Extreme Frontiers: Racing Across Canada from Newfoundland to the Rockies (14 page)

‘Look, Kateri,’ I said. ‘I know you’re busy now, but later on will you teach me a few things? You know, roping and whatnot?
I’ve ridden a cow so far, but that’s all.’

She looked at me for a moment, and then she smiled. ‘Charley,’ she said, ‘I’ll make an extreme cowboy of you if it’s what
you want.’

‘It’s what I want,’ I promised her. ‘It’s what I want.’

Later, after we had watched Kateri rehearse for a while, we met up with her outside in the car park and I followed her back
to her father’s ranch, the Rafter Six Ranch, a few miles outside of town. It was a huge place, with a massive wood-panelled
Dutch barn with a shingle roof in the foreground. The backdrop was a series of staggeringly beautiful crags. What a place
to live, what a place to grow up. I would kill for a view like that.

Beyond the barn, I could see a training corral; donning the black hat Kateri had given me, I made my way across. She was waiting
with a rope lariat and a bullwhip, and a couple of horses – a skewbald and a dark-looking bay. One was saddled, one was not.

I can ride a horse, but I’d learned English style. The Western saddle is much bigger, and people say it’s more comfortable,
and easier, but I’m not sure. Like a gladiator, Kateri led me into the corral, and I mounted the saddled horse. She instructed
me in the art of neck-reining, which allows the rider to keep once hand free for work, and I walked the horse around the corral
and past a pen where the ranch stud – a beautiful black stallion with shaggy socks – was housed. He chased my gelding as far
as his pen would allow. Then I was into a trot – or jog as they call it – my backside slapping the leather so hard I was reminded
just how soft my motorcycle seat actually was.

Kateri told me she was going to test my skills, and then she was going to push them and see just what I could do. She warned
she was ready to push me as far as I was prepared to go … and then a bit further. A challenge then; I was up for that. ‘So
what shall we do first?’ I asked her. She didn’t answer; just hopped on the other horse bareback and told me I could keep
my saddle for a bit but that it would be coming off later.

We trotted the horses, then cantered them around the corral. Kateri was better bareback than I was in the saddle. We both
dismounted, and she strapped a pair of chaps on me and handed me a lasso. She explained that you need the loop to be as wide
as the drop from your armpit to the ground. That’s a big loop. The gap between the loop and the rest of the coils is called
the spoke, and that needs to be about a third of the size of the loop. You have to swing the loop around your head with the
back of
your hand facing you, because otherwise it is going to buckle in on itself and then you have no loop.

It’s much easier to watch than to do, I can promise you. On my first go I had my wrist position all wrong and got the loop
out of shape. That led to the rope itself getting tangled, and I spent a long time missing the target. All I was trying to
do was rope a static barrel. Meantime the horses were falling asleep, Russ and Nate were snoozing and Mungo had switched off
the camera. There I was in the noonday sun, a mad Englishman trying to become a cowboy. It was really hard work, intensely
frustrating, but finally I managed to throw a loop over the barrel, which had not moved all the time I was trying. If it was
this difficult on foot, then how hard would it be on a horse, trying to bring down a running cow?

Kateri’s skills had been perfected over the years, of course, although she was only twenty-six. She had grown up here and
was twirling the rope every morning and every night, moving eighty horses from stable to pasture and back again. There is
nothing easy about being a cowboy; it’s some of the hardest work a body can do, and it’s very poorly paid. I decided that
you either have to just love roughing it, or you have to be born into it.

Next she taught me how to crack a bullwhip. That bloody whip! I kept whacking myself across the arse, the back, the back of
my legs and finally across my neck and shoulders. At this rate I’d be flayed to the bone and we’d barely started with the
horse. Kateri was brilliant, of course, cracking the whip back and front, from side to side and around her head, keeping it
snapping the air. She was a lovely girl – all smiles and encouragement – but I wouldn’t want to be alone with her and that
whip if she was pissed off. No way.

Thankfully, though, she dispensed with the whip before I lost an eye or worse, and we went back to the horses. I’m all right
on a horse, and although I was riding bareback now, I managed to circle the corral at a canter. We saddled up again before
we went for a proper ride, taking a trail that followed the river. Having proved myself to be the most inadequate cowboy on
the North American continent, I was content to follow Kateri on a more gentle ride. Gentle, that is, until she told me we
had to cross the river.

