Extreme Frontiers: Racing Across Canada from Newfoundland to the Rockies (18 page)

As we gained altitude, the view out of the window was spectacular: the green valley around Dawson, the Klondike River and
the mine tracings that looked like massive caterpillars peeling off it. From above you could see that for all the gold that
had been found, the mining really had ruined this valley. Matt and I talked about the current boom and how it had brought
so many people up here – having been born in the Yukon, he was more than happy about that. His company had just bought
another plane, and he told me it was nice to be able to make a decent living.

This was a single-stick plane, but the controls could swivel between the pilot’s seat and the passenger’s. I’d had a few flying
lessons, so pretty early on in the journey, Matt shifted the stick across. It was amazing to be flying such an old plane through
this beautiful scenery, but at 120 miles an hour, we were touching down in Silver City in no time. There we were met by a
young woman named Sian, who was going to take us on to the glacial slopes of Mount Logan. Another mountain. God, I hoped it
wasn’t going to be like the last one. Sian assured me it wouldn’t be anything like that terrifying ridge I still saw in my
dreams. Or rather, nightmares.

When we’d driven out on to the Athabasca Glacier a few days earlier, our guide Jason had said that he didn’t think anyone
could rescue themselves from a glacier if they happened to take a tumble down a crevasse. I had visions of Joe Simpson in
Touching the Void
, but Sian did her best to persuade me that it would be nothing like that; this was a safety drill, nothing more, and nothing
a guy like me could not handle. A guy like me! She had no idea who she was dealing with … One look at Russ’s face and you could
see he was thinking the same thing. Anyway, onward and, hopefully, upward. They had already sent some gear up to the glacier
by plane, and Sian was waiting for the pilot to come back with a full weather report, because although the skies seemed clear
enough today, it had been storming quite badly and we were due to camp up there. If a storm decided it liked the area and
settled, it could keep us trapped for days.

Sian was right: this was nothing like Mount Fable. That had been Alberta in the heat; this was the Yukon in the ice and snow.
Kitted out with boots and waterproof gaiters, I followed Sian up
the slope. Russ had gone on ahead and was waiting outside a pair of massive tunnel-shaped tents, like those you see at permanent
bases in Antarctica. Inside they had everything, including beer, which is always a good sign – and we had no worries about
keeping it cold up here.

The tent was fitted with a stove and a long table, everything we would need if we did happen to get snowed in for a week or
so. The pilot had reported a fog bank that was headed this way, and though the sun was shining outside and we were only wearing
T-shirts, Sian reckoned that in less than two hours we would not be able to see our hands in front of our faces. That meant
we ought to crack on with the training.

She fitted me out with snow shoes for the one-kilometre walk up the mountain to the crevasse, which I was pleased to hear
was wide and shallow, not deep and dark. Mercifully, there were no mosquitoes and I was able to walk unmolested. We were on
the Discovery Ice Field, a small part of the St Elias Ice Fields, which comes third only to the North and South Pole in terms
of its vast size. Thinking about that, I decided that if I was going to fall down a glacier, at least it was a serious one
and I could brag about it.

We climbed higher and higher; the pack ice was firm enough underfoot, but Sian told me that out near the ocean, the glacier
is wasting away pretty quickly. I was surprised, and somewhat alarmed, to hear that the melt from St Elias could potentially
be responsible for a two-centimetre rise in the level of the oceans right across the world, which could be interesting for
a place like London …

We were closing in on the glacier now, the slope getting steeper and the crags ahead covered in ice and snow. As we roped
up, Russ was looking at the sky and wondering aloud
about the fog. I was just thinking about the drop I’d be rappelling into. Once Sian had the rope fixed, we were off again,
with her leading the way on her snow shoes. I padded after her, my nerves tingling.

Finally we arrived. The crevasse was a great cleft in the snow, a drop of about thirty feet. Even in the daytime, I didn’t
see it until we were right on it, and I could appreciate how easy it would be to fall in. While we fixed a belay, Sian and
I chatted about climbing, and I told her about my ascent of Mount Fable with Barry Blanchard. She used to date a climber who
hung out with Barry, until her dad told her that she could date anyone she wanted as long as he was not a climber or a pilot,
because in this part of the world they tended to die young.

Sian would be showing us a technique she referred to as a ‘self-evacuation’, which is what a climber should do if they fall
into a crevasse on the end of a rope. I’d have to ‘prusik’ my way out, which is how you get up the rope if there are no foot-
or handholds available. I watched her prepare the gear and demonstrate the knots for the prusik loops I’d soon have to tie
myself. They are very specific – they have to be just right in order for the loop to slide up the rope – and Sian wasn’t going
to tie them for me. I would have to do that myself when I hit the bottom.

