decker, whirlwind, failures, teapot, redacted!

As in most years I bagged a few summits during 2020. None quite as notable as the 2017-2019 collection (Wedge, Garibaldi, Bugaboos, etc) but perhaps still worth documenting. 

Since climbing to, and riding down from, the very top of Mt Garibaldi on a splitboard in 2018 I have been keen to repeat the trick on other mountains in the Coast Range. The (comparatively) laziest options are the peaks accessible from the Whistler Blackcomb lift system, sometimes referred to as the side- or slack-country. In January Bob found time to join me on a tour up and over Decker Mountain starting from the Blackcomb lifts. I had actually attempted this with him about five years before but my woeful lack of fitness, combined with deteriorating visibility, forced us to abort before venturing on to Decker itself. This time I was pleased to find that I wasn't slowing Bob down too much (or, if I was, he was not concerned about it). The peak itself did not quite fit the strap-in-at-the-summit-and-ride-down ideal as the highest point is in the middle of a flat'ish plateau, but it is close enough.

The highlight of the day was dropping into the 9th Hole  bowl just north of the summit. Apparently it is normal to sneak around its large cornices but the features had formed differently this year and some kind of proper jump. or improper fall, was mandatory. On the positive side, this meant that the bowl was almost untracked. Fortunately another team hucked the cornice just before us and were able to suggest a slightly-safer variant on their line where there was deep snow below the steepness. We cut out a launch platform on the lip from which Bob was somehow able to ski vertical snow diagonally across to the easier terrain. I opted for a quasi-downclimb method, lowering off my ice axe while attempting to kick a board edge into the cornice. Surprisingly this worked. We enjoyed a long powder run down from there before an easy contouring skin over to Disease Ridge and another steep but fun drop into Bodybag Bowl before re-entering the resort. 

flat-topped Decker from the Spearhead col

me skinning up Decker

Bob on Decker summit

above the 9th Hole cornice

A few weeks later I persuaded Colin to join me on a similar tour, this time on the Whistler side of the valley. From the top of the Whistler lifts the two closest "real" (glaciated) mountains are the pointy Fissile and more rounded Whirlwind. The former requires a bootpack ascent and only has "extreme" descent options from the summit (the entry to the classic moderate Banana chute is at a lower elevation). So we headed for Whirlwind. It was a perfect bluebird day but the distances we had to travel were intimidating. In an ideal scenario I would have taken two days over this itinerary, overnighting at the newly-opened Kees and Clair hut, but Colin had just become a dad and was significantly time-constrained. 

Fortunately I had toured as far as the start of the Whirlwind Glacier a few years before with Leo, so knew approximately which of the many skin tracks over the "Musical Bumps" (a 5km ridge of non-glaciated peaks just east of the resort boundary) to follow and we made pretty good time over this section. The final ascent up Whirlwind was long but uncomplicated and we were able to keep our skins on all the way without any boot-packing. The summit had great views over Fissile, to the north, and deeper into the Fitzsimmons range to the east. It is also sharper and more impressive than it looks from a distance and, unlike Decker, can be skied right from the very top.

Whirlwind (just left of centre) and Fissile (further left) from the resort boundary

Colin on the Whirlwind glacier, summit centre skyline

Colin on the summit

looking west from the summit toward the resort

looking north from the summit toward Fissile

looking east from the summit toward Overlord

Colin below the Kees and Clair hut after our descent from Whirlwind

The descent was excellent fun, especially on the upper slopes of the mountain. Thanks to some ruthless use of the skin track to keep my speed up on the shallower angle lower reaches of the glacier I managed to ride all the way to the slope below the hut without a transition. The slog back to the resort boundary was less fun. Skiers need only make one uphill from here, up on to Cowboy Ridge and can then exit back to Whistler village on the Singing Pass trail. However this is hell on a snowboard as the trail's gradient is frequently too shallow for continuous riding and the narrowness of the trail requires staying on the same edge for the whole distance (heel side for regular stance riders). Colin - on skis - acquiesced to us instead reversing our route in the morning, which is two more hills (Oboe and Flute) and then a final bootpack within the resort to the Burnt Stew trail. 