It was a big river – not very deep, maybe, but very wide, and with lots of rocks. It was also running pretty fast. As I followed
Kateri into the water, I had an image in my head of the Big Muddy Lake and the roan mare leading all those stolen thoroughbreds
across the shallows. I say it wasn’t very deep, but out there in the middle it was up to the horses’ flanks, and I had to
keep my heels up. My horse seemed reluctant to make the crossing, the situation not helped when he decided to take a dump
just as a group of rafters came paddling through. It was all worth it, though; I will never forget the view of the mountains
from the middle of that river.

When we got back, Kateri hit me with the kind of invitation I would never have expected – especially after the way I’d fared
with the rope and whip earlier. Friday was the grand opening of the Calgary Stampede, and Kateri Cowley, the eleventh best
Cowboy Up challenger in the world, was asking me to join her in the first day’s parade.

I couldn’t believe it; not only were my skills about as cultivated as my way with words, but I also remembered that Kate and
Wills would be in the audience. I was honoured, and not just because royalty would be there. Kateri had been to the stampede
every year of her life, the first time when she was just
a few months old. One year she had been the Calgary Princess, chosen from over thirty contestants. She’d spent a year of her
life performing at rodeo events, speaking in public and promoting her home town abroad. She was an incredibly impressive person.

We watched Kateri put her horse through its paces, galloping up and down the field while cracking the whip, spinning the horse
on its haunches as though she was barrel-racing. Finally she galloped up to us, braking hard, and as the horse dipped its
head, she slid off the saddle and down the length of its neck. ‘So I’ll see you on Friday, then,’ she said.

W
hile I was busy learning how to cowboy up, Russ had been making calls to see if we could find anyone who knew those impressive
mountains behind the ranch well enough to give us a guided tour. This whole expedition was about challenging the frontiers,
and it wasn’t just about east to west and south to north; it was also about the peaks and troughs, and these were some of
the tallest peaks in Alberta.

I was a little nervous about the idea – I’m no mountaineer – but it was totally in the spirit of what we were trying to accomplish.
Late in the day, Russ told me he’d managed to get hold of Barry Blanchard, a local guide who was happy to meet us. So the
following morning we were up early and off to a small commercial heliport on the edge of town to wait for him.

It was another great day weather-wise. The weather had been fine for a while now – gone were the grisly days we’d experienced
on the east coast; this was the height of summer, and it was bloody hot.

When Barry showed up in a van, he turned out to be a genial
guy. I’d been reading a little about him, and he really was a man of the mountains, with long grey hair tied in a ponytail.
He’d trained a number of A-list film stars to climb for various movies; among others, he’d worked on
Cliffhanger
with Sylvester Stallone and
Vertical Limit
with Chris O’Donnell.

‘So, what’ve you got planned for me, Barry?’ I asked him when the introductions were over.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’ll take the helicopter – they fly climbers up there all the time – and once we find a decent place to land,
we’ll get you strapped into a harness and see if we can’t find a way up the hill there.’

Hill? This was Mount Fable, the highest peak in the region, and as I put my helmet on, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was
‘fabled’ for throwing climbers off. I was pretty nervous. As I said earlier, I was at the point where exhaustion was kicking
in, and I’m not sure that’s the state you want to be in when you attempt your first serious rock climb.

Arms folded, I looked at Barry doubtfully. ‘You know I’m a complete novice? I mean, I’ve never really done this before, and
right now I’m feeling very much outside of my comfort zone.’

‘Don’t worry about it. Comfort zones are designed for getting out of, and we were all novices once, Charley, think of it that
way.’

All four of us were making the climb: me and Russ, Nat and Mungo. Barry was leading me, while one of the guides he worked
with assisted the others with the cameras. As we lifted off, my stomach was churning. Climbing like this, high in the mountains,
was a far cry from the little traverse I’d done the other day. I wasn’t joking when I told Barry I was out of my comfort zone.
I imagined he was well used to people telling him
that; even so, I was experiencing plenty of butterflies as I looked out of the chopper window.

It was a hairy flight, although the helicopter pilot was very skilled; he flew in between the peaks where the sun was unable
to melt the snow, and put us down in a gully where the ground underfoot was rock and shale. The crag massed grey above our
heads, and the far slope was covered in pine trees. I wondered what kind of animals lurked there. We were way up in the boonies,
and when the chopper left, the silence was immense. Hefting the backpacks, we started up the steep slope, with the shale shifting
under our feet. It was still warm up here; I was only wearing a T-shirt and lightweight cotton trousers.

The ‘trail’ wasn’t really a trail at all – the ground was loose and it sucked at our feet like sand. Hard on the calf muscles,
hard on the lungs. I was puffing a little and we’d barely started walking, never mind getting up on the actual rock. Pausing
for breath, I took a moment to consider our surroundings – the wall ahead looked flat and sheer and bereft of any hand- or
footholds. I knew it wouldn’t be like that when we got closer, but from where I was standing right then it looked pretty daunting.