Of course the longer it took to get ready, the more hairy the whole situation became. It’s always the waiting that gets you.
It had been like that at the river rapids, looking down on that washing machine of a vortex, and it was the same up here.
By the time everything was set, the butterflies were fluttering away like there was no tomorrow.

Sian demonstrated what I would have to do, dropping nonchalantly over the edge of the crevasse. She then climbed up
again swiftly, using the rope and making it look easy. When she fastened me to the rope, I fell strangely silent. I was concentrating
on remembering the knots; I couldn’t take the embarrassment of being hauled back up by someone else. It was now or never.
‘Fuck it,’ I said to anyone listening. ‘Let’s do it.’ And with that, I backed up to the edge.

Sian told me just to lean back and walk down, easing the rope through the descender one-handed. It was a long way down – no
pun intended. Hesitating to begin with, I slipped a little, but then I got comfortable with the rope and bobbed my way down
to the dark chasm at the bottom of the crevasse. Climbing up again was much harder than abseiling down. It was back-breaking
work and you really would not choose to do it unless there was no other way. It took ages; every time I managed a few inches
I thought I would slip back, and the toll it took on my arms was incredible.

I made it to the top, though, sweating hard and rolling on my back in the snow as I emerged into the daylight. To celebrate
we had a bit of a toboggan race, sliding down the hill back to camp. I was really delighted to have accomplished something
else so challenging – crossing another personal frontier – and to be up that high with the sky so still and the sun blazing
down on freshly fallen snow.

B
ack in Silver City after a chilly night’s camping, we headed for Jasper, where we’d be catching a train. I was exhausted;
we’d had a lot of fun, but that climb had taken its toll. We’d had our fair share of early mornings on this trip, and had
combined them with quite a few late nights, which is never a good idea. But the next stage ought to be relaxing – riding a
massive train called the Rocky Mountaineer, which would take us through the mountains to a place called Kamloops. From there
we would be back on the bikes as far as Lillooet.

The railway is very important in Canada – it is used to carry a lot of freight, and it’s not uncommon to see trains over a
kilometre in length, with as many as half a dozen diesel locomotives pulling them. What makes the Mountaineer so special is
that it has these fantastic panoramic domed roofs so that you can really enjoy the scenery. I was excited by the thought of
sitting back and watching some of the most beautiful landscapes in the world go by. With the end of the expedition now in
sight, this was one train ride I was really going to relish.

There was no raised platform at the station, just a long strip of pavement at ground level, which gave us a strong impression
of just how big this train was. Russ (a massive train fan, remember?) had arranged this part of the journey. He’d made the
right calls and spoken to the right people, and we were booked into the last car, which had a viewing platform with an uninterrupted
vista behind. There was no better place to view the passing landscape.

Inside, the train’s manager, Peter, greeted us and told us that he’d be looking after us during our journey. This was getting
good. We’d been roughing it for nigh on two months now – this tent and that piece of hard ground, complete with its million
and one mosquitoes – so a little bit of comfort would not go amiss. Peter told us he would do all he could to make our journey
enjoyable; the only thing he couldn’t control was the drizzling rain.

He led us into the dining car, where shortly they would be serving breakfast. In the galley-style kitchen, a number of chefs
were preparing the food. The smells were just amazing; I was beginning to salivate now. The head chef told me there were four
kitchens on the train to cater for the 250 passengers. He was very proud of the food his kitchens produced, explaining that
being on the Mountaineer was a real experience and it was important that the right atmosphere was created. As far as he was
concerned, they were trying to replicate the kind of experience high-end passengers in the nineteenth century would have enjoyed.

‘Do you like to cook?’ Chef asked me.

‘I love to cook.’

‘OK, well maybe we’ll let you make a bit of lunch with us later.’

*

The train was very popular: coach-loads of tourists were gathered on the platform, and it took a while to get everybody on
board. I hung out at the back of the train watching the freight cars go by, before finally we were rolling.

I sat down for a chat with some Australians who were crisscrossing Canada by train. We talked about Australia and my various
experiences there over the years as we sipped the peach wine that the stewards brought us. The carriage was fantastic: there
was so much glass all around us that everything outside the train was plainly visible.

