Three Small Silent Moments

 November 18,2020

“So just maybe it is these small silent moments which are the true story making events of our lives…”

Douglas Coupland

Lake Helen Mackenzie (PK photo)

‘To see a World in a Grain of Sand 

 And a Heaven in a Wild Flower 

 Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand 

 And Eternity in an hour.’

(William Blake from ‘Augeries of Innocence’)

I went snowshoeing on a weekday last January up on Forbidden Plateau. Leaving the parking lot at the Mt. Washington Nordic Lodge, I headed out towards Helen Mackenzie Lake. The trail wends its way through an evergreen forest, past a myriad of small ponds and open sub-alpine meadows. An arctic high pressure ridge had settled over the area and the skies were clear and sunny. It was cold for Vancouver Island- well below zero and I was immersed in a winter wonderland.

I was making my way through a shaded forest section when I came to a place where a single column of sunlight was shining down through the tops of the trees all the way to the snow covered ground. I paused there for a moment looking up. Just then, an accummalation of ice crystals sloughed off a branch high above and drifted down.

The crystals were so fine, that they descended in slow motion- almost invisible until reaching the column of the sun’s rays and then suddenly they were alight. A mist of crystalline ice became this stream of falling white light against a backdrop of evergreen branches and dark tree trunks.

Everything seemed to go quiet and I stood very still. For a few moments, nothing else existed except this falling of light in a silent winter forest. Such a simple thing and yet in that moment it seemed like one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. My goal had been one of distance- to snowshoe to the lake and cross to the far side. But now it was to be present to the full depth and breadth this small silent moment that was now seemed held like a jewel in the cupped hands of the day.

Another such moment happened when I was in my early 20’s and living in a second floor apartment above the corner of Jervis and Pendrell in Vancouver’s west end. It was in the early spring. The sun was out, the sky was a vivid blue, a northwest breeze was blowing and all the cherry trees were festooned with pink blossoms. They looked otherworldly –like I was looking out the window into a Renoir painting come to life.  Looking out into streets lined with cotton candy pink.

(Sakura Fall)

I was standing with coffee in hand looking out the window idly watching a middle-aged woman walking east on Jervis street. She was wearing a long dark coat and carrying a full bag of groceries in each hand. A sudden gust of wind blew through the trees just as she was passing beneath and a great shower of pink petals came cascading down-falling and whirling all around her. She stopped. She put down her burden and then just stood there with her arms raised up and wide open. Her face upturned to the shining sky as the fall of flower petals filled the air all around her. She gazed upwards with this radiant, beautiful smile illuminated her whole face like that of a child. That single moment. I have never forgotten that. And even though it was over 40 years ago, I can remember the look on her face amidst the swirling cloud of pink petals as clearly as if it had just happened.

 

Another such remembered moment was of my daughter Kira and the fern circle. How a morning walk through a grove of old growth forest led to a moment that I’ll remember the rest of my days. She was about four at the time, embodying the archetype of the ‘Wonder child’ and she certainly was that.

As the three of us ambled along, Kira suddenly jumped into the open middle of a large circle of ferns- scrunched right down into a ball and then called, “Look, I’m a sunflower!” And she was! With her shining crown of blonde hair, she was scrunched right down in the middle of that green fern circle and she became exactly that right before our eyes- a sunflower. Another one of those moments that would endure for me long after the rest of the day had been forgotten. She showed me that such a magical thing was possible in that one small silent moment.

It may seem that these three moments are separate- that they are not connected with one another and yet it feels to me as if they are. Each of those three experiences-those encounters has held a kind of resonance for me which persists to this day.

Paul Kendrick

Kairos Time on the Tidal Grid

 

Kairos Time on the tidal Grid

It was 3:30 in the morning at the Fisherman’s Wharf Marina in Campbell River and Timo and I are on his boat, the Sisu, sitting somewhat bleary eyed across the table from one another. We each have a large travel mug full of 454 Horsepower coffee. It is hot, black and strong and very much needed.

