This is the second part in a travel series about our seven-week trip to Squamish and back. To read part one, start here.
July 18, 2022: Canadian Border Crossing, Blaine, Washington
I’ve lately taken to reading Google reviews of non-business entities for personal enjoyment. Say, for instance, someone who hiked an exposed ridgetop in early March might leave such a review:
“One star. Really cold and windy. No water. Sucked. Pretty tho.”
Not surprisingly, the US Customs and Border Protection station along Interstate 5 (US) leading to Highway 99 (Canada) isn’t exactly a Google darling. The power of a forced wait should be harnessed into working energy, much like a dam or a windfarm. My favorite part is that nearly all of these fuming reviews were left by folks clearly stuck in their car, in real time.
Here are some of my favorites, copied directly:
“Action needs to be taken so US Citizens more expediently are allowed to pass thru the border. Let the BC folks wait.”
“They need to open more at such a busy crossing. View of Peace Arch is nice.” (user included photos of Peace Arch)
“The U.S. intentionally opens only 2 of its 8 gates… It’s a condescending power move because of American xenophobia and arrogance. As a US citizen, it’s embarrassing to see.” (Included grainy picture of a squirrel in the grass)
“I shidded in my pants.”
“they took my weed :(“
The Crossing, A Non-Issue
Despite all the handwringing, our crossing was uneventful. We’d worried for months about this leg of the journey, fearing we’d drive thousands of miles only to be turned around by a dubious border agent— “what do you mean you are recreating for a month?”—or a minor technicality on our dog’s veterinarian paperwork. None of that happened. After waiting approximately thirty minutes and repeatedly ensuring the officer that we did not have firearms in the camper, we were welcomed to Canada and sent on our way.
Even though the highway and driving culture is exactly the same in Canada as it is in the US, I immediately began driving like I was leaving an airport in a rental car…in Thailand. I don’t know what it is about driving in a foreign country that takes me back to a Driver’s Ed mentality, shamefully reminding me of the thick-legged and judgmental coach in cutoff sweat shorts who taught our classes when I was fifteen. “You’re swerving, son!”
What One Does
Once inside the boundary of our new host country, we did like many Americans do: we headed to Costco to buy enough food to support a reasonably sized militia. What I failed to realize about Costco in Canada, or at least those in the metro area of Vancouver, is that the parking lots are not super-sized like they are stateside. After a mild panic, the heavens parted and provided not only a single parking spot, which was already difficult to find, but a nose-to-nose dual spot that allowed the perfect space for us to pull through and park our truck-and-camper combo. While we may never tire of goods in bulk, we’ll never take this chance again in Vancouver.
The Sea-to-Sky Highway
The Sea-to-Sky Highway heads north from Vancouver and snakes around the dramatic eastern edge of Howe Sound, a milky blue inlet punctuated by bulbous islands of dense pine and today’s tendrils of isolated fog. Further north and partially obscured by overcast skies are the glaciated alpine cirques of the Coastal Mountain hinterlands.
Driving north through this dreamscape, I turned to my wife and say, “Huh. Isn’t this where they filmed Free Willy?” With her face frozen in amazement and her neck craned to take in the lush wonders of British Columbia, she shrugged with uncertainty and said, “Maybe. Or Seattle?” I was left to wonder about Willy, and then of Michael Jackson.
I mean, come on, is there really anything better than where mountains meet the sea? No, there is not. After the previous week’s journey through the northern Rocky Mountains, I thought I’d seen some of the best North America has to offer. No, this is better. This is why we came here.
Entering Squamish
As we crest the highland point separating Britannia Beach to the south from Squamish to the north, the iconic Stawamus Chief immediately came into view. There it was, the towering granite monolith looming over the town like Mount Crumpit and Whoville in The Grinch. This day is cool and moody, a dramatic departure from the heat and relentless sun we’d left behind in much of the western US.
The top of the Chief and the other surrounding mountains are obscured by a thick gray fog morphing slowly around the highlands. The downtown area of Squamish, nestled alarmingly close to the estuary at the junction of the Howe Harbor and the Squamish River, seems like the kind of place destined to flood…often.