The view was spectacular, though – the sweep of those crags, the tree-choked valley below. Barry told me we were between seven
and eight thousand feet above sea level; that’s five thousand feet higher than the highest point in the whole of the UK. I
was breathless, really noticing the altitude and the way it depletes the air in your lungs. I was also nervous and excited,
conscious that my safety depended now on Barry. I don’t like being out of control, but if you’re going to try this kind of
stuff, then at times out-of-control is exactly where you’re going to find yourself.

It looked a hell of a long way up, but Barry rested a hand
on my shoulder. ‘You don’t have to worry, lad. The summit’s up there and we’re down here. All we have to do is get up there,
then you’ll have all kinds of stories to tell your grand-children.’

‘I hope.’

He laughed.

Hand shading my eyes, I was studying a crack in what I thought was the summit above. It was hard to tell from here; distances
can be deceptive, and that might not have been the actual summit at all. ‘So what’s the route?’ I asked. ‘I mean, how do we
do this?’

Barry was such a laid-back guy, taking his time, choosing his words, always a grin on his face. ‘Oh, we’ll mosey up there
to the base of that chute,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll get out some jangly bits and fix them into the rock and go one at a time.’

Barry was ready with the rope now, all the hardware clanking on his harness. Meanwhile, I was distracted by the fact that
I’d been bitten by a mosquito. I couldn’t believe it! You’d think the little buggers would leave a man alone way above the
treeline, but no: no matter where you go in Canada, they’re there ahead of you, just waiting to sample your blood. Barry reckoned
that one or two had probably hitched a ride in the helicopter. They’re sneaky like that, you know. Very, very sneaky.

Barry was totally self-effacing about his ability, but I have to tell you he’s one of the great masters of his craft, and
we were just so lucky to find him. He’s renowned as one of the best alpine climbers in North America, and he made the first
ascent of a route called the Andromeda Strain here in Alberta. Mountaineering, it seemed, was very much in the family; Barry
had met his wife Catherine while making an ascent of a small hill called Mount Everest.

We began the ascent – that’s a technical term, by the way – the trail of shale and rock getting steeper and steeper. I followed
Barry, head down, toes digging in to keep my balance. It was hard going, and very hot. The walk seemed to go on for miles,
though in fact it was only a few hundred feet. With the way the other peaks fell away all around us, I really did feel we
were pushing the frontier.

From the shale, we moved on to solid rock; it was steeper here, with big boulders to clamber over, though we still weren’t
using the ropes yet. I was puffing and blowing, my T-shirt sticking to me. I made sure I was watching Barry closely, placing
my feet where he was placing his and using the handholds he selected for balance. Finally we were approaching the bottom of
the route itself, and shading my eyes once more, I looked up. ‘Oh my God,’ I said, ‘that is steep.’

We were on shale again now, and we used ski poles as walking sticks to help us. We climbed on and on until finally the loose
stuff was left behind and we had reached water-worn limestone. Barry said that the water was slightly acidic, and the calcium
carbonate in it changed the colour of the stone. Part of the cliff face was grey and other parts looked almost yellow; apparently
that was because the yellow sections were not getting hit directly by rain, which meant they were much steeper. ‘Let’s steer
clear of the yellow bits, then, shall we?’ I suggested.

I would not be that lucky. Part of our route would take us on pitches that stretched across those really steep sections. I
was reminded how dangerous climbing could be when I took my helmet off to wipe the sweat from my eyes. Barry told me to make
sure I placed it on the ground with the top facing up, which was what he called ‘Happy Turtle’. Upside down was
‘Sad Salad Bowl’, because it was more likely to tumble down the mountain and then I would have no protection when a rock fell
on my head. Happy Turtle, then, I’d remember that, because I’d promised my wife that this wasn’t going to be dangerous.

We climbed right up to where it was cooler, single file. All I could see was Barry’s butt just a few inches in front of my
face. We really were high now; if we’d been at eight thousand feet back where we started, then where the hell were we now?
It was awesome, but the really difficult bit was yet to come. The higher we climbed, the closer the sheer stuff got, of course:
it seemed to grow and grow until the wall of rock dominated everything. Around us were ridges, saddles of other slopes, but
this was the tallest by far. It was unbelievable, truly incredible, and forgetting my nerves for a moment, I became quite
emotional, so much so that there were actually tears in my eyes. It was so beautiful, a wonderful experience to be up that
high looking out over the backbone of this amazing country. Suddenly I could understand why climbers do what they do.

