Get a Grip

Get a Grip

It was late December one year, when the handful of us decided to go on a hike up to the waterfall in the Coulthard Basin. We had to leave early, for the snow was deep and we wanted to get back to our pickup location before nightfall. All of us brought sufficient gear and clothing for the weather, and at the steady rate we were hiking, the many layers slowly began to peel off one by one. Our pace was paying off: we stopped for lunch 3/4 of the way to our destination, giving us ample free time to do whatever we'd like when we reached the waterfall. In fact, we again underestimated our pace and reached the then buried waterfall less than half an hour later. With the sun still high overhead and the weather perfectly clear, we looked before us and considered our options. Do we make a run for the Coulthard peak today, or do we just bum around here at the last base campsite? All of us being pretty vigorous, as far as hiking goes, decided that it would be a shame to pass on an opportunity to peak a mountain in the dead of winter—I mean, just think of the toboggan ride coming down! The snow was deep and soft, untouched by any living creature so far that year & avalanche season was still another couple months away, so what the heck: why not?

Our ascent began that winter's morning, and we were making exceptional time. The fresh snow packed well into a boot-made staircase, providing a very convenient path up the mountain's slope. One by one, we tromped up past the top of the outcropping cliff, where the waterfall usually would begin its cascade in the summer months. Now, the only clue that a waterfall even existed underneath the soft, fluffy powder was the shape of the mountainside characterised by the sharp, winding ravine punctuated at this jutting lip, making a steep drop-off at least 30 feet before resuming a more gentle descent towards the Star Creek valley below. Then it began.

As our ascent continued up Coulthard's shoulder, the beautiful powder that we had previously enjoyed as a firm foothold suddenly became much shallower. To add insult to injury—almost as if the mountain didn't want climbers on it—the slight skiff of powder rested very tentatively atop a hard, slick layer of ice. The only person who was making any headway up the slope anymore was the one guy who happened to have hard-shell mountaineering boots on: his boots at least could muster up enough traction to hold onto the not-so-friendly slope. Because of his superior traction, we elected this guy to be the group's leader, cutting grooves into the slick terrain with the hope that his efforts would improve our chances of ascent as we followed in line behind him. Yeah, it didn't work so well. Our fast pace slowed to a crawl, and although we still were making some headway, the danger was increasing. Every ten or so steps that we went forward, one member of our group would experience the chilling joy of having their foothold fail, issuing a short slide down the slope, on average of ten feet. What made things worse was if the first "slider" happened to be relatively close to the front of our line—which was more often the case than not—and by the time our last group member reached the slide-point, all of the supporting snow had sluffed away, leaving nothing but a clean, glistening patch of ice which had to be climber up & over.

Conditions increasingly worsened, and now everybody but the hard-shelled boot boy was experiencing the slide. Since the slope was becoming steeper, the slide lengths were growing as well, and, to be fitting, the direction of each slide always had the sorry hiker careen towards that thirty-foot drop off, now some twenty feet below us. Not good. Our boots' traction couldn't keep us from sliding treacherously towards injury; we had no other choice but to abandon our ascent. Instead, we traversed to the south a little ways and butt-slid down the slope in a pile of powdery bliss.

A year or so later, during one of our field sessions for my outdoor leadership training, we were taught a life-saving manoeuvre to guard against out-of-control slides down snowy slopes: the self-arrest. If you find yourself careening out of control down a snowy mountainside, you had better still have your hiking stick with you. The technique involves righting yourself to face feet-first downhill, with a hiking stick strong enough to support your full weight held tightly in both hands. What must then be done quickly & properly is to toss yourself into the air and flip yourself over—feet first & gut down—while positioning your body & stick in such a way as to drive the hiking stick firmly into the mountainside at about chest-level, while ensuring that only your toes and the stick are in contact with the slope. If done correctly (assuming that there is more than 1 cm of light powder over a sheer rock-face), the resultant impaling of the stick into the mountain and dug-in toes should halt your descent, providing you with a relatively firm anchor.



Sliding down mountains—at least the dangerous type—tends to happen without warning, catching the hiker off guard. Panic and fear typically ensue accompanied thereafter with a few strings of expletives, either spoken or thought. There usually isn't a way to tell when, where or how often a slide will occur, nor is there a gauge of how much time you'll have to try to stop the descent before hitting trees, boulders or the edge of a cliff. The only thing that matters is your ability to get a grip on something to avoid the impending doom.

So, I ask the question: what do you hold on to? Life's full of surprises that will inevitably send us all careening out of control at one time or another, and it is imperative to have a firm grip on something that won't let you down. Are you walking along in other people's footprints, hoping that those footholds don't give way, sending you towards a cliff? Have you picked up some random branch along the way, hoping that it'll have enough fortitude to stop your descent without breaking under the stress? Are you hoping that the person in front of you or behind you is fast enough to grab you and equipped enough to stop you from sliding downhill without being pulled down with you? As for me, I hold onto Christ. His grip’s been proven strong for over 2,000 years and He promises not to lose even one who grabs a hold of Him. Can your grip match that? Think about it...

All that the Father gives Me will come to Me, and the one who comes to Me I will certainly not cast out. For I have come down from heaven, not to do My own will, but the will of Him who sent Me. This is the will of Him who sent Me, that of all that He has given Me I lose nothing, but raise it up on the last day. For this is the will of My Father, that everyone who beholds the Son and believes in Him will have eternal life, and I Myself will raise him up on the last day.

-Jn 6:37-40