Squamish: The New Identity
The town of Squamish is a teenager of sorts, struggling for identity between its gruffy and plaided logging and industrial roots and its relatively recent transition to sweat-wicking, outdoorsy lifestyle mecca. Sitting at a stop light, one might (and one did) see a bumper sticker that reads “the mountains are calling” next to another that says, “vans are for creeping, not for sleeping.” Given that the town’s motto is now “hardwired for adventure,” I think it’s safe to say that the town is leaning far more heavily on outdoor tourism, at least in outward image.
And yes, the image is there. Upon arriving at our small 1-bedroom rental, we set out to explore the densely forested park surrounding the salmon spawning trails of the Mamquam River, a braided tributary of teal blue water and rounded granite cobbles. The park is only steps away from Highway 99 and a bustling shopping center, yet it maintains the character of a remote forest—just with more dogs.
Along the many trails one finds a dense array of youthful and exceedingly fit people. We were repeatedly passed by men and women in sparse clothing and abundant energy. In southern Utah, an open garage might reveal impressive displays of horsepower: ATVs, large trucks, etc. Conversely, an open garage in Squamish reveals no less than five bikes, with market values rivaling that of the high-end vans parked in the driveway.
But hell, should we be surprised? The Coast Mountains region surrounding Squamish and the metro area of Vancouver is a mecca for outdoor recreation. The climbing is world-class. The biking is world-class. Skiing in Whistler, only forty-five minutes away, is not to be missed. Hiking is abundant and varied. And let’s not forget about the water: Howe Sound and the rivers that feed it are stocked full of water people doing water things, from windsailing to fishing to even scuba diving. According to Ashley Green, owner of the climbing retailer Climb On, there is pressure not just to be good at one sport, but several of them!
July 20, 2022: Squamish
We were invited to dinner by a local I met through this website. We had an enjoyable discussion (among many) on the difference between Canadians and Americans. My wife and I think Canadians are friendlier, yet the Canadians think Americans are far more welcoming and gregarious. Despite the heavy tourism of this town, I find the locals to be shockingly accommodating, unpretentious, and non-territorial. I can think of a few rough equivalents in the US, and I find them to be, well, unaccommodating, pretentious, and territorial.
But hey, maybe we are all our own worst critics.
July 29, 2022: Squamish
The days are beginning to blur and the journal entries are becoming sparse. After only a few days in our dimly-lit and tiny rental, a friend came to visit for a week. We climbed nearly every day he was in town, and I was left exhausted. From here, I settled into more of a balanced routine.
I’ve been climbing roughly four days per week, ideally with two days of multipitch trad and two days of bouldering. I’m unsure of this approach; perhaps focusing on one or the other would be more advantageous. That said, if I could only take one approach, it would be the trad. It’s just so unique, fun, and incredibly accessible here. The bouldering, alternatively, is of high quality and incredible abundance, but conditions are relatively terrible. One can jam moderate cracks and be sweaty as a stuck pig. But pulling on hard boulder problems in a mid-summer rainforest is a different story. That said, I’m eager to maintain strength and power.
Life is good here. I haven’t yet tired of the mossy forests, the rich smells of decaying organic material, the pale blue rivers, and gorgeous alpine mountains. How could l?
August 1, 2022: Squamish
I jacked up my back when I bent down to pick up a 1-pound water bottle. Here is that story.
This essay is a reflection on comfort zones, expectations, stubbornness, and the reality that back pain will flip it all upside down.
August 9, 2022: Squamish
I climbed with a guy from Seattle the last two days. He’s a solid guy, but he’s been through the wringer. His wife is battling some sort of GI tract cancer which is potentially fatal. After surgery and several rounds of chemo she might be out of the woods, but there’s no certainty yet. She’s 39, he’s 41, and they were married right before the diagnosis. In an effort to be closer to family and specialized care, they are moving to Colorado.
Life can change so fast.
August 10, 2022: Squamish
Today was a rest day spent exploring Porteau Cove, nestled below Highway 99, along the charming eastern edge of Howe Sound between Squamish and Vancouver. The weather was overcast and cool, a welcome, if not sullen, reprieve. The cove is spectacular, and the campground has blue-ribbon-winning sites with jaw-dropping positions just steps from the beach. Like an amateur, I forgot my rain jacket and paid the price.
