The Power of Lard
It’s late. I drowsily navigate my van beneath the soft glow of streetlights, then pull off into the lonesome darkness of a small, dirt parking lot. Nestled in the heart of Squamish, this humble and unsuspecting space has become somewhat of a home of mine, and for or many others who sleep in rolling, rust-covered dwellings. As quietly as possible, I squeeze in between Jordan’s Ford Ranger and Becca’s turquoise minivan and kill the engine. Maneuvering awkwardly through a maze of climbing gear, dirty clothing, and food scraps, I crawl my way into my bed in the back and lie down with a sigh. The closing shift at the Zephyr Cafe proved later than expected tonight, after I clumsily tipped over the mop bucket and flooded the majority of the kitchen floor. I am thankful to finally be in my cozy retreat of sleeping bags and solitude, and begin to drift off.
The loud ding of a cellphone jolts me awake. I fumble in the darkness to find it and adjust my sleepy eyes to the bright blue light. It’s a text from Nat.
“You, Jordan and I. The Power of Lard. Party of 3, big wall style. YAR!!”
———
I met Nat Bailey and Jordan Motruk in the spring, a couple weeks after my rusty Astro and I rolled into Squamish hoping to make it home. Since then, these two had rapidly evolved from climbing partners to friends to brothers; we had shared many belays and memories together, whether it be impromptu naked simul-laps up the Apron or partnering up for our respective birthday Triple Crowns on the Chief.
And without fail, any time that the Bugaboos made its way into our conversations, Jordan would adopt this pirate-like tone. “The Powerrr of Larrrd!” he would growl, his words crescendoing in stoke, eyes wide with mystery.
While flipping through his Bugaboos guidebook he had stumbled across the route, eight pitches up to 5.12+ shooting up from the glacier on the East Face of Snowpatch Spire. This route somehow became fabled lore amongst the group, probably by the simple fact that its unique name was fun to say.
———
We’ve gathered at the Zephyr couches to loiter and discuss logistics; Jordan can get some time off work at the end of August before going back to school in the fall, Nat is as free as a bird with no job and a fresh line of credit, and I plan to leave Squamish in Autumn anyway…the gears begin to turn.
5.12+ is close to the peak of all our respective climbing abilities. I have never even climbed 12+ at a sport crag, let alone on alpine granite high in the Purcells. But fuelled by the group’s collective stoke, we seal the plan: we will spend 2 nights on the route, bivying on natural ledges. We hope this will give us time to redpoint the hard pitches.
We also just want a couple nights to have a damn good time up there. Waking up to sunrises high above the glacier. Sharing whisky and laughs in our sleeping bags after a long day of whips and splitters. I find myself thankful to have climbing partners who are as eagerly excited about the experience as a whole as they are about the possibility of sending. This is going to be an incredible way to culminate a season spent in Squamish.
———
Dust kicks up behind Nat’s Dodge Caravan as we steadily bump our way along the final stretch of logging road. After this we only have a few hours of steep trail between us and our paradise.
———
The sound of water
All the glaciers are breathing
As they always have
I wake up to rain tickling at our tent. We heaved into camp yesterday just as the water really started coming down. There were a few other tents scattered amongst the rocks and retreating pikas, but for the most part Applebee was found deserted in the wake of this week’s demoralizing weather forecast. We scurried about the ghost town, eventually finding some flat ground that was not flooded or on its way.
———
A few soggy hours later I peek my head out of the fly again , condensation dripping down onto my face. “I think it could be clearing up, boys!” The grey swirling masses above us stretch only so far, and some blue hope glistens in the distance.
And indeed it did clear, briefly.
We charge out of our Trojan horse with YARS of bliss are enjoy an afternoon of sunshine, bouldering and soloing around camp. We are one sleep away from charging up splitters under blue skies.
———
We are in the tent
Feels like sunshine is rain
Time to send the Lard
The buckets have returned, and so have we to our soggy fortress.
Sweaty balls in tents
The weather rages outside
At dawn we shall ride
We plot within our condensation-plagued refuge. We have limited time in the Bugs, seeing as Jordan has his final year of uni to get to and I don’t want to get fired from the Zeph just yet. Tomorrow, rain or shine, we are going up.
———
Nat and I huddle on a small ledge. Jordan is charging up an offwidth in the middle of a whiteout blizzard. I guess we were kind of asking for it.
Now we are back down
Our asses thoroughly kicked
We had so much fun
