advised effort to keep warm on a partly frozen stream. A donkey-shaped piñata, trekked in by our group trickster Puneet, was unsuccessfully lowered from the top, then unceremoniously hucked to the bottom, so a birthday boy could take a Trotsky-esque swing at it; over-priced milk-chocolate Easter treats were enjoyed by all. Then, I noticed the joy with which grown men 'cleaned' the ice (ridding the ice-surface of debris, 'rotten' ice, and snow)—it was done with the zeal of a child punching through an iced-over puddle in shiny new rubber boots—and I understood. Maybe it was the presence of the piñata, a throwback to my time in the classroom, where Halloween parties were punctuated by the thrill of destruction and the prospect of candy. It brings out the child-like wonder at communing with and conquering nature, in however small a capacity: a stance I can respect. Who knows, maybe I'll throw myself in love-lust at an ice-wall one day. Then again, maybe not.
NOTES
Dig in: Take the Frank Slide Interpretive Centre access road, drive north 1 km, park at the switchback. Walk 60 m west along the barbed wire fence to a locked gate. Head north along a summer road to a man-made dam. Climbs are visible 60 m south along the west canyon wall. See the now out of print 'Waterfall Ice Climbs in the Canadian Rockies' for additional detail.
View of the climbing group at Gold Creek Canyon, near Frank, Alberta.