We needed to be up that early to catch the high point of the tide for enough depth to move his boat onto the tidal grid at the marina.  Then we planned to scrape and clean the bottom in preparation for re-coating with new anti-fouling paint.

The tide had to be one of the highest of the month to accomodate the depth of the keel on Timo’s 36 foot sailboat. So like it or not, 3:30 a.m. was the right time, the opportune time to be doing this.  

After three years rest at the dock following Timo’s round the world voyage, there was now an accumalation of weed growth, mussels and barnacles below the water-line that would affect the smoothness of the boat’s movement through the water.

My mind has fun playing with the metaphor of that- of how if we don’t tend to the inevitable encrustations attaching to our own lives along the way then perhaps the momentum of our own journeys could slow and more turbulent over time.    

With enough coffee in us to be somewhat conscious, we emerged out into the cold night and set about starting the engine and untying the mooring lines. There was the faint lightening of the sky to the east which gave us hope for day that was approaching.   The water was slick and black as we eased past the other sleeping boats towards the grid.

There was a long day ahead and we’d only had two hours sleep at most. It was nearly one a.m. when I’d left Timo’s boat to go back to my own. We had enjoyed a good dinner and a glass of wine- okay, two glasses of wine and were planning on an early night when Timo got this devilish look in his eye and asked, ‘How about a wee dram before you hit the road....?’

He knew full well that it would be next to impossible for me to leave when there was an offer of a good single malt on the table. Especially a bottle of Laphroaig.

Somehow, there we were- still sitting at the table when one day turned to the next. The bottle of Scotland’s finest was still on the table, though it looked like the level had dropped a little since Timo had opened it. Ironic, because the tide level outside had been slowly rising all the while.

We berate ourselves a little but with good humour. I mean you can’t just get up and call it a night when we hadn’t yet decided whether or not God existed.

Seen one way it seemed very irresponsible to have stayed up so late when we had such an early start the next morning but doesn’t that actually depend on what one feels most responsible to in a given moment?

While it may not have been the right time to do so by the tick-tock clock of chronological time- when measured in Kairos time, it was exactly the right time to continue the discussion and we went with the invitation of that.

‘Kairos,’ from the ancient Greek means the right, critical or opportune moment to act in some way. ‘Kairos Time,’ also happens to be the name of my own boat.

The God image of Kairos depicts a fleet footed bearded man with a long forelock of hair protruding out in front of him and a smooth bald patch at the back of his head.

He represents the fleeting moment, the fleeting opportunity that may come along and to which we must always remain vigilant. To recognize such a moment when it comes one can then seize that moment represented by the proturuding forelock and then inhabit that opportunity. But to hesitate and realize too late that a special invitation is at hand, there is only the futile grasping at the smooth bald patch at the back of Kairos’s receding head where there is nothing to catch hold of. That opportune moment and all that it might have been have gone. Sometimes such a hesitation may turn into the regret of a lifetime.

Timo swings wide to make the 90 degree turn and the boat slows as we approach the grid and its cluster of support pilings. A perfect docking and then we busy ourselves tying lines and placing fenders.

One critical task was to run a longer line from the top of the mast to a steel post on shore giving maximum leverage ensuring that the boat would lean slightly into the pilings as the tide dropped rather than tipping outward and falling over onto its side- which would make for a very bad day.

The paw of my playful mind cannot help but dab at the metaphor of that. Of how I need to know to what and to whom I can lean toward in case some key support in my life suddenly dropped away leaving me precariously unbalanced.

Once the boat was properly secured we still had to remain vigilant as the tide slowly dropped and the bottom of the keel drew closer to meeting the cross-timbers of the grid beneath the water.

Some lines needed to be tightened while other lines needed to be loosened. And at a certain point some needed to be added while others were taken away as they had served their purpose for that stage.