Both of us became quite fatigued through this section. Colin was convinced that I was fitter than him and would abandon me at the transitions to skinning on the assumption that I could catch up. This worked especially badly at the Oboe-Flute col where I split my snowboard, unpacked and attached my skins and then absent-mindedly removed and packed them away again, before attempting to follow. It took me a while to understand why my split-skis weren't working. Some shouting then ensued as I tried to communicate to Colin that I really wouldn't be catching up with him.

A week or so after this, I spotted a possible weather window suitable for the Tantalus range near Sqamish, where I was keen to attempt the North Face of Serratus. I became aware of this line during Leo and I's frustrating trip into the Tantalus at Easter 2018, and had since realised that it could be attempted in a daytrip from Squamish using a helicopter drop and pickup. Colin agreed to join me and also recruited Another Colin, who usefully is a ski patroller at Whistler. By this time COVID-19 concerns were starting to shut down travel and we were lucky to be able to book the heli. Had we waited another week or longer it would probably not have been possible. 

The most notable event on this tour was my splitboard making an escape attempt. At the heli drop site, the saddle on the Tantalus ridge by the Jim Haberl hut, Colin was assigned by the pilot to unpack the skis and splitboard. Unintentionally (I think!) he placed my splitboard onto the snow flat side down without any restraint. The gusts from the rotor blades almost immediately set it in motion. He and I both chased after it but were unable to catch up before it launched vigorously down the west face of the saddle. I assumed that was the end of my day, but the pilot and Another Colin took off in the heli in pursuit. Remarkably they found it, about 1000m lower below, and even more remarkably it was almost wholly undamaged once a few bolts were retightened.

After overcoming this obstacle it would be nice to record that we achieved our objective. Sadly: not entirely. When we flew in we asked the pilot to detour over Serratus so we could inspect the upper part of the face from the air. Due to some communication failures - my mic wasn't working and neither of the Colins knew the Tantalus range well enough to direct the pilot - the flight path was not optimal for this but we had a good enough view to see extensive rime ice around Serratus' summit. Optimistically we ignored this detail and skied down to the base of the north face to attempt it anyway. 

The north face is an AD mountaineering route in summer conditions when I assume the face is mostly exposed ice. For us in winter conditions it was a fairly reasonable bootpack though it got quite steep at an obvious roll around half height. We stopped at a shelf at about two-thirds height. Above there the face was significantly wind-affected and did not look at all ski-able. We left our packs and made an unenthusiastic attempt to bootpack to the summit but gave up quite rapidly after encountering steeper unconsolidated snow. I was told later by a guide that this terrain is straightforward in good conditions; looking at photos I also suspect that we were slightly too far west of the correct line to the summit. Anyway, skiing (riding, in my case) back down the face was good entertainment. There is a sketchy steep section down to a mandatory skier's right turn at the roll which would be fairly disastrous to screw up, as the skier's left side of the face is a sizeable cliff. 

Back at the glacier we enjoyed a mellow long run down to a flagged shelf just above the tree line on Alpha mountain where the heli was scheduled to collect us. As we had another hour or so to kill, we did a quick yo-yo of the face below the Alpha-Serratus col. A fun, eventful and educational day. I need to go back.

the whole Serratus ridge and northern flanks from the heli, evening light

Serratus in morning light with the unhelpful summit snow formations clearly visible
The ascent and descent line is to climbers' left of the obvious cliffs just left of centre

booting up the north face

just below the crux on the north face descent 

transition spot at the base of the Serratus glacier.
I triggered the small wet snow slide in the background shortly before - not large enough to be of concern

The Colins making the last skin up to the pickup site; Tantalus and the Rumbling glacier behind

waiting for our pickup, Serratus in the background

The ski season came to an abrupt halt not long after that as the province locked down to beat the virus. Well, almost. Whistler shut the resort but for a brief period allowed "uphill skiing" on the groomers. Bob and I tried to summit Blackcomb Peak from the valley floor, a daunting 1500m altitude gain. He would have made it without me, for sure, but I ground to a halt about halfway up Bodybag bowl, with maybe 200-300m remaining to climb. The snow there was iron hard from wind scouring. Crampons would have made a difference but I did not have them. Regardless it was a surreal experience to see the resort infrastructure with no people. 

uphill skiers, or possibly zombies, Blackcomb lower piste

Seventh Heaven lift - rare to see this spot so desolate at mid-day in March

Bob with signage just beyond Seventh Heaven

oh, the irony

I forget exactly when lockdown restrictions started to ease but by mid-summer life in Squamish had somewhat normalised, though without the usual foreign visitors. On two occasions in late June James and I hiked up to the lake and bowl on the east side of Tricouni Peak, which still held a reasonable amount of snow. On the second trip James brought his snowboard. The plan was that we would build a kicker so he could practise his jumps. This failed for two reasons. First, the snow was terrible. Second, we met a grizzly bear! More accurately, we watched a very thin grizzly walk the length of the (frozen) lake about 200-300m horizontally and below us. It was heading to some bare screes at the far end of the lake in search of marmots and did not seem interested in us, but after observing it for a while it seemed prudent to leave.

