Susan's Spot: Dreaming of Denman

February-March 1996

This is an article from WaveLength Magazine, available in print in North America and globally on the web.

by Susan Noppe

Majestic snow and granite tipped peaks tower above our watery playground Glinting, beckoning. Floating on the sea staring up at these giants one day, an idea germinated. To climb the mountains using the classic approach, the ocean, rather than logging roads.

So when my friend Dave called on a mid-September morning and suggested a climb of Mt. Denman, the spire-like peak that stands watch to the northeast above Desolation Sound, I tried to contain my excitement. Denman has seen only a handful of climbers at its peak in the last twenty years and was first ascended by John Dudra in 1955. We had eight days available which allowed plenty of time to kayak in with all our gear, climb the peak and get Dave back to work on the following Monday.

The plan was to launch at Okeover north of Powell River and spend a leisurely two days paddling to Forbes Creek on the east side of Homfray Channel. From there we'd switch to our backpacking and climbing gear, hiking east along the creek before beginning the ascent of the steep southern slope below Mt. Denman. We hoped to access the summit via its north ridge. The plan allowed for four days to hike in and make the roped rock climb with an extra day built in in case of rain. But alas, plans change.

September 24th dawned clear and bright and found us blearily making all the earliest ferry connections to Okeover. Once at our launch point, a few fishermen quizzically regarded the odd assortment of gear we had strewn over the beach: life jackets, paddles, climbing ropes, harnesses, ice axes, food and wine. Somehow all the gear found itself stuffed into or strapped onto the kayaks with almost enough room left over for us.

Two serendipitous days on the water ensued. We dipped and floated and caught the odd glimpse of our objective, Mt. Denman, winking at us from the north. Slightly after dark on the second day, owing to a late start, we slipped into the estuary of Forbes Creek. A light rain accompanied our headlamp lit dinner while we discussed our summit approach which now seemed certain.

The next morning's softly diffused light through the mists on the estuary enticed us into a few hours of photography. Despite the sunlight streaming across Homfray Channel, Mt. Denman hid obstinately in the clouds above us, not permitting us even a quick glance of its shoulders let alone the peak upon which we hoped to stand in a couple of days.

We finally tore ourselves away from our cameras and began the task of gearing up for the climb. Into our packs went four days of food, tent, sleeping bags, ropes, helmets and climbing shoes. At first heft my pack felt like about fifty pounds and I couldn't help but appreciate how much better it floated in my kayak than on my back.

After hoisting a couple of dry bags full of our remaining food up into the trees, we set off along the creek under a now completely overcast sky and an even drizzle. The second growth forest of the watershed quickly engulfed us with its tangle of salal and fern, downed trees and an occasional hint of a trail. We meandered along the creek until our second late start caused us to make camp a long ways off from our originally intended alpine camp. With such an enjoyable day behind us though we convinced ourselves that the granite of our peak would be too wet to climb in the morning anyway and spending the next day attaining the alpine would set us up well for a drier summit attempt on day five. The drama of the next day however, still plays out vividly in my memory.

On the fourth day, instead of continuing along the creek to the steep drainage which led straight up to the lower flanks of Denman, we decided to begin contouring up in its general direction. Mistake. I now know what its like to be entrenched in a steep second growth forest that was logged with a donkey engine sometime in the late 1940's. The state of the forest made it appear that every massive old growth tree that had once graced its flank had been felled and only the immaculate ones hauled out. What remained were decaying toppled giants lying criss-crossed on the forest's 35 degree slope. Out of the tangle grew the 50 year old second growth. Our game became one of frustration. We climbed up and over the mowed down gargantuan trunks and occasionally post-holed up to our knees under the weight of our packs in the decaying trees that now made up the forest floor. Route finding became slow and painstaking. We'd walk the lengths of the downed timber as far as possible often jumping to adjacent trunks where the first petered out or became too rotten to trust. At one place we stood so high on jumbled timber I heard Dave mutter, "Where's the forest floor?"

By some unfortunate oversight I had left my ice axe in the van. I now watched with great jealously as Dave hacked his into the downed trunks giving himself a handhold to haul himself up and over them. I found myself repeating, "Thou shall not covet thy climbing partner's ice axe." Soon we realized the second drawback of our early departure from the creek. Rock bluffs appeared in our path forcing us to drop down preciously gained elevation and traverse further along through the decay before climbing back up again at the bluff's end.

A fine mist found its way through the forest canopy and soaked through our clothes and hair. The rain was almost a relief since it was, as Dave described, like a walking shower, which we were now sorely in need of after so much exertion.

The pattern of bluffs and timber continued until we found ourselves at a bluff so long and steep it forced us to question our location. With no hope of getting a compass bearing on the mountains across the creek valley due to the heavy mist and cloud we could only guess our bearings by the topography we had travelled through. At this point we became acutely aware of how little headway we had really made through the forest tangle and how far we still were from the drainage below Denman. The image of standing atop its peak with endless views of the islands and channels of Desolation Sound was rapidly dissipating.

By the end of this fourth day we found ourselves still in the forest below the alpine, searching for a safe place to pitch our tent. Finding a safe flat place in a steep thinning second growth forest strewn with rockfall from the granite faces above is no easy task. All around us were standing dead second growth trees naturally choked out by their dominate brethren. After a long stumble below rock bands we found a wide enough spot where we could squeeze the three person tent down into a two person one and still be in the shadow of the rock fall. We called it Camp Cliff.

Awaking early on the fifth day and having now abandoned all hopes of the summit, we pared down our packs and took only the essentials to scramble as high as we could so if nothing else we could at least break out above the forest which held us captive. Above Camp Cliff we encountered more rock bluffs but now with our light packs we scrambled up, finding hand and foot holds in vertical cracks. We moved quickly and hurried along horizontal ledges on the bluffs occasionally coming across bear tracks.

By midday we broke out of the trees and were rewarded with our first and only view of the Sound. It was clear for a moment, long enough to savour the sight of the wind patterns far below on the water surface and the amazing quiet and stillness. From our vantage point, the late September waterways were completely inactive. We settled down on the rock cliff onto which we had emerged and sat in silence hearing only the wind in the trees below. Despite being disappointed about not having the pleasure and challenge of climbing Denman's granite I knew that this is what I had come for. The stillness, the silence.

We lingered for awhile on our rocky promontory before regretfully conceding to throw ourselves back into the forest below so that we could escape in time to enjoy a few more days of paddling. Three mornings later, camped on one of the Curme Islands, we caught our first view of Mt. Denman since paddling in. We jokingly shouted at it, called it a coward for hiding from us and vowed we'd come back and successfully climb it now that we knew the secret of the maze it kept below.

Susan Noppe is an outdoor writer and a regular WaveLength columnist