The scenery was truly spectacular. As the train cut through gorges and forests, miles and miles of track spooled out behind
us. Some of the individual sections of track come in 850-foot lengths, which makes them easier to lay around corners; there’s
enough flex in a piece of iron that long to give a little without too much stress. I’ve been on trains all over the world,
but for the luxury and the scenery, nothing could top this.

After breakfast, it was my turn in the kitchen. They fitted me out in a chef’s coat and gave me a sockeye salmon to prepare.
Chef showed me how to clean it properly – cutting off the head, working from both sides to keep it neat; then removing the
bones by slicing along the inside and bringing the skeleton out in one piece. After that I filleted the fish, removing the
flesh from the skin and cutting it into lengths. As we cooked up some fresh green beans, we discussed the way that fine cooking
has become such a part of mainstream society. With all the TV chefs and cookery programmes, it is no longer an elitist thing,
and the variety of tastes and ingredients from all over the world has added a whole new dimension to the chef’s role.

I’ve always fancied myself as a bit of a cook, actually. (My dad reckons I have this knack of being able to knock up some
gravy or a sauce out of just about anything.) Together Chef and I made a side dish of fried potatoes with roasted peppers,
then added a sprinkling of beans and the salmon fillet on top. The final flourish was a mustard-seed vinaigrette. I have to
say it looked beautiful when Chef did it … and not
too
bad when I had a go.

Sitting in the dining car eating a fillet of sockeye that I had helped to prepare, I was in heaven.

‘So, Russ,’ I said, between mouthfuls. ‘This bit of the expedition isn’t quite so extreme really, is it?’

He was silent.

‘But it is
extremely
nice,’ I added, spearing another piece of delicious salmon with my fork.

By the time we rolled into Kamloops, I felt really refreshed and was itching to get back on my bike. Throwing on my jacket
and helmet, I set off, beetling along through the heart of one of the most majestic mountain ranges anywhere on earth. It
was poetry. With the road unravelling in delicious twists and turns, I was really enjoying this opportunity to mess about
on the bike. It was only when we pulled over for a breather that I started to wonder what it would be like to view this amazing
landscape from above.

I mentioned to Russ what I was thinking, and in the next town we stopped at a petrol station to ask whether anyone knew of
anywhere we could hitch a ride in a glider. As luck would have it, about fifty miles further down the road there was an airfield
with a gliding school run by a Czech guy called Rudy. The owners of the petrol station gave us a phone book and we found the
number and spoke to Rudy. He told us that the
weather wasn’t brilliant, but if we got a wriggle on we could have some time in the air before the next storm blew in.

We jumped back on the bikes and increased our speed, keen to get to Rudy’s before the weather turned. It wasn’t long before
we found the signs for the turn-off and rode down to a grassy airstrip, where we spotted a couple of the engineless aeroplanes.
Rudy was waiting for us.

‘OK, Charley,’ he told me, after the introductions were over. ‘You can sit in the front. I’ll be in the back seat, doing the
flying from there. But there is a control stick in the front, so you can help if you want.’

Prodding the aluminium fuselage, I told him I thought it looked a little thin.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s made out of beer cans … we just straighten them out and build it. Simple really.’ I hoped he was joking.

Rudy told me that gliding was about being at one with nature; when the aircraft rides the thermals, it’s not uncommon to have
an eagle riding them right alongside you. I was really excited now – that was exactly what I’d hoped to hear. I hauled one
leg after the other into the glider, which was so low to the ground it felt like getting into the cockpit of a go-kart. Rudy
handed me the obligatory sick bag, just in case, and I stuffed it down beside me. ‘I don’t want any early exiting,’ I shouted
back to him. ‘I don’t want to turn around and find you’ve bailed out!’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with you every loop-the-loop of the way.’

The tow plane started to pull us along the runway – it really was pretty smooth – and in barely a moment we were up in the air.
As we climbed, I asked Rudy how he came to be living in Canada. He explained how he’d grown up under the communist
regime in Czechoslovakia, and although he’d hated it, he’d taken advantage of support from various agencies and learned to
fly gliders for free. When he was twenty-six, he’d bought himself a holiday in Cuba, one of the few places Czechs were allowed
to travel to. At Montreal, where the plane was due to refuel, he got off with the other passengers but didn’t get back on
again. Claiming asylum, he was eventually allowed to stay. One day he was hiking in these mountains, took in the view and
thought how cool it would be to glide up here, so he and a friend raised the money to buy a glider and tow plane, and the
rest, as they say, is history.