I mused about how our ties to people, places and things can be like that; that also need tending to. As life changes- as it evolve, so too do our relationships with its myriad of component parts.

I had idle time for such musings- as the tide drops very slowly.

‘More coffee?’ Timo asks. I nodded my head gratefully as he went below and I soon heard the sound of the hand-grinder going while I kept watch above.

Soon we are both sitting in folding chairs on shore with fresh coffees in hand watching the tide drop.

The ebbing and flooding of the great ocean tides move at a different pace than that of my normal life- and I felt myself surrendering to the invitation of that slower flow of time.

We were actually doing something even though it would appear to a passerby that we were just sitting around doing nothing. In fact we were doing everything we could do at that particular stage.

A moment of exitement as a seal chasing a fish underwater caused frantic swirls and upwellings on the the water’s surface and then everything went still again.

‘See that?’ Timo asked, pointing at the boat. Yes, I could see. The gentle movements of the boat had changed in some subtle way. There was now and then a slight shudder. Very subtle but there. ‘Yup, she’s touching bottom now,’ Timo notes.

A short time later, the keel of the Sisu was resting solidly on the sturdy timber grid. We made some final adjustments to the lines and then all was good. Nothing more could be done now for at least two more hours until the tide had dropped enough for us to get at the bottom of the boat. Time for a nap and we agreed to reconvene at 8.

I went back to my own boat and set the alarm then drifted off with remnants of the previous night’s conversation still going on in my head. Something about what I have come to call, ‘The Great Mystery,’ still resonated.

When Timo and I met again, the sun and a looming bank of cloud were trying to decide who was going to claim the sky for the day. We were just hoping it wasn’t going to rain as that would make painting a problematic. It wasn’t an opportune time for a heavy rain shower from our perspective.

All we could do was go ahead-hope for the best-and keep going until we couldn’t.

Once we were finished the hard physical work of scrubbing and cleaning the hull, we could then sit down and wait for the hull to dry before painting. Another invitation to enjoy slow time. To watch the tide dropping and the sun rising. We could do that.

Pavel, another sailing friend of Timo’s showed up at ten to help and soon the hull was dry enough. He brought the energy of someone who had had a full night’s sleep with him- and shared that with us. We started taping the waterline to ensure a nice neat dividing line of black bottom paint from the white of the hull above waterline.

Then I worked with brush in hand painting all the awkward edges, curves and corners while the other two used rollers on the larger surface areas. Finally, all the hull is painted, the barnacles and mussels scraped from the bottom of the keel and new sacrificial zincs put on to protect the steel hull from corrosion of electrolosis.

We tidied up, we put everything away and then we sat in the sun eating lunch. There was now no other thing we could except wait for the tide to come in. ‘A rising tide floats all boats,’ they say- and my mind can’t help but play with the richness of that metaphor.

There was plenty of time to do that as the sun continued on its long arc westward.

 We sat in the sun feeling like we had all the time in the world with the job complete and no thing to do but wait patiently for the tide to come back in again.

We were being bathed in the warmth and light of the sun. Bathed in the sun's rays that had traveled some 147.7 million kilometers to reach the place where were sitting. It was the combined gravitational pull of both the sun and the moon that were drawing in the waters of the rising tide to set us afloat once more. I think about that. I think of all those great unseen forces -those energies at work as the precious blue and white orb we call the earth, that we call 'home' spins along through the vastness of space. Following its orbital path with such precision. Surely, I muse, there is some much greater mystery going on around us all the time.

 

Paul Kendrick

We had no Songs

 

(Image above is ‘Kanchenjunga’ by Nicholas Roerich)

“If all the old songs are lost, then we don’t remember who we are.”  (Aboriginal Tiwi elder, Lenie Tipiloura)

We had no songs. That’s what it fizzled down to in the end. We really had no songs to offer. There we were- six of us western Canadians sitting around a fire in the Himalayan foothills of northern India looking awkwardly at one another while a ring of happy brown faces and expectant smiles awaited our contribution to the evening festivities. 

