Watergate

If we are of a certain age, Dear Reader, we will remember the scandal that was President Richard Nixon. The break- in at Democratic HQ at the Watergate building and the subsequent attempt at a cover up meant the end of his presidency. He and his crony, Henry Kissinger, recently gone from us at the age of 100 years, were, in my opinion, guilty of far worse crimes not least of which was fighting an undeclared war, deposing an elected democratic government and interferences around the world which meant hardship and death to so many. Be that as it may. Davidson has his own wee Watergate story.

I have an unreasoning faith in the innate good nature of human beings. It is not something I have to cultivate, it is the way I’m made.  But I also know that I am weak and that I can react badly when I am tired or things go awry.  My ‘Watergate’ came upon me a few years ago when a group of us went on a hike.

The Lions are two volcanic plugs which are so named as distinctive mountain peaks that form part of the Capilano watershed that provides us with some of our water here on the North Shore.  One is allowed to climb the West Lion but not the eastern one. A few years back a group of about seven of us decided to head up and climb towards these peaks. Some of us intended to climb the bump and some of us were just happy to go on a day’s hike on a beautiful day. We arrived at the foot at Lions Bay with a view to taking the shorter but steeper way up and then making our way back along the undulating ridge that comes out at Cypress Bowl ski hill. There we had other vehicles parked. The ridge walk has spectacular views of the Salish Sea, the inlet that leads from Horseshoe Bay to the town of Squamish at the northern tip of the fjord. On a good day one can see the contours of Vancouver Island in the distance, a 90 minute ferry ride from the bay. Such a hike needs the longevity of a summer’s day.

When we reached the junction between the end of the trail and the ascent of the Lion, Muir Meredith and I decided that we would head up to the summit leaving the rest of the group waiting for us at the foot. We summited with no problem and arrived back at the group ready to begin the ridge walk homewards.  We were appreciative of the five who had given us the time to make our wee conquest but as we trailed along at the rear of the group it became obvious that we were being rushed  towards an hasty completion.  Neither of us really appreciated that there was a need for haste. It was true that it would be good to get back before dark. Darkness would fall after an elongated summer gloaming at about 9.00 p.m.  But we were enjoying each other’s company and,  although slower than the rest, we were not really dawdling.  But one of our number kept coming back, kept urging us to travel faster, was anxious for the safety of the group. Very laudable and responsible of him but really, Muir and I thought, somewhat unnecessary.

 We did stop on brief occasions for a drink and a snack but every time we did so there was a nervous looking at a watch, a pacing back and forth.  There was an over demonstrative aura of wanting to be off, an increasing angst about the advent of darkness which was still some way in the distance.

Eventually we ran out of water. I, who carried a water purification pump, kept my eye open for a creek,  a tarn or even a puddle from which to pump .  Eventually we found one and Muir and I urged the group to halt while we pumped. It took a bit of time to get the system set up and longer for the pumping to be completed. The frowns told us that none of this group had wanted this stop, thinking it unnecessary, a dangerous diversion as time was racing along. I finished pumping into a large water bottle and offered the bottle for a lurking pacer to drink.

Muir and I watched aghast as this character gulped it all down until there was nothing left. As soon as he finished, he realised shamefacedly what he had done. He was apologetic and mortified. But it simply meant that we had to pump some more. Muir convinced the majority of the group that they could go on ahead and that we would be alright. There was little argument as that was what they had wanted to do all along. Muir and I were relieved.

Now the two of us were left behind with plenty of water, plenty of snacks and a head torch in case nightfall overtook us. We were suddenly happier. And, yes, we still had plenty to talk about. The false summits kept coming, steep down, steep up. At last the trail flattened, we recognised where we were and knew that within 15 minutes we would be at Cypress Bowl ski hill; that any next corner would reveal a ski lift; that any next bend would bring us to the café buildings; that soon the trees would thin and the cleared piste would open out before us.

It is true to say that the light was failing when we finally reached the car park. It is true also to say that the wide grins on our companions showed that they were concerned about our welfare, that they cared so much about us that our welcome was hearty and well meant.  But,  Dear Friends. Muir and I were a great deal older than the rest of the group so there was a smattering of ageism at work in their greeting. They felt responsible. They were workers from the care home who had taken us out for the day. We appreciated the concern, it is true, but we were not grannies who needed to be taught to suck eggs.

Muir and I had completed many, many hikes while these characters were struggling to crawl from one corner of the lounge carpet to the other, wearing nothing but a diaper. It is true that old age comes along and that decision making goes awry and we lose the skills we once had. But Muir and I were nowhere near that point. We knew that our pace was fine. We knew that to hurry was to risk injury. Most importantly we knew the importance of stopping for water and the foolhardiness of not so doing. We also knew that if we did not continue to talk the world to rights that the sun would not come up the following morning! Our younger brethren were in denial, they were not simply thirsty, they were dehydrated.  Youth sometimes needs to step back from energetic impetuousness and recognise the wisdom of slow and steady.  Now that Muir and I are in our seventies it would certainly be foolhardy of me to undertake such a trip with such a company. I cannot speak for Muir. I don’t think that I am trumpeting my ego and Muir’s supreme ability here. It does sound like Davidson braggadocio, Dear Reader. But the group had been kind enough to wait for us when we went up the Lion and we did appreciate that. But it was not our first rodeo and there was irritation from me that that was not recognised and, I suppose, a piece of passive aggression at work when I insisted on the water stop.

Our trip up and down the Lions that day was a beautiful piece of poetry, a flowing piece of rhythmic undulation; it was an odyssey of the body and the mind, the experience of which still has a fond niche in my being.  Had we not stopped for water, Friends, then that would have been our Watergate undoing.

Thanks for reading.

The photograph at the top of the blog is a picture taken recently of the Lions from Cleveland Dam. You might be able to make them out in the distance. Our summer excursion did not involve snow.