James watching the grizzly

grizzly crossing Tricouni East lake 

zoom into previous image

Two summers previously, Kris W and I had an adventurous day climbing a couple of the tottering Touch and Go towers, across the river from Squamish downtown. During that trip we had a look at the notorious Teapot tower which is reputed to have only been climbed once, by Dick Culbert in 1958, despite several repeat attempts. We examined what we believed to be the original ascent route and thought it looked pretty dangerous. Elsewhere the tower appeared to overhang on all sides. Kris, however, noted the possibility of a sneaky safer route to the summit, making use of a giant cedar growing just behind the tower on its uphill side. 

In July this year we crossed the river again, in Kris' sturdy aluminum kayak, with this project in mind. It was a hot and buggy day and the hike to the base of the tower, on very overgrown trails, was made extra gruelling by packs full of multiple ropes, aid and SRT gear. At the base of the "line" it looked as if the cedar would take us to a height from which a terrifying branch traverse might gain some chossy but moderate ground ten or more metres below the summit. I was relieved when Kris took the lead - it was, anyway, his idea, I rationalised. 

The first part of the climb actually turned out retrospectively to be the crux, getting a climbable rope established in the lowest substantial branches of the tree about ten metres up. Arborists carry small bean bags attached to fishing line for this purpose. We only had the fishing line and had to improvise a toss-able weight. Once this was achieved and Kris had ascended to the first branches while I pretended to spot him, the rest of the "climb" was revealed to be trivial. Kris discovered that the top of the tree was actually higher than the top of the tower and had to execute just one actual climbing move to gain the summit, stepping out of the tree to grab the summit and mantle-shelving up onto it. I followed without even having to climb the tree, as Kris fixed a static rope to his highpoint. We then explored other aspects of the tower on rappel, finding a variety of volcanic rock from Smith Rock'esque tuff to sideways basalt columns, before heading back to the river and the sting-in-the-tail of any Squamish river crossing: paddling against the current to regain our put-in spot. I was delighted that Kris had a couple of beers stashed in his truck.

Teapot tower from its uphill side, almost obscured by trees.
the "spout" can be seen just right of centre

Kris starting the "route"

And looking down triumphant from the summit

Downtown Squamish and the Chief from the summit

The Castle from the Teapot

exploratory rappel on the south side

sideways basalt columns

And then there were a couple of more conventional summer alpine trips, both to the same general area about 3-4 hours drive from Squamish, though ascending different peaks. The popularity of many alpine zones in the Coast Mountains fluctuates according to two main factors: changes in the ease of access, such as new or restored logging roads, and the intensity of social media attention. This area has become a little more popular due to the first factor but hasn't featured much on InstaTwitBook as far as I know. In that spirit, as this is a beautiful and relatively unspoilt place, I will just offer some photos but no geographic precision. The first trip was with James and Chris H. We camped in our vehicles at the trailhead then did a nice scramble the next day along a ridge linking three peaks up to about 2600m, of which the middle summit was quite impressively pointy. The second trip was with Shoko. We hiked in the evening to camp by a small alpine lake on a full moon night then climbed the peak above our tent early the next morning.

trip #1: pretty alpine lake

classic ridge scramble to pointy peak

James ridge-scrambling

Chris and James, summit of pointy peak

James glissading - the only time his ice axe came out all day

trip #2 - pointy peak in the moonlight, long exposure

several pretty alpine lakes

Shoko and my puffy in the alpine

garibaldi, sloan, touch and go, currie

Like 2017, some of my best moments in 2018 were adventures in the local alpine. Of these, splitboarding Mt Garibaldi in May with Leo was the undoubted highlight; in fact, something of an all-time life experience. I have been interested in climbing Garibaldi ever since moving to Squamish - it dominates the town and is the most northern of the Cascades volcano chain that includes Mt Rainier and Mt St Helens - but had been put off by stories I heard from friends, especially concerning the long approach along Brohm Ridge. In July 2017 Leo and I considered it as a crampons-and-axes style alpine climb but changed objective to Wedge instead.

