We had been living in dirt for three weeks, and now it threatened to turn to mud. Our coat of dirt failed to deter thousands of female groupies from pursuing us. Too bad the only ones that were genuinely interested in our bodies had wings, six legs, and weighed less than a gram.

In fact, Spencer and I had been lucky. We'd had a good streak, traveling the Pacific Northwest with only one afternoon of rain at Lake Louise. Before I went to sleep, I had programmed myself to waken upon hearing a soft splattering sound on my bivi sack.

I opened my eyes to grey skies. They stretched in every direction over the Bugaboos. Privately, I was happy about this. The alpine portions of our trip were Spencer's idea. I was leery of alpine climbing going into this trip, and the slogs to Mt. Stuart and to the Bugaboos had not improved my attitude. Despite the drizzle, a few groupies orbited hopefully. I was definitely ready to leave. Well, at least we had gotten up and down Bugaboo Spire in the one day the weather gods had allotted us.

As the late July rain slowly intensified, we debated the odds and options.

A couple of minor misunderstandings – which will be among the subject of another story – had strained our relations with the staff of the hut. Additionally, at Lake Louise, our previous stop, we found that a pole on my tent had lost a sleeve at the end. The MEC store in Calgary did not have a replacement for the AWOL sleeve. That meant we could only jury rig it, and that fix was too delicate to withstand more than a zephyr. Thus we had not brought it up with us, as our packs were heavy with supplies and gear for four days. Bottom line: we had only our tarps and bivi sacks for shelter, and who knew how long the rain would last?

All this made a strong case for going to LeRoy Russ' condo in Squamish.

So we plodded down trail to the car. We signed a last few autographs in blood for our groupies as we removed the chicken wire from the car's perimeter (Bugaboo porcupines harbor a perverse fondness for radiator hoses), and set off.

We arrived in Squamish that night. Spencer had managed to point out Squamish Chief as we went by, but I perceived only a large shadow. LeRoy was terse, yet quite hospitable considering that it was bedtime when we got there. We quietly showered and crashed on the floor, since Ron, Dave, and Mary had nabbed the guest beds a few days before.

Spencer and I are not known for our alpine starts, but we awoke to the bustle of the others readying themselves for the day. We introduced ourselves to those we had not met, and waited for space in the bathroom and kitchen. LeRoy and Ron were going hiking, Dave and Mary were going climbing, and we were still thinking about coffee.

LeRoy's condo turned out to be stunningly situated. The squat Squamish Chief, 2,000 feet tall at its prow and sporting a bandolier of pine trees on its mighty granite chest, dominated the view over the marina, filled the picture window. It was a mere five minutes away by car. The rock quality is simply stellar, and as an added bonus, there were no mosquitoes, and the temperatures were perfect. It offers crack climbs and slabby faces, free and aid lines, one pitch to over a dozen. Aptly nicknamed the Yosemite of the North, the Chief is accompanied by several satellite crags of equal quality. Yea, we beheld the awesome Chief, and we were stoked, certainly too stoked to go back to sleep. It wasn't really that early, anyhow.

Awe begat excitement, we wasted no time in driving to the Apron. Dull clouds lurked overhead as I started up the Snake, a classic 5.9. Spencer had the topos, as I am accustomed to climbing in clothing that lacks pockets. I had taken too cursory a glance, and kept going straight up the somewhat runout slab instead of bearing left towards a corner. I found myself pressing out small edges on terrain that was certainly not 5.9, and which I was not willing to downclimb. I had blundered onto a 10c route named something like "White Boys in Tights." Spencer grudgingly led back over to Snake, and I let him keep going. It drizzled a tad, but not enough to affect friction much.

By the time we finished, and had descended, the drizzle had stopped, and the sky was clear. Our way to the most popular route, Diedre, was not. We blundered about for 20 minutes before finding the start to this classic 5.8. We stared up the slab, and saw a party of three starting the dihedral two pitches up. Spencer led and led and led. We simuled by the party of three, and kept going until Spencer ran out of gear. This left me with the fifth and last pitch. We completed the route in 45 minutes. With ten pitches under our belt, it was beer thirty.

The next day skies were blue from start to finish. We decided to climb some harder, shorter routes at Smoke Bluffs, one of the Chief's satellite crags. Drive: under five minutes. Approach: 15 minutes max. We opted for the three minute approach to the start of a 10a that we linked with three other routes in what's known as the Smoke Bluff Connection. Crack climbs were the order of the day, as they were most days. We don't like to tape, and the rock was friendly to hands, so we didn't have to. Now comfortable with the rock, we came back the next day, and pushed into the 10c and 10d range. We were preparing for a couple of longer routes of 10c and 11a with a bit of aid. The latter being the Grand Wall, the local equivalent to the Nose of El Capitan. An ambitious undertaking, as neither of us are consistent 5.11 climbers. Indeed, Spencer had taken a fall on the 10d.

With plenty of fingertip skin left, we spent the next day at Murrin Park. This crag has a little pond and picnic area, with climbs a short hike into the woods beyond. Here we did our first face climbs since my error on the first day. Both were 10ds. I led "Poster Boy," a great climb, but I was down to my slippers. My best edging shoes were in need of resoling. My slippers were well suited to the balancy aręte above, but on the initial slab, I had some difficulty sticking the crux move in my soft Mocassyms, and fell once. Spencer followed it clean. Next I tried "The Nose." Success was a while in coming, as the crux had me perplexed for several minutes, but I finally got it clean, and felt better.