The porters, guide and cook all looking at us, urging,  “Yes, yes! Please sing some songs where you are from!”

It was our last evening together as we were  headed off to Darjeeling in the morning. We had just completed the Yuksom to Dzongri trek in Sikkim. It had not been a long trek but each day had taken us somewhere we had never been before so there was that added depth and breadth to our time there. This was a foray into an exotic place of red pandas, snow leopards, wild orchids, hundreds of butterfly species and hills covered with wild rhododendrun trees. 

One morning, we had got up very early and zig-zagged our way up a steep path to the high ridge above our camp. The ridge top was festooned with long strings of Buddhist prayer flags which were fluttering in the wind- sending out their blessings to all sentient beings. There was the scent of burning juniper offerings in the crystalline air as we awaited the sunrise in our down jackets and fleece pants.

The veils of the night mist slowly parted and a towering white cloud mass high above began picking up the morning light and becoming luminous- as if lit from within. But it wasn't a cloud mass. Some fifteen thousand feet above us were the upper reaches and pure white summit of Mt. Kangchenjunga, the third highest peak in the world and one sacred to millions of people. It was a vision from another realm.

A morning I'll never forget and now here we were back in the village with the people who had made it possible for us to have had that experience.

We had been really enjoying being an appreciative and enchanted audience as the porters took turns  singing the traditional songs from the valleys and villages where they were from. Their work for us was done. Everyone had been well paid and now it was a time to celebrate together. It was the kind of experience that makes travel to such distant places and such different cultures so worth the journey.

But now this sudden and completely unexpected role reversal. Now they were the audience and we were to be the singers.

Because this is what they had been doing. Singing the songs that they had grown up with that they had learned as children. They were singing the songs their parents, aunts, uncles, neighbouring families and grandparents had grown up with.

Even the shyest among them sang in such a natural, open and unselfconscious way. A way that I found amazing- given how things are for most of us in our culture. I doubt that it ever occurred to any of them at any time in their lives that they couldn’t sing. They would have grown up with singing as being as natural as talking or laughing.

I’ll never forget that feeling of awkwardness, or how we all looked at one another. Weak jokes of maybe singing ‘Oh Canada’ or ‘Frere Jacques’ or maybe ‘Row Row Row your Boat,’ or some popular rock song we all knew. But that was not what was being asked of us there in that place. All the while I was just squirming inside- like I had suddenly realized I was at a potluck dinner and now everyone wanted to know and taste what I had brought to share. And I had brought nothing.

Our ideas soon fizzled out into an uncomfortable fidgeting silence as it dawned on us that we had no songs, we had nothing to offer. Fortunately, our kindly hosts soon rescued us and started off on another of their own songs and we six could all breathe a sigh of relief and once again simply watch, listen marvel and enjoy.

But I have never forgotten that feeling of what it felt like to be a traveler  in a faraway place who had no songs in a place where everyone else did. It felt like a kind of poverty. It revealed a place of emptiness, a place that must have held songs at one time. I'm still thinking about that.

I also think that if we lose the traditional songs of a people and a place in the world then we also lose the delicate nuances, the sensations and species of feeling that such encounters there grant us. No matter how far we are from that place, when these things begin to dissappear from the world we all are losing something.

That was in the fall of 2005, and I really hope that the people of Yuksom and the surrounding villages are still singing their songs in that enchanted Himalayan valley. It would be a great loss, it would be a deep and sad silence if the songs of those wonderful people could no longer be heard.

