It's a still, chilly, minus 10 degree afternoon. I stand, isolated on the edge of a 35-metre drop. From the south rim of Maligne Canyon, one can easily see past the abyss to the north side.
It's a still, chilly, minus 10 degree afternoon. I stand, isolated on the edge of a 35-metre drop. From the south rim of Maligne Canyon, one can easily see past the abyss to the north side. Chatting with my daughter Robin on the opposite edge, I can clearly make out her expression as she talks, seeing her eyes shift from me to her brothers below. And in this case, below is a drop spanned by alternating stretches of bare rock, 90 degree ice and frozen, bulbous clumps that resemble cauliflower heads. Secured to a tree, my rope confidently played out beneath me, I step over the edge and rappel (lower myself) into the canyon.
Leaving the quiet, aloneness of the canyon edge, where the tracks of individual climbers are easily distinguished due to their infrequency, I descend into what one would expect would be even greater solitude on the canyon floor. But this is not the case at all.
With four ropes in place, I arrive at a scene of focused activity. Communication between climbers and belayers (rope handlers) echo off the ice amidst the regular chipping of ice tools and crampons as the climbers ascend. Occasionally a yell of, "Ice!", is followed by a loud crash as chunks are worked loose from the wall and shatter on the canyon floor.
With all of this activity going on, a group of definitely-not-climbers makes its way up and down the canyon – from both directions – waiting outside the ice fall area for a break in the action. Once the climbers reach a spot to comfortably pause, both groups pass under, hustling past the danger zone, thanking those on the ground for their consideration. A dog or two gets away from its owner and sniffs at the lunches in packs. There are no parks personnel around to regulate traffic. A commercial guide shepherds each group along, putting stories to the carved rock and blue ice features. And once the paid clients march by, the climbing resumes. Other smaller, unguided groups make their way along, likewise waiting for a break.
It's a steady passing of people appreciating the magic of Maligne Canyon on terms which make sense on a personal level. No doubt some wonder why we are up there. What could we possibly get out of what appears to be frantic chopping to climb and then be lowered from the ice? Those of us on the rope find it a stretch to relate to being guided through an area so familiar and seemingly benign. But one activity accommodates the other, the individuals involved watching for their own safety and minimizing the impact on the other. It's not serene and pure by any sense, but it's pretty much the way things should be. In a World Heritage Site such as Jasper National Park, and a readily accessible spot such as Maligne Canyon, one must accept compromises.
At the end of our time climbing – pretty much when we get tired – I climb up one last time to pick up our gear and pull up the rope. Nick and Jake clean up our spot on the canyon floor and make their way in the dusky light to meet up with Christie and Robin downstream at Fifth Bridge. The boys are familiar with the route and there are no dangers en route to concern their dad. Besides, it's a chance for them to be brothers and visit, or not, without my presence. So that leaves me alone, with my headlamp, poking along and truly appreciating the peace and magic of such a beautiful, beautiful place.
Life is good.