That we felt ready to splitboard Garibaldi a year later was a consequence of two factors. One was the indirect result of James spending the whole of the 2017/18 season in coached sessions with the Whistler Valley Snowboard Club. As I found myself committed to driving James to Whistler most weekends I bought a season pass and ended up doing far more snowboarding than I had done before. With backcountry objectives in mind I specifically tried to improve my woefully-terrible riding on steeper terrain. I downloaded an inclinometer app onto my phone and measured a few of the resort slope angles. I was surprised to find that 40 degree slopes (the angle at which backcountry descents start to be classified as “steep”) are pretty common, even on short sections of regular black runs. I worked harder at linking turns at that angle and banned myself from employing heel-side sideslips (the “safe space” for the timid snowboarder).

Leo dropping in to DOA

The other factor was Leo embracing splitboarding really vigorously from the autumn of 2017. This led to him (and I) acquiring more equipment, learning to use it and moving up the learning curve in travelling through more complex backcountry terrain. In December 2017 Leo and I rode the classic Husume couloir, just outside the resort boundary above Blackcomb glacier. Though classified as a steeper objective it didn’t feel especially difficult. For both of us it was also the first time we rode carrying ice axes - a significant psychological boost. A month later we descended the slightly-spookier DOA couloir in similar style. Later in the season Leo and his school friend Cameron then “enchained” DOA and Husume in a single day. Around Easter 2018 we spent four days in an AST2 course in the Whistler slackcountry then three days based out of the Jim Haberl hut in the Tantalus mountains, riding with a guided group. Though this was frustrating in various ways (I was reminded that I am temperamentally unsuited to being guided and prefer making my own decisions) we spent one excellent day ascending almost to the summit of Dionne and riding down a steep couloir from there.

nicely colour-coded while bootpacking the Dionne couloir

The Garibaldi trip necessarily had to take place over a weekend as Leo was still in school. It was also constrained by the late-spring snow conditions. Our plan was to hike up Brohm on a Saturday, camping as high as possible on the mountain then get to the summit early on Sunday hoping to catch rideable corn snow on the steep north-east face before the temperature rose and the face turned to slush. Possibly unnecessarily I also insisted that we take our avalanche airbag packs. As those packs are only ~30 litre capacity, and we needed to bring glacier travel and mountaineering stuff, our camping gear had to be severely pared down. No tent just aggressively-compressed sleeping bags, ultralight sleeping pads and a SIL tarp.

We were able to park at about 1000m on Brohm Ridge. Beyond that point the snow on the FSR was too deep for the 4Runner. I had been warned that the snowmobile club who have sole tenure on the ridge (a can of worms beyond the scope of this blog post!) were having their end-of-season party that weekend, so we attempted to gain the crest of the ridge via a decommissioned forest road that bypasses the sledders’ road. This was probably a mistake as it cost us a lot of time and energy but at least we avoided inhaling 2-stroke fumes. The horizontal section of the ridge, which eventually accesses the provincial park boundary, is a notorious grind for non-mechanised travelers, worsened by the constant buzz of snowmobile engines. The only compensation is the amazing close-up view of the Garibaldi massif’s vast west face.

Dalton Dome and Mt Atwell from Brohm Ridge

Tantalus range from Brohm Ridge

At the east end of the ridge, sledder tenure ends and there is a short climb up to the Warren Glacier. Most people climbing Garibaldi via Brohm camp on moraines there but we continued across the glacier aiming for the ridge just below the summit. Here we made another navigational blunder, heading straight up an abrupt slope direct to the ridge rather than finding a shallower-angled ascent further north. This involved a worrying bergschrund crossing followed by bootpacking up very steep collapsing snow. We had been on the move for most of the day at this point and I was very tired. Thankfully Leo, who is much fitter than me, took over the lead.