A few metres higher and we were into a narrow chute. Roped together now, we started picking our way up the channel. My mouth
was dry and I was concentrating only on where I was placing my hands and feet. Barry was just above me, pausing now and again
to look back and make sure I was all right. I was waiting until he’d negotiated each section before I followed. As we approached
the sheer rock face, Barry prepared the belay. A belay is where you climb ‘lead’ and ‘second’, with one of you securely fastened.
I would ‘second’, feeding the rope to Barry as he made the pitch, using cracks in the rock for the ‘jangly bits’ – what climbers
call the ‘protection’ – and clipping the
rope to them with karabiners so that if he fell I would hold him. The protection in the wall forms a pivot point to break
the fall, the weight of which would be on me. That’s the basic principle of rock climbing: one at a time, pitch after pitch,
the lead guy getting so high then tying off while his partner ascends and removes the bits and pieces of protection from the
wall.

We were scything a path up that face, and I was conscious of every hold. Barry was brilliant, so calm and collected, pointing
out the route and encouraging me all the time. It was a nerve-racking, exhilarating business, but I felt in safe hands and
knew that he wouldn’t put me in harm’s way. Coming up after him was really tough; with the lead guy already belayed on the
next section, you’re on your own looking for the holds, removing the gear and trying to stop the rope getting caught in the
cracks. I was scared, panicky, uttering a never-ending litany of expletives that I won’t print here. From being exhilarated
and fully cognisant of why people do this, I was suddenly terrified. High up in the middle of nowhere on the end of a rope:
what the hell was I doing here?

Russ was above me; he had already made this pitch so that he could take some photos, and as I approached one section I couldn’t
fathom, he shouted encouragement from above.

‘Holy shit,’ I called back. ‘How do you get up this bit?’

‘You’ve got to swing your leg up,’ Russ told me. ‘There’s a foothold, Charley. Just swing your leg up.’

Finally I made it to the ledge above. This was a lengthy traverse where there were no handholds, only the lip for your feet,
with your body pressed against the wall. It was more of a shuffle than a climb, easing my way across with my breath tight
and sweat rolling off my brow.

Taking the protection out was easier said than done; there was
one particular metal wedge that Barry had hammered into the rock, and the only way to get it out was to whip the sling it
was attached to upwards. The trouble with that was that I was on a ledge, God knows how many feet above the ground, and every
time I tried to whip the wedge out, I lost my balance. I cannot tell you how unnerving that was. Try as I might, I just could
not get it out. I left it. Barry could retrieve it later.

That part of the climb was really tough, but when I did get some purchase under my feet, and with it a little of my confidence
back, I had the presence of mind to mess about for the camera. With one foot on the ledge, I grabbed a handhold and swung
round, trying to do my best
Cliffhanger
impression. It soon got serious again, though, as above the ledge we were into another steep ascent, following a crack that
ran from the bottom of a ten-metre slab. It was hard not to get your feet stuck, and I had an image of that guy in Utah climbing
on his own … Danny Boyle turned the story into that film,
127 Hours
… yeah, that one where the boulder shifts and his arm gets stuck and he uses a penknife to cut it off. Anyway, onward and
upward. This was as tough as anything I’d ever done and I really was out of my comfort zone. But I had no choice but to go
on. You can’t give up on a rock-climbing route, it just isn’t an option, so I gritted my teeth and carried on swearing to
myself. ‘It ain’t pretty, Barry,’ I called, ‘but I’m coming.’

Beyond the crack, it got even worse. We were on a saddle – a really narrow ledge – roped together but using no protection. We
were walking this narrow strip of loose rock, with the world falling away on both sides, and that totally freaked me out.
It was bad enough on the ledge or ascending the crack, but with no wall to hold on to, just this sort of humpbacked bridge,
it was absolutely terrifying. You could tell how bad it was because
while Barry was walking upright, holding the rope, I came scrabbling along after him on hands and knees like some sort of
reluctant dog.

The trouble with approaching the summit is that all around you everything just falls away. That last ridge was the worst,
and even standing on the top, having accomplished what we’d set out to do, I wasn’t full of the achievement so much as wondering
about getting down. Climbing up is one thing, but when you get there you still have to go down, and I’ve heard people say
that that is much harder. I was terrified and at the same time in awe of people like Barry who do this for fun. But the fact
was, I’d done it. I’d never rock-climbed before, and yet I’d made it to the top of Mount Fable, and that was a real achievement.
When the nerves finally settled down, I made sure I congratulated myself, then congratulated Barry and thanked him for getting
me up there.