I love it here in Squamish, but I don’t love our cramped and poorly-lit Airbnb. I mean, it has everything we need. It just feels a bit claustrophobic in much the same way a van or camper living can be. Well, that’s a bit melodramatic. We do have running water, a full kitchen, a toilet, a shower, a washer and dryer, and far more space. Yeah, that’s a ridiculous comparison. I mean, I hesitate to say that because it sounds painfully privileged, but I do miss our house. And maybe I’m starting to miss sport climbing, so mission accomplished (?).
August 13, 2022: Squamish
Yesterday was a highlight. I climbed Long Time No See (5.9, 9 pitches) with Michael from New York, who I met my first day at the boulders. He’d only followed a handful of trad pitches and had never done a multipitch. I was admittedly a little nervous to be guiding a trad novice up the Chief, but everything went even better than I hoped.
Tensions were high to start the day. Even though it was a Friday, many Vancouver locals had apparently taken the day off in anticipation of a rainy weekend. We arrived at the base around 7:30 and didn’t start climbing until closer to 9:00. Parties amassed behind us at the start of the popular route. Suddenly, a twosome scrambled past a series of others to join us as we waited on a cramped ledge at the base of the first pitch. As a surprise to everyone, they began racking up with the intention of doing an alternate first pitch, one that ultimately shares the same first pitch anchor.
Just as I realized what they were doing, a guy behind me called out, rising to his feet as if personally insulted, “Hey, are you guys trying to do a variation of the first pitch? Well, the line starts behind all of us,” pointing at those pacing down below in the forest. The cutters tried to poorly explain that they wouldn’t clog up the line. Quickly realizing the futility of this argument, they grabbed up their gear and scampered away with low grumbles. Pitch forks were stowed away.
In the end, Michael did great, and he was a pleasure to be around. After the second pitch crux bottleneck, the parties spread out and we were able to move fast. Today wasn’t memorable for big grades or boldness, but instead for excellent climbing on a beautiful day in good company.
August 17, 2022: Squamish
I was grumpy today for no obvious reason.
It seems one factor at play is my inability to keep any sort of work routine while I’ve been here. I normally welcome rest days because I can fall back on a routine of work or reading. Stuck somewhere between life and vacation, I’ve struggled to find my groove.
For one, the space is tight. I’m typically two feet away from my wife who is also doing her work at our only table. She had a meeting today, which she attended without headphones. Needless to say, it was difficult to concentrate.
The morning started well: I woke a bit after 6:00, walked the dog, then made coffee. I worked for an hour, did my strength routine, and then ate breakfast. From there it was a random hodge-podge of phone use, administrative tasks, and another block of work.
Eventually we headed back to Alice Lakes and walked the full 4-mile loop. To finish things off, I regrettably swam in Stump Lake, a name that should have been a big hint. Let’s just say “Stump Lake” won’t be an air freshener hanging from anyone’s rearview mirror anytime soon. We cooked dinner outside on our camp stove to keep the house from getting hot and humid. Meanwhile, I kept smelling my arm.
Wow! Did you just climb up there?!
August 18, 2022: Squamish
Today I climbed the most pitches of the trip, 13 by the guidebook. I climbed with Jake, a first-year Stanford PhD student studying political science. We climbed Calculus Crack (5 pitches, 5.8), then scrambled to Memorial Crack (1 pitch, 5.9), then hiked up to the base of Squamish Buttress—repeating and simul-climbing the first four pitches of that route—to do Butt Face (7 pitches, 5.9).
I felt confident and in control today, and early morning conditions were surprisingly excellent: breezy and notably dry. By the upper pitches of Butt Face, however, I found myself out of water and leading the crux pitch in the sun. This was my second time to reach the First Peak summit of the Chief: hot, hungry, and dehydrated, yet satisfied.
On the descent, passing many sweaty hikers pounding up the steep path that weaves around the east side of the Chief, I enjoyed for the last time the many comments about our apparent greatness as climbers.
“Wow, did you climb up there!?” they asked wide-eyed, one after another, noting our various metallic and fibrous dangles.
“Why, yes ma’am, we did.” I replied in my best John Wayne accent, tipping my helmet like a heroic gunslinger.
And after taking a few steps I stopped and turned, calling back, “And one other thing, ma’am.”
“Yes, courageous climber and conqueror of coastal mountain cliffs?”
“Only you can prevent forest fires,” I said, before disappearing around the next bend in the trail.
Within the hour, like any great hero, I’d be cleaning my spilled protein shake from the tailgate of my truck with a sweaty t-shirt and beginning to dream of the next adventure.