Leo on the Warren Glacier

Our intended bivouac spot turned out to be perfectly located with astonishing views north to The Table and Garibaldi Lake and west to the Tantalus range. Leo busied himself taking sunset photos while I dug out a trench for our bivvy, attempting to replicate an idea from a YouTube video I had watched the previous evening. Then we endured a very cold night. I guess the temperature only fell a degree or two below zero but it was sufficient to re-harden the surface snow and freeze our water bottles.

Garibaldi summit from our bivvy

Looking west to the Tantalus

Jones vs Prior; Karakoram vs Spark

Tantalus sunset

Our tarp construction

On Sunday morning we started moving at around 8am. Our bivouac site was around 2200m, so we had another 500m to climb. The initial section up to the moat (Canadian for bergschrund) below the final face was just skinnable, though we slid a few times on the hard snow. Beyond the moat we bootpacked in crampons. To save weight I had only the micro-spikes variety designed to keep hikers safe on horizontal trails. However they seemed just about adequate for this 45 degree slope. Helpfully a party ahead of us had already kicked some steps in the hard snow. The actual summit area was far sharper and more spectacular than I had expected. To the south is a substantial cliff invisible from the valley, presumably a remnant of the volcanic crater that is now splintered into three summits: Garibaldi itself, the very pointy Mt Atwell and more rounded Dalton Dome.

Leo on the final bootpack

Mt Atwell and Squamish from the summit

Leo on the summit

For me the crux of the trip was always going to be riding back down the north-east face. In powder conditions with the moat well filled-in I can imagine it feels quite friendly, but we had just a few cm’s of corn snow over icey hardpack stuff with the moat open below the fall-line. However the day was so beautiful - no clouds anywhere - and adrenaline already flowing so freely that there was really no question of not attempting it. Moreover, another mountaineering party had appeared while we lingered on the summit. Neither they nor the earlier ascentionists had carried skis up the final face, opting to reverse the bootpack, so honour demanded that we actually use the boards we had carried up. As soon as I committed to the first turn I realised that the descent would be fine. We broke it into two pitches, Leo leading both. On the steeper second pitch, Leo lost his heelside edge and took a short slide that he arrested fairly easily. I smugly rode past where he had fallen feeling very superior but then almost immediately blew an edge too.

Leo strapped in on the summit

Leo second turn 

From below the moat, we rode the lower glacier slope face back to camp in a single mellow run of about a kilometre long, one at a time. With the scary section complete and reuniting with the jetboil imminent (second breakfast …), this was pure pleasure. I’ll draw a veil over the rest of the day: reversing Brohm ridge back to the car. Not fun at all, but inconsequential in context.

Leo starting the long mellow run back to our bivvy site (just visible left of centre)

Leo and I back at our bivvy spot after our ascent/ descent.
We rode the whole way from the summit to this point then another 300m of vertical below

Summer 2018 involved what now seems to be the BC norm of a week or more of “extreme” heat (apparently anything above 30C for people who have not lived in a desert) or wildfire smoke or both. In mid-August we were in the “both” scenario, rendering conventional rock climbing very unattractive. My friend Chris proposed a trip to Mt Sloan, a pointy rock peak about 150km inland from Squamish whose north-east ridge is considered a BC classic. The approach drive involved the sorta-famous Hurley road through the mountains beyond Pemberton. Though the mountain itself did not appeal very much, I had never been out that way before so agreed to the trip.

Sloan from Gold Bridge

We drove to the area on the previous day, staying in Gold Bridge, a remote town that does not seem to have received any fresh investment since the 1970s. On the way there, just outside Pemberton, we had seen two black bears close to the road. The next morning, driving to the trailhead, we startled another. Chris, who grew up in northern BC and has already exceeded a reasonable lifetime quota for bear encounters, was somewhat unnerved by this. Confirming his fears, an hour into our climb, where we gained the north-east ridge, we could see two very large bears in the meadows of the valley beyond. One was distinctly brown and humped, probably a grizzly. We were less sure about the other. I nervously joked that the bears would be unlikely to waste energy climbing up to the ridge to investigate us - moments later we found bear scat right on the ridge trail! However, thankfully, this was the end of bear-drama.

Grizzlies?

Or one grizzly and one black bear, or ... 