(And according to Wade Davis, I have reason to be concerned…

“If diversity is a source of wonder, its opposite – the ubiquitous condensation to some blandly amorphous and singularly generic modern culture that takes for granted an impoverished environment – is a source of dismay. There is, indeed, a fire burning over the earth, taking with it plants and animals, cultures, languages, ancient skills and visionary wisdom. Quelling this flame, and re-inventing the poetry of diversity is perhaps the most important challenge of our times.”
― Wade Davis, The Wayfinders: Why Ancient Wisdom Matters in the Modern World)

Paul Kendrick

A Dance with the Matterhorn

 

November 5,2020

I couldn’t imagine how they must have felt that day when the rope broke and their four companions fell 4,000 feet to their deaths from the summit slopes of the Matterhorn. The silence that followed those last yells, the rapidly fading screams as the four men fell beyond their sight into the void must have been deafening.  The three remaining climbers, frozen in terror, clinging to the rock-in stunned disbelief by the horror of what had just happened. There was no possibility whatsoever of any of the four surviving a fall from such a height.

(Gustave Dore)

 

The accident took place on July 14, 1865 and they were the first people to have ever reached the summit of the Matterhorn- that most iconic of all peaks in the Alps. The jagged summit tears its way into the sky to tower some 9,500 feet above the tiny village of Zermatt in Switzerland.  Reaching the top was a great victory for the seven of them- especially with so many other strong parties vying for the same goal.

 But how quickly triumph turned to tragedy that day. How quickly it went from the seven of them spending what leader Edward Whymper later described as a, ‘crowded hour of glorious life,’ atop that narrow blade of a summit to the nightmare that would haunt each of the three survivors until the end of their days. Especially Edward Whymper, who had always believed that if the rope hadn’t broken- the three of them could have held the four falling men and saved them.

Fast forward to August 1995 when Doug Dean and I stepped off the train in Zermatt with our packs full of alpine gear and our heads filled with the long held dream of attempting the Matterhorn ourselves. What had been a scarcely imaginable fantasy for me as a young boy was now a dream that could be realized. We had paid our dues, we had served out our climbing apprenticeships in the coast range, the Rockies,  Selkirks, Cascades, Bugaboos, other climbs in the Alps, frozen waterfalls and more rock routes in Squamish than we could remember. And now here we were in Zermatt- boots on the ground in this mythical place, hoping to fulfill that dream.

(The Matterhorn from the Swiss side. The Hornli route follows the center ridge.)

The summit of the Matterhorn at 14,690 feet is one of the highest peaks in the Alps- and one of the most famous peaks in the world. It had been storming in the Zermatt region for almost a week and there was only one good weather day predicted before the clouds rolled in again. Conditions on the upper section of the mountain were far from ideal but our time was limited and it was unlikely we’d get another chance.

Ideally, the best way to help the body adjust to altitude with the lower oxygen levels above ten thousand feet is to ‘climb high and sleep low’ –gradually increasing altitude over a period of several days to acclimatize before attempting a peak of that height. We didn’t have time to do that- but we’d do the best we could.

Once we had our gear settled in the hotel room at the lowest elevation in Zermatt at just over 5000 ft., we hiked up to the highest pub in the village and proceeded to sample a few very fine beers on our way down to the lowest pub. There, our altitude training was complete.

The next day, a gondola ride followed by a two hour hike brought us to the base of the Matterhorn where we camped at 10,700 feet- the height of Mt. Baker. We were well above treeline now and in an austere world of rock, ice and snow.  The peak itself was shrouded in mist and and yet the presence of it looming above us was palpable. A single forlorn looking rope hung down the east face- the lower reaches of which were above and across from us. It was an odd place for a rope to have been abandoned out there out in the middle of that blank sweep of steep rock. Everything about it seemed a mute testament to some kind of epic, some kind of accident. Doug and I sipped our tea and speculated as to what might have happened to whoever had last been on that rope. Frankly, it was kind of creepy.

