I am always suspicious when a fellow climber suggests a peak and describes the route as follows:
It was all lopped out 10 years ago, but I read it’s brushy now.
Who wants to spend a beautiful Sunday trapped in a tangle of spiny branches when so many friendlier-sounding peaks have yet to be climbed?
I’ve come to realize, though, that if we want to “find those places where noise and light are absent and which are so essential to the spiritual nourishment we crave,” we must dispense with artificialities, eschew trails, refuse mechanised assistance, and scoff at gondola access. (ᔥ Vancouver Islander)
We must take to the bush.
I will not bore you with pictures of bloodied limbs. The act of self-flagellation with slide alder and devil’s club is a private ritual that teaches us humility.
Suffice to say, when we do finally reach the higher ground we are seeking, our hearts are open to the indescribable beauty that awaits. (Click any picture below to embiggen.)