After four straight days of climbing, we took one off, for we planned on linking "Rock On" and "Squamish Buttress." This would take us all day and take us all the way to the top of the Chief. There were more clouds than before, but not threatening ones. "Rock On" is an excellent five pitch 10a, and is separated from Squamish Buttress by that belt of trees. We got a bit lost again, and a hostile pine tree speared me in the thigh. Two months later that thigh still sports a dark pink spot. But it was hardly crippling, and I sent the crux 10c lieback dihedral without any trouble. Our summit was in fact one of three, and not quite the highest. It was, however, very accessible to hikers, so we found a volunteer for the summit snapshot. The view extended North halfway to Whistler, and South down Howe Sound, halfway to Vancouver. To the West across the Sound, a coastal range, and to the East, more mountains, girded in rich green. Squamish – the site of bed races (amusing spectacle) that evening—hunkered below, a sleepy lumber port.

Rain forced another rest day upon us, but it looked as though things were drying out the following afternoon, so we went to Upper Malamute. May we recommend the southern approach, even if the drive is a few seconds farther. The mountain shops in town sell a t-shirt emblazoned with the words "I love wet crack. Climb Squamish". Things were indeed still a bit damp, and Spencer apparently prefers dry crack. I led the 5.9 "High Mountain Woody," but it was still oozing, and Spencer wanted to leave for Smoke Bluffs, which has the reputation of drying out quickly. Nevertheless, Spencer wanted to do "Split Beaver." My high top boots were due out of the resoler the next day, but Spencer talked me into doing this 10b offwidth when all I had were my slippers. He led it, but lacked the gear to protect the crux finish to his satisfaction, and lowered. In one of those bold and stupid moments that are becoming less common as I age, I opted to try it. I got it, but sure enough, I cut up my ankles.

The next day we were again beset by rain. After doing the Chief's sustained, painful 10b thin crack "Seasoned in the Sun," we bopped a hundred yards to the right to try another top-rated thin crack, a 10c called the "Exasperator." Spencer linked the two short pitches as the sky darkened. In my haste to beat the moisture, I was a little sloppy in racking for my lead. I left two small cams on one biner. I needed to place one of those cams when I got to the crux, and it was starting to drizzle. Since I could see I would need the other one higher up, I expended a lot of energy in a tenuous position separating the little cams and re-racking the unused one. The rock grew wetter by the second as I fiddled, and now I was not loving wet crack, either. Pumped and frazzled, I greased off. I knew I had to finish, because otherwise we'd have to leave gear. I immediately tried the move again, and somehow got it.

Fortunately, the shower was short lived, and the next morning the fog lifted to reveal clear skies. Our time in Squamish was growing short. We could do "Angel's Crest," another bottom to top route with an alpine character – complete with a soupcon of choss, the only questionable rock we found – or the Grand Wall. Since our ability to actually do the Grand Wall was still in doubt, we opted for Angel's Crest, sandwiched by a couple more one pitch route days. The highlight of the "bread" of that sandwich was an 11a called "Perspective" at Murrin Park. Though perhaps I was not cut out for the Grand Wall, I wanted to try an 11a trad lead. It would be my first.

Perspective is an overhanging hand crack, broken up into sections, which afforded several rests. It takes gear well, but one must be careful about protecting the crux. Indeed, I succumbed to the temptation to plug gear into what turned out to be a crucial handhold. Before that, I had placed two smallish cams in a downward facing flake that seemed plenty thick. The first, a .3 camalot jr., slid in above a constriction and was bomber. The second was a slightly larger three cam placed closer to the lip of the flake. I shouldn't have bothered with it. I was confounded by my gear at the crux, but too far away from my last rest to pull it out, retreat, and start over. I nevertheless tried that strategy, but I fell, ripping out the three cam. The first one held, and I lived to work out a sequence involving a difficult lieback. Spencer followed it clean, but he wanted to move on, and so did I.

Angel's Crest sports an easy, but runout horizontal ridge, adding to its alpine flavor. More hiking – and a bit of climbing—through the woods. A damp face crux. But we again joined scads of hikers at the summit without incident.

On our last day, I insisted on going back to Perspective to try for the redpoint. This time I eschewed the manky three cam placement, and tried something a bit different at the crux. Again, the piece turned out to be in my way, but it was closer to the rest, and this time I made it back. I rethought the gear one last time, got it right, and pulled through the crux without needing the brutal lieback. I'm normally a reserved person, but this was a major milestone for me, and I let out a couple of whoops. Despite his clean follow two days ago, and his knowledge of where the gear needed to be, Spencer did not want to do it. We did a short 10a, and then each of us took one fall on Pleasant Pheasant, an 11a sport route we could easily redpoint. We returned to the condo to pack.

We had some time to spare that evening, so we came back to Murrin Park. It was Spencer's turn to choose, and he opted for a short 10c thin crack called "Washington Bullets." Throughout the trip we had been using Spencer's gear. This was now buried in the trunk, so we were using my gear. I laid it all out for Spencer, who grumbled a bit because my rack is slightly deficient in small gear compared to his. For some reason, he chose to leave some of the slings behind. When Spencer is near his limit, he places a lot of gear, particularly if it's small. After twenty feet of climbing, he had plugged in nine pieces. I kidded him about being a sewing machine. And then Spencer ran out of slings and biners at the crux, and all he had left were nuts. Stuck, he hung on his last piece. I laughed harder than I had the whole trip. Spencer managed to pendulum left over to an easier route, and I attached the remaining slings to the rope, still chuckling.

Spencer laughed a bit, too, having the security to laugh at himself when appropriate. And besides, it was a dry crack.

What a wonderful segment of our trip! Laconic LeRoy is a most gracious host. He didn't get too upset when I burned rice in one of his dishes and never could get all the char out. He only charged a few bucks for paying the maid. Next year, assuming he'll put up with us, I'll present him with a proper Calphalon pan. And perhaps we'll be ready for the Grand Wall.

But I don't know if we'll ever learn to love wet crack.