Since that fateful day in 1865, more than 500 other climbers have died on the Matterhorn- roughly 200 more than have died on Mt. Everest. But then far more people attempt The Matterhorn each year. Accidents due to falls, inexperience, getting caught out high in a storm, altitude problems, rockfall, lightning and avalanches are a risk. But many, many people are drawn there each year and most -whether they reach the top or not, make it up and down without incident.

The alarm at two a.m. came loud and early. Unzip the tent and peer out- ‘Yup, I see stars. ‘We’re good to go.’ It took will power to crawl out of our nice warm sleeping bags and step into the freezing cold and dark. The stove was fired up to heat water while we dressed and packed for what would be a very long day. Stomping around to stay warm and wake up, we sipped hot tea, ate some nuts and dried fruit while gazing upwards at the outline of the soaring black mass of rock above us.

We were away by 2:30 and started picking our way up to the start of the Hornli Ridge above us. Only able to see what was in the pools of light from our headlamps, we muddled our way through the approach section and were soon onto the Hornli ridge proper. Route-finding became much easier. The terrain is not difficult on the lower part and we were able to make steady progress with some easy scrambling, a few steep steps here and there but little that we needed the rope for.

No one move on this route is particularly difficult but it is the totality of the route as a whole is makes it a much more serious climb than any one section of it would suggest. Four thousand vertical feet of alpine climbing beginning at over 10,700 feet makes for a long route- and then you also have to get down. It is a route that is often underestimated.

It began to get lighter as we neared 12,000 feet and we could see more clearly what lay ahead. The mountain was in far from ideal condition after so many days of storm. The upper 1500 feet was almost completely plastered with fresh snow and ice. This would make climbing more strenuous and more time consuming.

We didn’t really need the rope much until around 13,000 feet. While much of the route was very exposed and there was the possiblity of an unroped fall if one slipped or a hold broke off at the wrong time-it was a calculated risk. The benefit was that we could move faster together-and that was prudent on such a long route. Moving efficiently is a key safety factor in the mountains. Developing that ability to move fast and light over moderate alpine terrain whether going up or down can save a lot of time- and time can sometimes be a very precious commodity in mountaineering. Time in the bank can mean having options that you might not have otherwise if something goes wrong.

And that need is an integral part of the unique challenge of the Matterhorn. There simply wasn’t the time to safeguard every single move if we wanted to dance with the Matterhorn.

I knew Doug was solid and we climbed well together. We looked after one another in the mountains and had always made it safely home again- which is more important than any summit.

There was some margin for error in parts of the lower route- but not much. In other sections- especially on the uppermost part of the mountain where even with some fixed ropes in place, there was no margin for error.

We put crampons on, roped up and got our ice axes out for the last ~700 vertical feet to the top- which in these snow and ice plastered conditions was essentially a winter climb. At 14,000 feet, we were now  feeling the altitude, myself in particular being from a sea-level town and we had to slow our pace accordingly to keep moving steadily.

The upper Hornli Ridge above the shoulder and up the summit icefield is truly spectacular. High, wild, beautiful and incredibly exposed. To look down between my boots was to look down into a void of several thousand vertical feet. We were completely focused in the now of every moment. In such a place there simply wasn’t room for anything else.

A swing of the ice axe, the pick biting solidly and then one foot up kicked hard into the ice followed by the other foot. Two, ideally three solid points of contact at all times. Focus on each move and only that move-before beginning the next move. We belayed one another carefully and taking turns leading, slowly and surely, we climbed upwards on steep dazzling white ice into a vivid blue sky.

As I climbed, I felt the experience of different threads being woven together. One was that of myself as a wide-eyed young boy who never could have believed that one day I would ever even see the Matterhorn with my own eyes let alone actually attempt to climb it.

Another thread was that of the previous 133 years of very real Matterhorn history. We were climbing where almost every one of the most accomplished climbers in the world had been at one time or another. We were climbing on hallowed ground. We were following in the footsteps of climbing history.  

And then there was all those 500 some odd people who had gone up but had never made it back down alive. There were crosses, momentos and plaques of all sizes, languages and shapes in many places on the way up.

