THE GOOD LIFE
I was poised on
the summit, a tall plinth; all around a profusion of peaks and stupendous
walls; glaciers like rivers of light and the camp far below. In the distance a
bright dome shimmered. Its surface was furrowed and, as I swooped down low over
the ice, I could see a sledge tracking between the crevasses, an Eskimo
cajoling his dog team with wild, primitive cries that left a ringing in the ears .....
I stirred. I could
feel someone moving in the tent, fumbling with the alarm clock. I struggled
with the red cocoon and then the door and finally poked my head outside.
Outside,
On the far side of
the lake, National Park squads had marked a path through the moraines with
distinct, Eskimo-style
Greg was studying
the scene, frowning. "We'd better put the rope on", he announced.
Unaccountably I was offered the end. Innocently I led off, heading towards the
lateral moraine on the far side. Predictably my feet vanished through the thin
crust and I resigned myself to laboriously excavating a trench, of which any
Irish navvy would have been proud. Later, we toiled up the moraine, teetering
from shaky stone to fickle rock and often losing a leg to an unsuspected cavity
veiled by snow. The sun was burning the backs of our necks when we started up
the first slabby rocks of the ridge. Here, on friable ledges, we found arctic
flowers basking in the heat - moss campion, purple
saxifrage, arctic poppy and a solitary mountain aven. We climbed alone, each
absorbed in finding his own line, enjoying the
familiar feel of warm rough granite and the sensation of silvery space
spreading out below. We came together for lunch on a broad terrace. Bill was
exultant. "Let us boldly go where no man has gone before", he
declared. Something caught Captain Greg's eye. He held up a perfectly preserved
packet of Italian Ovomaltino. We laughed, not really
caring if some lousy foreigners had been there first, and went on, dancing
across slabs, ploughing through snowfields and slithering up damp chimneys. By
A long eastward
traverse along an airy ridge followed by an ankle-jolting romp down a boulder
field brought us back to the glacier, now a furnace of incandescence under the
late afternoon sun. Half blinded by sweat, we stumbled and tumbled down the
lateral moraine until we met with a man and his dog and could relax in the cool
valley. The return to camp was a slow weaving among the moraines, captivated by
the orange glow of the dipping sun on the sheer pillars of Breidablik.
The tents were deserted: the others were out attempting routes on Friga and Killabuk. All were
successful and, though the weather closed in the next day, our spirits were
high as we planned our next moves.
We were 10
climbers from the North East of Scotland on a five-week visit to
Within a week we
were labouring once again under the heavy packs, steering them, weak-kneed,
through the crumbling moraines and glacial outflows that lace the terrain
beyond
The last days of
July saw four of us wading up the Turner Glacier under the mocking gaze of
Loki, the jester in the court of the gods. We established a bleak camp on the
moraine close to the edge of an enormous collapsed glacial cavern and, with
some foreboding, watched a pall of cloud roll in over the ice. For a day and a
half we lay entombed until a break in the clouds enticed us out to prospect for
routes. This we did by lying on our backs on a flat rock surrounded by
whiteness and grey, teasing mists. The following hour was a slow unveiling, a
materialisation of mountains from swirling vapours: glistening slabs,
ice-streaked walls, soaring ridges and bare granite pillars - all was revealed.
We decided on a route for the following day.
Next morning, as
we trudged across the glacier to the foot of the 3000 ft SW ridge of a peak
just east of Loki, the cloud was rolling in from the valley once again. Cirrus
forming high in the sky gave notice of 9 or 10 hours before a storm. We went
on, anxious to justify the effort of the last few days. By mid-morning we were
climbing in fog, catching only fleeting glimpses of Asgard's
twin towers and Loki’s cocked jester's cap. The
climbing was on superb rough granite. After initial scrambling and a couple of
roped pitches, a system of cracks and chimneys gave access through the steep
middle section of the ridge to the slabby upper reaches. At this point Mike and
Greg forged ahead through the mist while Bill and myself
wandered off line and took valuable time climbing a difficult pitch to reach
the great upper slab. A thin crack system took us to the very edge of the great
slab, overlooking an abyss of unseen depths. Despite the pressures of time and
weather we were able to relax and enjoy 600 ft of memorable Severe
climbing. We emerged at the top of the ridge, just above the cloud, finding the
other two waiting and impatient. We moved together, fast, over the long, 2000
ft summit ridge, reaching the top, a small platform, by a delicate move. It was
We called the peak
Enosiagit, which someone in Pangnirtung
told us means 'good life' in Inuit, in recognition of
the good life, one of the nine perhaps, that we had enjoyed on its ridges.