We were up in the air with the grey and green mountains surrounding us. All I had to do was sit there and take in the view.
I was so pleased we’d had this spontaneous idea, and that Canada was the kind of place where there was a gliding school round
every corner! From up there I could see a whole mass of dirt roads; the mountains had originally been opened up by loggers.
Rudy said that if they carried enough fuel, dirt-bike riders could go for days and days without bumping into anybody. He explained
that beyond the logging roads were animal trails, and you could ride from place to place on those without ever even touching
a road. That sounded amazing, and I made a mental note to come back here one day and do just that. Wow, I could see a whole
new TV series shaping up …

We were out over the river now, and it was just beautiful. Beyond that we flew over a First Nations village, where Rudy pointed
out their road system, which was laid out in the shape of an eagle’s head.

It was pretty misty up there. The clouds were low and swirling around the snow-capped peaks, which seemed to be gathered closely
around us. Rudy said that gliding was
challenging with the mountains so close, and you really did have to concentrate. We’d been attached to the tow plane until
now, but suddenly it peeled off, right between a couple of steep peaks, and now Rudy really came into his own, veering off
to the left, circling, trying to catch a thermal and find a little bit of lift. It was silent now – nothing but the wind rattling
the canopy.

As we drifted lower, I spotted a waterfall. From this vantage point, the way it tumbled down the wall of rocks was incredibly
dramatic. As he had promised, Rudy threw a loop, and suddenly I was upside down. Instinctively I grabbed hold of my harness,
keeping my breathing regular, and for a split second I felt almost weightless. It was an incredible feeling, something I’ve
never experienced before.

We were in really rugged terrain now, with nothing that even vaguely resembled civilisation nearby. Rudy told me that this
was what pilots called ‘lion country’, and you really did not want to land unless you had no choice. He meant mountain lions,
of course, pumas or cougars, which can reach a couple of hundred pounds in weight and roam from Alaska all the way into South
America. They’ve been known to take hikers and mountain bikers when they’re particularly hungry.

I kept my breathing even and steady as Rudy threw another loop. It was warm in the glider, and by this point I was a little
bit sweaty and feeling just a tad nauseous, too. But it was my turn to take the controls, and any thoughts of sickness left
me pretty quickly as I concentrated on flying. It wasn’t easy – the steering was very subtle – but having flown a few planes
in my time, I did all right. Of course, with me at the helm we found the lift we’d been wanting and began to gain altitude.

*

Back on the ground, I lay on my belly in the grass and reflected on it all. I still felt a little sick, and I was reminded
of how I’d felt when I climbed out of that Spitfire in Australia on
Right to the Edge
. God, that was awful. I’m lucky, though – very few people get to do this stuff,
and
get paid while they’re doing it. Believe me, having spent years working as a painter and decorator, I know how fortunate
I am.

There was no rest, though; it was back on the bikes as we headed down to Whistler for another kind of bike ride altogether.
Rudy had talked about dirt-bike riders on the trails up here, but he’d also told me that plenty of people use the same trails
for mountain biking and horse riding. As we hadn’t been on a pedal bike of any kind thus far, I reckoned we’d have to rectify
that before the expedition was over.

This wasn’t just any old bike ride, however; this was extreme: a helicopter flight to the start of the route on one of the
mountains, followed by a dash down to the base. Whistler is renowned for mountain biking, and this was intense stuff we were
undertaking. I’d just been flying above those mountains; I’d ridden my motorbike through them and I’d climbed up them, so
now I had to finish off in true Whistler style.

We took one chopper while the bikes followed on another, strapped together and dangling underneath so they could be dropped
to where we were on the mountain. I wasn’t going to be riding alone; Mungo was filming, and I had my guide, Mark, with me
to protect me from mountain lions and make sure I didn’t break any bones at the hands of some monstrous tree root or rock.
It was seriously rugged up here.

As I was gazing out the window of the chopper, I heard Mark say something about riding on a ridge. After my experiences
climbing in Calgary, I wasn’t good with ridges, and I could feel the nerves beginning to kick in. But we had another guide,
Dave, riding with us, so there were two experts as well as the two novices, which ought to help if things went wrong on the
way down.

We set off riding over the snow, but I took a tumble right away – the front wheel washed out and I ended up sprawled in the
white stuff. I was OK – the only thing hurt was my pride – but after that inauspicious start we walked the bikes across the
next section. Mark and Dave wouldn’t let us get away with that for long, though, and we were soon pedalling again, heading
for the rocks and trees at what felt like breakneck speed. Even with all that space, an entire mountain, a couple of us still
managed to collide. My heart was pumping like crazy and the adrenalin seemed to be flowing out of control.