Mt. Denman

July 1st was looming, and with it, a long weekend full of potential for dumb ideas. My pals and i had been talking for a few weeks of a trip to Desolation sound, our favourite boat access only haunt. But what to do there?
Well for me, the answer was easy. i had spent the entire summer staring up at the iconic, pyramid shaped peak of Mt. Denman. Everyday i would come around Sarah Point, the entrance to Desolation sound, and look longingly up at that west ridge, picturing the bomber granite sidewalk i had heard rumour of. What i wasn't picturing of course was the hours of heinous bushwhacking to get there.
Naturally the gang took little convincing, and with a high lvel of optimism, a low level of gear, and inaproprote footwear, we departed for the weekend.

We spent the first night anchored in Tenedos bay, and leaving one vessel anchored there for our return we, left at 5am the next morning for Forbes Bay, the most common access point for Denman.

By the time we situated ourselves on the right of Forbes creek, and navigated our first few hundred meters of salmon berry, the day was well under way. Its hard to say we were making good time, because we weren't, but following the (very) old skid road, we slowly worked our way into the valley. Eventually we crossed Forbes creek again, and started our climb in earnest.

We had done a little preliminary research before leaving, and we knew of a few parties who had trail blazed this route over the year. But it wasn't until we broke out into the sub alpine that we saw any sign of a trail at all. Finally, there it was; a single piece of orange flagging, telling us that yes, in fact, someone else had been here before us, and someone else had ripped their legs to shreds on blueberry bushes in this exact spot.

Onwards and upwards we went, working the west ridge, and wrapping our way onto the south face, where we found ourselves on beautiful granite slabs. It was steep, but given our backround in climbing, and our inappropriate footwear, we all felt comfortable meandering up the ledges. Eventually we did find the ramp, and hoped on the express route, splitting the slabs and making our way to the south ridge, where we navigated the last few blocks to the summit.

Time: 17:42. Not exactly lightening fast; but hey, we did start at sea level.

The only thing left to do was retrace our steps. given our lack of supplies, we all agreed we didnt want to bivy at the top, so we took advantage of the long light, and boogied down.

its not exactly clear when the first sign of blisters appeared, or who first piped up, but it wasn't long before our feet become a hot topic of discussion. What with the long day, and our collective footwear choices, we were all on the fast track to blister hell.

At 10pm we called a team meeting. Headlamps on, sitting on whatever mossy log we could find, we put it to a vote: push on, or wait it out until light. Nobody was particularly excited about either option. The blisters had gone from bad to genuinely alarming — The kind where you're afraid to even take your shoe off, be cause you know it won't be going back on. We each swallowed a solid dose of Ibuprofen, and decided to keep moving.

Eventually, it became obvious our feet weren't the only problem. After reaching the valley floor we had drifted off our route, ever so slightly. What had been a vague suggestion of an old skid road, disappeared, and suddenly we were no longer walking through the forest so much as swimming through it. And so there we were, on our hands and knees, in the thickest bunch of salmon berry any of us had ever had the pleasure of navigating. With prickly leaves fwapping our faces, and stubborn branches raking our sides, we came close to breaking.

And then, through a gap in the trees, someone stopped. "I can see the a light."

There it was — a small, steady white light in the distance. Was that our anchor light? Did it even matter what it was? That little light did something to us. The team breakdown that had been quietly assembling itself over the last few hours never quite arrived. Our epic was coming to a close, and we were all in the slightly unhinged state; equal parts exhaustion, relief, and pain. We made it back to the boat sometime well after midnight. Shoes came off, Miss Vickies were opened, and cold drinks were cracked. We scooted back to Tenedos, and did our best to decompress, and catch a few hours of sleep before daybreak.

The aftermath was predictable: bodies so sore we could only wallow. But that part was only temporary. The part that stuck with us is that feeling of accomplishment every time we see that pointy peak staring down at us from above Desolation. Pretty worth it.