The ‘up’ never seemed to end and we were both tiring from the combination of lower levels of oxygen and physical exertion. We had looked up innumerable times, leaning out- hoping to get a glimpse of the summit but it just seemed to go on and on and on. It wasn’t until the moment we finally glimpsed the surreal sight of a statue of St. Bernard- patron Saint of the Alps close above that we knew we really were going to do it.

First of all, it was a great feeling of relief to finally step onto the narrow blade like summit. Relief after about 10 hours of steady climbing that now there was no more ‘up’. We couldn’t go any higher. And then the realization began to sink in, ‘Omigod! We’ve done it!  We’ve climbed the Matterhorn!’

(Doug and I on the summit!)

Remember this,’ I told myself, ‘Remember this moment.’ Picture taking, handshaking. Backslapping hugs of mutual gratitude and congratulation. ‘Wow! We did it!’

It felt so good to take our first real break. To sit in the sun in such a place and soak it all up. We ate our sausage and cheese lunch while sitting there on the summit- gazing out over an endless sea of peaks. There was Zermatt, nearly 10,000 feet below us, looking like a toy village nestled among tiny green hills. There was the snow and ice mass of Mt. Blanc looking like a cloud in the distance- the highest peak in the Alps, and one which we had very nearly summited a few years earlier.

But soon the reality that we were only halfway made itself felt. Now we had to get back down. Time-wise it would take us another six to eight hours to descend. Depending on conditions,it can actually be more difficult and time-consuming to descend the Matterhorn than it is to climb up it.

We drank the last of our water, packed up and using the statue of kindly St.Bernard as an anchor, we set off down on the first of many rappels.

On the second rappel from the summit, we found ourselves in the exact area where the terrible accident of 1865 had taken place. Looking around me at how steep and featureless the rock was, I had a surprising revelation. It was so obvious so clear, that there was no possible way the three surviving men could ever have stopped the fall of their four companions on such steep ground. The three of them were not attached to anything- and the ropes of those days lacked not only the strength but more importantly the elasticity of modern climbing ropes. If the rope hadn’t broken, the last three would have been yanked off in a split second by the combined weight of four falling men and all seven would have fallen to their deaths. Period. The rope breaking saved those three men. The other four were already doomed.

Rappelling made descending the upper part of the mountain much simpler. But after that there was also a lot of downclimbing which is always harder than climbing up. We used the rope more often to safeguard ourselves on the descent- knowing we were much more tired and needed to be careful.

I’ll always remember one spot about half way down the mountain. We were both climbing unroped down an easier section that turned into an awkward blind corner that we then had to climb around. Doug went first and then I followed. It started out as an easy sequence of moves but then there was an unexpected bulge that forced me to lean out over the void while reaching around with my right hand to find a hold I couldn’t see before being able to do the last few moves. But it was all there and I made it around the corner to where Doug was waiting. ‘That was a bit trickier than it looked,’ I commented. Doug said nothing but pointed to a plaque set in a little alclove of rock. Here was yet another memorial-and a picture of a happy smiling young man who had fallen off to his death from that very same tricky little bit that we had just completed. We just looked at each other for a moment and then carried on down.

We got back to our camp just as darkness was falling- exhausted and relieved after an 18 hour day.

Now we were down and safe- which mattered more than anything.

We had our dance with the Matterhorn- and I’ll remember that to the very end of my days.

 

Paul Kendrick

 

Postscript

“The glorious victory was marred when, during the descent, four of the seven climbers in the summit party fell to their deaths. The remaining three, including Whymper, likely would have fallen as well if the rope linking the men had not broken.”

 

I read this only recently in an on-line account of the 150^th anniversary of the first ascent of the Matterhorn. Before that and certainly before our 1995 ascent, I had never heard or read anything that even hinted that the rope breaking actually saved the other three men.