Raphael Slawinski

Look up on Wilson. No, not all the way up to the pale quartzite towers on the summit ridge, which always make me think of Minas Morgul , the city of wraiths. No, just halfway up the mountain. There, guarded by a first tier of cliffs that turn back all but the most obsessed, all manner of enticing curtains and daggers drape over a second tier. This past winter (and as I write this it's been officially spring already for more than a week), I had an especially hard time tearing my eyes away the bounty of frozen water up there, like a thirsty astronaut on a cold dry moon. Back home, while outwardly engaged in everyday tasks, I'd fantasize about the steep ice and the even steeper rock. What made the prospect even more enticing was that just about every one of the daggers lay in a giant avalanche gully. Where's the adventure if you can go someplace anytime you feel like it? No, the faraway ice on Wilson had to be saved for a special occasion, and then savoured like a fine Scotch...

Familiarity breeds contempt. I found that out last season, when I got nearly taken out by an avalanche at the base of Man Yoga. After more visits to the Headwall than I could count, I'd forgotten the place still had a few tricks up its sleeve. Ancient Greeks had a word for this kind of thing: hubris (closely followed by nemesis). Familiarity also breeds familiarity. On my first few times to the Headwall I had eyes only for the obvious lines: Nemesis, Suffer Machine, French Reality... But as I returned time and again, I started noticing the subtle details between the bold strokes: ephemeral, discontinuous drips, like dotted lines hinting at what might - just might - be possible. To the right of Suffer Machine two giant arches rise one above the other, like the eyebrows of some space alien. Each time I'd ski up the valley I'd glance up and briefly fantasize about climbing through them, before turning away and heading toward more reasonable prospects. And so one season fol...

The Rockies are a big place. Even after knocking about them for a quarter of a century it's not too hard to find entire ranges you've never set your eyes on. And I find there's something especially rewarding about filling in blanks on an otherwise well-known map. The Dry Ranges were my latest "discovery". Until last month I'd never visited any of the empty valleys north of the popular Ghost River and Waiparous Creek areas. I suppose what I needed was a good excuse to go check the place out, and a few weeks ago I got one. "I'm not much into mixed climbing," Lyle emailed, "but I thought you might be interested." Attached was a photo of a discontinuous drip: ice, then rock, then a bit more ice, then a bit more rock, then a final ice curtain. Now I enjoy drytooling for its own sake as much as the next person (and maybe even a bit more). However, I find that the classiest (if not necessarily the hardest) lines are the truly mixed ones, the...

The Icefields Parkway in winter is a special place. One moment you're driving on a slushy TransCanada Highway, fighting ski traffic and getting your windshield splashed by eighteen-wheelers; the next you're turning off onto a quiet, snow-covered road, with just the occasional car and big snowy mountains pressing in from both sides. Until you turned off the TransCanada you were just lingering on winter's doorstep; now you've entered its domain. Still, magical as the Parkway in winter might be, until a few weeks ago it hadn't figured prominently in my ice climbing plans. It's a long drive from Cowtown, and one I've done many, many times. These days it takes something rather special to entice me all the way up there. And with several projects on the go in the Bow Valley, I had more than enough to do closer to home. But a chance one-day hit at the beginning of December revealed all manner of rarely formed drips high on the south face of Mt. Wilson. As a result...