MOUNTAIN LIFE - Coast Mountains | Winter / Spring 2018

WINTER/SPRING 2018 MLCM 79 Eventually, Xwechtáal flushed the serpent out from his nest and chased the beast south along the shores of Howe Sound. According to legend, the shoreline crenellations left by the serpent’s slithering became the notches and coves of Horseshoe Bay while the round hulk of present- day Anvil Island was carved out as a quay upon which Sínulhkay ̓ came to rest. But Xwechtáal was relentless. Aboard his war canoe, he located Sínulhkay ̓ ’s refuge, armed and ready for battle. But the serpent dove deep into the Sound, surfacing later through a tubular tunnel which connected the fjord to Petgill Lake in present day Murrin Park. (This curious detail blends Alice’s myth with geological reality because the lake does indeed connect to Howe Sound via as-yet unmapped artesian wells.) Finally, in a last-ditch effort to escape Xwechtáal , the serpent slithered up the side of the Chief. “There, look, you can see the black markings,” Alice points to The Black Dyke. Concluding her story, she recounts how in a final feat of bravery, Xwechtáal scaled the rock face, summiting the Chief and then tracking Sínulhkay ̓ as he carved out the slithering contours of the Shannon Valley. At last, in the sacred waters of Kookx’um (today known as Shannon Falls), Xwechtáal slayed the beast and returned, a leader of his people. It’s surely true that First Nations stories such as this invite a closer inspection of the landscape — imbuing the stones, streams and summits of Squamish with a cultural history that sits quietly beneath the surface but jumps out at you when uncovered. Likewise, the contemporary climbing- route lore of The Black Dyke is almost equally dramatic. Guidebooks, alpine journals and first- hand accounts offer tantalizing glimpses of the epics witnessed on this dark streak of stone. Tales of pitches protected by “prayers.” Monstrous run-outs above knife-blade pitons jabbed into questionable rock. Harebrained yarns of aid-climbers dangling from stalactites “like frogs on a crocodile’s tooth.” Somehow, in 1970, Al Givler and Mead Hargis made it to Bellygood Ledge — the route’s original finish three-quarters of the way up the Chief — alive, shimmying off the wall and onto the flats with a spectacular ascent behind them. Descriptions of The Black Dyke in Gordon Smaill’s 1975 Squamish Chief Guide reveal further madness in the route’s history. Quotes like “ this climb turns into a veritable bag of liver in the rain ” and “ Bricks Shannon soloed the top of the Dyke on motor responses ” speak to the spirit of the times. With the inception of new ways to realize the art of ascent at turn of the century, the route was free-climbed by well-known, Squamish big-waller Matt Maddaloni. Other impressive feats followed, culminating perhaps with Sonnie Trotter and Matt Segal’s 2006 ascent of the “Squamish Triple” where they linked The Black Dyke, The Grand Wall and The University Wall (via The Shadow) for a thrice-in-a-day ascent of the Chief via three different 5.13 routes. Since its very beginnings then, the Dyke has stood firm as a testament to the hard — a vestige of a bygone era of bold and dangerous aid climbing; a proof of mastery for those who wish to use only their hands and feet; and a totem to man’s mythical struggle in indigenous oral traditions. Easily seen as the straight black line on the centre right of the face,The Black Dyke is an iconic and storied Stawamus Chief route. “In a last-ditch effort to escape Xwechtáal, the serpent slithered up the side of the Chief. There, look, you can see the black markings.” – Alice Guss