Chris at the start of the ridge

We had decided to treat the ridge as a scramble and did not bring a rope. We also read all the trip reports for the ridge which we could find online. This combo did not work well: the trip reports confused us and at an early stage led us into terrain that seemed distinctly fifth-class and rope-worthy. We ended up down-climbing about a hundred metres. Following our instincts instead, which generally meant sticking to the main ridgeline, worked fine. The summit was a cool spot, but views slightly disappointing as the air was so hazy. Descent, using the “scrambles” route, mostly a talus-grind, was lengthy and unpleasant. I enjoyed one brief interlude, bumbling up some moderate lines on a beautiful white granite boulder while Chris - who had not brought rock shoes - watched enviously. Lower on the descent we made a significant navigational mistake and spent a couple of hours negotiating worst-case BC mountain vegetation, notably the infamous slide alder.

Chris saluting the tiresome "notch" area where we wasted time climbing the subsidiary tower

Chris on the summit

Bouldering break on the descent

Perhaps as I had been toughened up by this experience, a few days later I agreed willingly to another oddball adventure: crossing the Squamish river (my second time) with my friend Kris to explore the Touch and Go towers. These tottering forested spires and ridges are remnants of volcanic activity just a kilometre or so from downtown Squamish. (It is a sad reflection of the municipality's indifference to its natural surroundings that you'll find no official recognition of this extraordinary fact anywhere.) Kris' aluminum canoe was far lighter and easier to use than the wooden beast I had borrowed on my previous trip. From the west bank of the river, we hiked up old hydro access roads until behind the Castle. A steep scramble in old growth trees gains a col on the Castle's ridge, from where you can look very vertiginously back to the river. Kris led a short (15m?) but very loose pitch to the Castle's summit. This is an unsettling spot apparently composed of wholly-detached blocks. The existing anchors included tape slings so ancient that they had been encrusted in lichen. Kris deployed his guide/ SAR skills to assemble something more convincing, including a reassuring piton (though it would have been more reassuring had the whole summit not vibrated with every hammer blow).

The Castle from Squamish

Squamish from The Castle

Fifty year old sling?

And other tat ...

Kris demonstrates advance anchor repair skills

Finishing the job

After rappeling we went on a bushwhack in search of the legendary Teapot tower, allegedly climbed once in the 1950s and still awaiting a second ascent. The first tower we found looked plausibly climbable from its backside, like the Castle. I claimed the lead as Kris had led the Castle. Our route consisted of a loose earth scramble followed by squirrelling some distance up a poorly-attached young cedar, from which it was possible to mantle another cedar branch on the tower then ascend some low angle moss to the summit. There was no evidence of any previous human visit to this tower. However it was not the Teapot (we discovered later that it might be known as the Fiasco). After descending and traversing some old growth forest to the north for a few hundred meters we found the actual Teapot, which has a definite "spout" and is truly intimidating: overhanging and loose on its backside and merely loose on its river face. We did however note a very unorthodox possible route to the summit which we hope to investigate on another visit.

The Fiasco tower from the Castle, Teapot tower semi-visible down to the right

Chris above the cedar shenanigans, beginning the moss slab, on the Fiasco

Improvised summit log on the Fiasco

The final alpine excursion of the summer was climbing Mt Currie with James, my friend Luc and his son Kyle over the Labour Day long weekend. Very much a last minute idea of Luc's and not something on my radar at all, but it was great fun. Though the classic view of Currie from Pemberton makes it look almost Himalayan in scale, the easiest route from the Green river valley is just a hike, though a long and complex one with about 2000m of vertical ascent. As this area is still wonderfully unspoilt and little-trodden I will hold back on giving much detail. I'll just say that we did it over three days, spending two nights camping above the tree line. I carried a tent up there, assuming Luc would too, only to discover that he had only brought sleeping bags. I mentioned that the weather forecast, which I had checked carefully on spotwx.com, called for rain on the second night. He shrugged this off with typical Quebecois insouciance, claiming that I had consulted inferior sources and was wrong. To James and I's great amusement we were indeed hit by a quite serious storm on the second night after bagging the summit. Luc deigned to let Kyle sleep in the tent with us but insisted that he slept only in the tent's vestibule to preserve his alpine honour!

James, Luc and Kyle on day 1

Day 1 dinner

Day 2 breakfast

Kyle with the summit log, day 2

Luc on the summit, day 2

James on the summit, day 2

Luc apparently not sleeping in our tent, second night

Luc's vestibule reinforcements, day 3 morning

Kyle and James heading down on day 3

Luc, James and Kyle on day 3; Pemberton valley beyond