Ford Mountain*!-- Ramble #7

Looking for the next hike, I flipped to an oft-read page in my hiking guide book. Several years earlier, I had placed an asterisk and exclamation point beside the title, Ford Mountain, but the sentence, "only a 4WD vehicle can make it up the bump and grind road" had always been a roadblock--but perhaps not this year. I sat up and turned to Don, "Honey, is AWD the same as 4WD, and do you think my Forester really can go off road?"

Excitedly I showed him the description of the hike and the FSR (Forestry Service Road). He laughed, "Subarus have won more off-road competitions than any other vehicle." That was all it took. Ruth was the only rambler who was available for a Thursday ramble, so I dashed an e-mail off to her. I was sure she would be game.

In fact, Ruth was more than eager to take on this challenge. As we drove over the bridge just past Vedder Crossing, we zeroed the odometer and drove east another 28 km before slowing down to watch carefully for the brown Ford Mountain Forest Service Road sign that was to be on our left. It was almost hidden by leafy branches, but when we caught sight of it, I turned a sharp left leaving Chilliwack Road behind to begin my first bit of real off-road driving. It didn't take long for me to realize that it wasn't just the car that had to be up to the road, but the driver had to have nerves of steel and an understanding of the best way to make it over large rocks, around potholes, through waterbars, and up steep grades--all on a road only a little wider than the car itself.

As we rounded one particularly sharp curve, we glanced at the road ahead just in time to see a huge bear ambling along. We had both seen Ursus americanus in black, brown, and cinnamon, but this was the first time either of us had seen such a blond one. His hearing must have been keen and his reflexes sharp, as he bolted straight up the rock face and disappeared into the forest before we had a chance to determine conclusively what species he was. The fur appeared grizzled as he disappeared into the forest, but it was likely just the reflection of the sun on his blond locks and my fertile imagination, as guide books were in agreement that grizzlies are rarely found south of Whistler. Still, it added to our excitement--and our trepidation.

The turn at kilometer 3.5 was a hairpin, and the road rose at a 60-degree incline. My Forester was doing well, but I wasn't prepared to burn out my transmission attempting that! This was as far as I would drive. Ruth hopped out to spot (there was a drop-off on my right), as I maneuvered a 360-degree turn to sidle up to the hillside and park. We grabbed our packs, locked the car and continued along our way. Looking at the rough road, we realized that we had made the right decision to leave the car where we did.

About a kilometre later, we came to the official trailhead. With creaky knees, the uphill climb is always easier than the downhill. Still, at an average 25.4% grade, this was steeper than any of the rambles we had done so far this year, and the blood was quickly pounding in our ears. Our guidebook had warned of the importance of staying focussed, as there was a history of hikers getting disorientated on this mountain. As usual, we let Ruth take the lead with her uncanny ability to ferret out the small orange squares that marked the trail. After more than an hour of straight-up plodding, the trail leveled out somewhat and it was easier to carry on a conversation.

We stopped several times on our way to the summit--not to catch our breath from the exertion but from the breath-taking beauty of our surroundings. It was a forest like none other. There was very little underbrush; instead, the forest floor was a carpet of emerald moss beckoning tired hikers to rest their weary bones on its softness. We didn't succumb to the temptation, and trudged upwards. A little over an hour later, we broke out of the forest onto the summit where cement blocks were all that were left of what was once a forest service lookout. The view from here was spectacular and we quickly began to identify the different peaks--Slesse, Foley, Welch, Williams, and The Still. Since neither Ruth nor I were acquainted with making moonshine, we weren't quite sure which of the peaks was "The Still," but we did our best at guessing.

Not satisfied to have simply reached the top of Ford, we decided to meander along the ridge trail that eventually made its way to Williams Peak. Occasionally we would hear a booming noise that sounded like a cannon. Our first impulse was to look skyward, but we were puzzled, as the noise subsided much more quickly than what one would expect if a jet were passing over. As we sat on an outcrop of rock, snacking on trail mix and scouring the view with binoculars, we realized the booming noises were avalanches on the ice fields and pocket glaciers across the valley. Puzzle solved. From here, we had an unobstructed view of Mt. Slesse where in 1956 the 62 crew and passengers of TransCanada Airlines flight 810 perished. They had missed clearing Slesse's famed buttress by a mere ten metres.

Glancing at our watches, we knew it would be foolish to continue our exploring, so we turned around to return to the top of Ford and have a late lunch. We sat for the longest time, both of us basking in the silence, the mountains and valleys declaring the glory of God. We were loath to leave this spot; however, we knew we had to be down before dark as the trail would not have been negotiable once the sun set. As we began to gather our things, Ruth commented on how few birds we had seen. I was looking around and nodding in agreement, when I caught sight of a small flock on top of a tall coniferous. Perplexed that they didn't move, I grabbed my binoculars in an effort to see them more clearly. They weren't birds at all, but huge, blue cones which seemed to be sprinkled with sparkles and diamonds.

We scrambled down to the base of the tree to see if we could find any scattered around on the ground, but there was nothing. Ruth soon found a smaller tree with the same intriguing cones. She eyed the top, then jumped up to grab hold as high as possible bending the limber trunk toward herself, but the cones were still out of reach. I adjusted my walking staff to its fullest length and while Ruth held the tree, I whacked away at the cones. Their hold was tenacious, though, and we finally had to admit that the tree had won. We eventually learned that it was a sub-alpine fir that had beaten us.

Our fight to get a closer look at the cones had taken up more daylight, and we needed to get our feet moving. With our knapsacks on our backs, we turned our faces towards home. The first part of the downward trek was back through the enchanted forest, but this time the air was infused with an indescribable sweetness, presumably awakened by the warmth of the sun. We paused to look around, trying to figure out the origin of the fragrant perfume. Could this be the "sweet-scented hemlock grove" mentioned in the guidebook, I wondered. We looked down, and the ground was littered with tiny cones--that was our first clue. We looked up, and sure enough the trees that surrounded us, although tall and mighty, hung their heads in shame--the tell-tale characteristic of the Mountain Hemlock (see link under "Other Sites of Interest").

The shadows were long as we moved with measured steps toward the base of the mountain. As we pushed ourselves along the final stretch to where we had left the car, we had the uneasy feeling that we were not alone. If we weren't alone, we never knew for certain, as we climbed into my Subaru without having caught another sign of the big bruin who had greeted us earlier on our journey. We hadn't seen a single soul in the six hours we spent on the mountain. We were quickly learning that every ramble has its own uniqueness, and each provides a day of treasured memories.