The Mountain
Flying over Kitaa, Greenland. Photo: Tanya Clarke 2017
Growing up in the flat landscape of East Anglia, I only ever saw mountains on the telly. Now I live at the bottom of one.
Living here in North Vancouver, I'm discovering that a mountain is a magical place, a humbling and beautiful landscape.
Wherever I am, going about my day, the mountain sits, rising up ahead or guarding my back, unmoving yet changing daily at the mercy of its unique weather system. Its presence looms large, reminding us all how small we all are.
In winter, fog drifts far down the mountain obliterating its vast body from view. On other days, the vapour, released by the trees, lingers in long, delicate wisps and swathes, allowing only a little light or contrast to peek through here and there. Sometimes the clouds lift and vanish to reveal the whole of the mountain, its ridgeline etched sharply against a clear blue sky.
As someone who grew up in the flat landscape of North Norfolk, I am in awe of these mountains.
This mountain, the one we live near, locals often refer to as 'the hill'. I find this funny. As a Brit, the word 'hill' usually describes a soft, gently rolling landscape, not unlike the South Downs where I used to live in England. For me, a hill is low and humble.
This hill - the one I see from my house - has a majestic top elevation of 1231m. To me, that is not a hill. Grouse Mountain is, by no means, the tallest local hill on the North Shore. Both Cypress and Seymour mountains stand a little taller. Looking at the whole of Canada, the tallest mountain is Mount Logan which towers above sea level at 5959m. So, I guess, by comparison, Grouse Mountain might be considered a hill. As with most things, it's all relative.
Fear of Falling
Before we moved here, when I thought about mountains, I thought about snow. When I thought about snow, I thought about skiing and when I thought about skiing, I thought about fear.
So much fear.
Fear of falling.
Fear of falling off a cliff.
Fear of an avalanche.
Fear of being caught in an avalanche.
Fear of going faster than I can control.
Fear of going faster than I can control and then falling and then being caught in an avalanche.
Fear of a thunderous blizzard.
Fear of losing my kids in the thunderous blizzard.
Fear of losing sight of all my family in the thunderous blizzard.
Fear of never getting to the bottom of the mountain, particularly in a thunderous blizzard. And maybe then being caught in an avalanche.
I can't tell you how many litres of sweat have dripped off my body and seeped into my clothing, all the way through to my jacket, in my frustrated efforts to learn to ski. It has taken a long time, through many tears and embarrassingly, the odd tantrum. But...I can do it now. I can ski with an intermediate degree of speed and control. The gap between my family swishing way ahead of me is closing. I'm not so far behind now. And when I'm tired, I'm happy to head off on my own to the wide runs where I can practice my turns to my heart's content while my family takes to the jumps they find on the edges of a more difficult run.
There are still things I don't like. Narrow, steep runs are not my favourite and an unease creeps into my body when the fog closes in and all that differentiates the groomed piste from the cliff edge are some tiny coloured markers a few metres apart.
And I'm not sure about skiing at night on a floodlit run. I haven't tried that yet.
As a friend said, in a text recently, we're all on our own journey.
Silence and Falling Stars
Through all this fear and noise and difficulty, learning something new, I have often been left awe-struck by the sheer beauty of a snowy world. When up high, really high, where heavy snowfall shapes the trees into strange sculptures and the thick snow insulates all sound deadening the voices of my family, I know I'm experiencing something extraordinary. I like to stop for a few minutes, first to catch my breath and then to take in the quiet of the mountain. The trials and tribulations of skiing have been worth it.
Before time stood still, ie. the pandemic, and we'd been living here for about a year, we decided to dust off our skis and take a day trip to one of the other local mountains. It may have been Family Day, I don't quite remember.
On this particular day, the sky weighed thick with falling snow. Big heavy flakes fell, making deep pillowy drifts, the type of snow you want to collapse into like it's a large soft bed.
Now. I don't know about you but I've never paid too much attention to snowflakes. Most of my time in snow recently has been either shovelling it, walking the dog in it or trying to get down it safely on skis. This day was different. A magical thing happened. I talked about a magical thing a couple of weeks ago in Do You Write in Your Books? I've been trying to remember and notice magical things.
The four of us were sat on the chairlift going up the mountain. The snow fell softly around us as we chatted. After a time, we noticed with delight the snowflakes. These weren't just any old snowflakes. These snowflakes were shaped into perfect six-point stars. They were small, maybe 5mm in diameter, yet perfectly formed. I've never seen anything like it. They looked like a tiny cookie-cutter had stamped them out of ice. We caught a few clumsily with our big gloved hands and cooed over them as they fell gently onto our clothing.
I considered taking out my phone.
Could I balance poles, gloves and phone without dropping one or all of them into the snow far below?
Would the resulting picture even be worth it?
In the end I left my phone in my pocket. Sometimes I make the right decision.
Mountains
All photos by Tanya Clarke 2020-2023. Click to view larger versions.
