Next Ramble

I will be away next week so will not be organizing a ramble.  If anyone else you like to get something going, please see the e-mail that I just sent everyone on the list.  If you did not receive the e-mail. please let me know.

Ramble #1 on Thursday, July 12

Ruth and I have been discussing a number of options for our first hike. We didn't want something too challenging, but we also didn't want a walk in the park. We learned that it is difficult finding hikes that are middle of the road.

We are meeting at the school Thursday morning at 8:00 and heading east towards Chilliwack. We'll make a final decision along the way, but we are thinking about doing Elk Mountain. 

Give me a call at home before 7:30 tomorrow morning if you would like to meet up with us.

2012 Ramble #1

Ruth and I have decided that our first ramble will be this Thursday, July 12.  Destination is still to be determined.  Watch for an update, but if you're interested in coming, e-mail me so that I can let you know when and where to meet.

Rambles of Summer 2012

We're ready to ramble!  I have e-mailed those who indicated they are interested in rambling this summer with the Regent Ramblers.  If you did not receive an e-mail, it means I missed putting you on my Rambler 2012 distribution lists.  Please send an e-mail to my home address (see link to the right) and let me know which address you would like me to use for the summer.

We do not yet have specific hikes determined, except that Ruth and I want to do Mt. Cheam towards the end of August.  If you would like to suggest a hike, e-mail me at my home address.

I will post information about the first hike on this blog as soon as it is decided.

Happy Rambling!

ARE YOU READY TO RAMBLE??

I've blown the dust off my hiking books and am ready to start rambling again.  I'll post planned hikes on this blog but will also make up a distribution list for those who would like updates.  If you want to be on my e-mail list, please send me your e-mail address, and I will add you to my list.

I do not have the list from last year, so even if you received regular updates before, you will need to resend me your address. 

Hollyburn Mountain -- Ramble #8

Hollyburn Mountain was our final ramble of the summer, and for the second straight week, there were only two of us. We crawled along Hwy.1 until we realized that we qualified for the HOV lane--a quick shoulder check, a yank on the steering wheel, and a little extra push on the accelerator and we were zooming along.

We both agreed, though, that doing this every day was really a symptom of insanity, as even at 10:00 a.m. the congestion was horrendous.

Once we were past North Vancouver, the traffic thinned out, and by the time were were on the Cypress Parkway, the majority of vehicles were the two-wheeled type powered by incredibly fit and muscled human beings. As the Subaru wheeled into the cross-country ski parking lot, we were pleasantly surprised to see only three other vehicles. Not entirely certain of the way to head out, we decided to follow the sign to Hollyburn Lodge. After all, we reasoned, we want to go to Hollyburn Peak, so surely the lodge was on the way. We eventually came across the cross-country ski lodge where we met a young couple coming toward us. They appeared as disoriented as we felt. The trail map showed the mountain somewhere to the north, but the sun and our instincts told us we were heading southeast. Consulting the map together, we concluded that we were indeed heading in the wrong direction; however, there was nothing to indicate where it was that we would find the trailhead to the peak.

Even though we believed ourselves to be lost, we continued on, certain that eventually we would figure out where we should be going. As we discovered, six hours later on the way back, the route we took was actually much prettier and interesting than the gravelly path under the power lines we were meant to take. In fact, we saw much more including an old ranger's log cabin hidden in the forest just off the path, and a historical bridge with photos describing how early loggers had created a series of lakes as they built a flue on which to transport timber downhill to West Vancouver.

We even came to spot where Ruth felt right at home. Not long after the sign at Sigge's Corner, we found a trail that crossed the path we were on, and it was heading north.

Our instincts were right, and it wasn't long after turning left that we finally saw the old warming hut described in the hiking guide. The trail was clearly marked and there was no question now that we were going where we wanted to go. There is something soul-stirring about hiking through sub-alpine forest, and Ruth and I paused often to drink in the beauty that surrounded us--and nibble on a bit of trail mix for much-needed energy.

There were moments of tough slogging as the relatively flat trail started heading upwards. Much of it was muddy, and we had to carefully gauge every step. We even came across snow although it was nearing the end of August. There was perilous scrambling as we neared the top, and we laughed at some of the moves we had to invent in order to accomplish our goal--the butt slide, the backwards sashay, the quick-step shuffle. Finally, as we pulled ourselves up over the final ledge, we stood atop 1325-metre Hollyburn Peak and could see why this has been a favourite destination of hikers for over a hundred years.

Here, we met the young couple we had met three hours earlier--they were obviously more spry than we were, as they had already eaten lunch and were preparing for their descent. I mention them particularly because we had a chance to chat with them, and it was a conversation we're likely to remember for years to come. Ruth had quickly picked up that the young lady was German by the way she had pronounced Sitzmark. The conversation started out very normally. Are you tourists? No. How long have you been here? Where did you come from? Berlin. Are you German? No, I'm from Florida originally, but was working in Berlin. That's where we met. Do you plan to stay here in B.C.? Actually, I'm looking at a job in Switzerland. Oh, Ruth is from Switzerland. What kind of work do you do that would let you work anywhere in the world? I'm a cantor. Oh, a cantor...

How often does one meet a cantor? It was a first for Ruth and for me.

I asked if he was a cantor in an Anglican church, and he said, no, a synagogue. From there the conversation turned to trails and the beauty of B.C. With a deep sigh, the fellow gestured toward the snow-capped mountains and exclaimed, "Doesn't it just shout the Glory of God." He said it with such passion that it has stuck with me ever since. Yes, it does shout the Glory of God. That is precisely why Ramblers ramble!

The rest of the story is much the same as our other stories; only the names have been changed. The two of us chose spots to sit on the rocky summit and marvelled at the panoramic view--the Lions, Grouse, Goat, and Cathedral Mountains. We looked beyond the coastal mountains to the snowy peaks of the Garibaldi Range. As we pulled out our lunches, grey jays flew in and chipmunks scurried up the rocks, all hoping to share in our bounty.

It was a solemn moment when our shutters clicked the final pictures at the top of the peak before our downward trek, as we both knew that this would be the last ramble until next year. For a few hours each week during the summer of 2011, we had managed to escape the cacophony of the city to revel in the solitude of the mountains. Paul Tillich, a theologian, once wrote, "Language has created the word loneliness to express the pain of being alone, and the word solitude to express the glory of being alone." We could see why the psalmist would write, "I lift my eyes up to the mountain where doth my help come from."

There is just one more story I must tell. On the way down, we met another young couple who were just on their way up. Since we were in the middle of a blueberry patch, and bears love blueberries, they asked if we had seen any bears in the area. After assurances from us, they went on their way. Ruth turned to me and smiled. "We don't have anything to worry about. A bear would take one look at us, and decide this tough, old meat wouldn't be worth the effort when there is young, juicy meat just up the trail."

That's all folks!

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.