The Far Side of the Sky Christopher E. Brennen Pasadena, California Dankat Publishing Company Copyright c 2014 Christopher E. Brennen All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, transcribed, stored in a retrieval system, or translated into any language or computer language, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission from Christopher Earls Brennen. ISBN-0-9667409-1-2 Preface In this collection of stories, I have recorded some of my adventures on the mountains of the world. I make no pretense to being anything other than an average hiker for, as the first stories tell, I came to enjoy the mountains quite late in life. But, like thousands before me, I was drawn increasingly toward the wilderness, partly because of the physical challenge at a time when all I had left was a native courage (some might say foolhardiness), and partly because of a desire to find the limits of my own frailty. As these stories tell, I think I found several such limits; there are some I am proud of and some I am not. Of course, there was also the grandeur and magnificence of the mountains. There is nothing quite to compare with the feeling that envelopes you when, after toiling for many hours looking at rock and dirt a few feet away, the world suddenly opens up and one can see for hundreds of miles in all directions. If I were a religious man, I would feel spirits in the wind, the waterfalls, the trees and the rock. Many of these adventures would not have been possible without the mar- velous companionship that I enjoyed along the way. Doug Hart was a frequent companion during the early adventures and I shall always count myself exceed- ingly fortunate to have traveled with him. Our spirits are forever bound together by the trials we faced together especially on the Mountain of the Devil. There were other companions too. Terry Jones was a most gracious host both in Ox- ford and on the slopes of Snowdon. In Japan, Yoichiro Matsumoto and Yoshi Tsujimoto were great companions. In Korea, I was touched by the watchful eye which Seung-Joon Lee kept on my wanderings. Closer to home in California, my advancing years were graced by the com- pany of a number of young fellow adventurers, among them Troy Sette who was born with the instinct for adventure, Clancy Rowley whose grace and kindness shone in all he did and Mark Duttweiler with whom hiking was always a plea- sure. To Garrett Reisman who taught me to climb, I owe an enduring debt and the very best of good fortune in his adventures as a NASA astronaut. In later years, I was immensely fortunate to link up with the three more great companions, the Marquesa de Canyonette, Randi Poer, whose blithe spirit is reflected in several of these stories, Scott “Seldom Seen” Smith whose kindness is unsurpassed, and the “Magnificent Marine” John Perry, a man for all seasons. iii I shall treasure all of their friendships for the rest of my days. To them and to all the others, I am deeply grateful. Most especially to Doreen whose love and friendship traveled with me to every corner of the globe. Christopher Earls Brennen California Institute of Technology, August 1999. iv Contents Preface iii 1MOYOLARIVER 1 2 INTO THE WILDERNESS 7 3 CALTECH PEAK 17 4 CANYONEERING IN THE SAN GABRIELS 25 5SORAKSAN 31 6 MOUNTAIN OF THE DEVIL 39 7SNOWDON 57 8 LIFE AND DEATH IN BAILEY CANYON 65 9MOUNTLASSEN 73 10 MT. FUJI IS CLOSED 77 11 MOUNT WILSON TRAIL 81 12 CASCADES OF THE KERN 91 13 VOLCANO 97 14 SKULL CANYON 107 15 ISLAND OF SAND 113 16 ON THE PEAK OF THE RISING SUN 119 17 ZION NARROWS 127 18 RUBIO CANYON 139 v 19 GRAND CANYON 149 20 THE SUBWAY 155 21 HALF DOME 161 22 ORDERVILLE CANYON 169 23 KITADAKE RAIN 173 24 THE LILIES OF CHOKAI 179 25 RAILWAY IN THE ETHER 187 26 YOSEMITE’S HAUNTED CANYON 193 27 A DIFFERENT PILGRIMAGE 201 28 SALOME INHERITANCE 207 29 THE GRAND TETON 213 30 SINGING DUNES 223 31 LAKE POWELL 229 32 ERRIGAL 239 33 SLEMISH 243 34 ICEBOX 247 35 ON THE VOMIT COMET 253 36 HAVASUPAI 261 37 INDIAN CANYON 271 38 SKELLIG MICHAEL 277 39 FLOWERS ON THE WAY TO SLIEVE GALLION 285 40 RATHLIN ISLAND 289 41 SKARA BRAE 293 42 HUAYNA PICCHU 297 43 PACUARE TEARS 303 vi 44 EICHORN PINNACLE 311 45 OF GRACE AND MAGIC 321 46 LEAVING ST. KILDA 327 47 ABROLHOS NIGHTMARE 335 48 GREATEST CANYON OF ALL 341 49 TORY ISLAND 357 50 CHURCH ISLAND 363 vii Chapter 1 MOYOLA RIVER “I will break through,” he said, “what I glazed over With perfect mist and peaceful absences” Sudden and sure as the man who dared the ice And raced his bike across the Moyola River. A man we never saw. From “Glanmore Sonnets” by Seamus Heaney In the early 1950s my father decided to construct a two-man canoe in which to paddle the waters of some bucolic Irish river. I think the inspiration for this was derived from a canoeing holiday that one of my uncles had enjoyed on a river in southern Ireland. Indeed my father seemed to have inherited the remains of my uncles collapsible canoe that consisted of a foldable canvas shell within which a frame of wooden rods was to be assembled. However, we never managed to complete this assembly and so my father decided to construct his own canoe that would not be collapsible. It would still be canvas on a wooden frame but a rigid rather than removable frame. This new canoe was constructed in one of the attic rooms in our house. It was carefully fabricated and a few test paddles were nervously but successfully conducted in a nearby pond. After that my father’s interest waned and he moved on to other activities. However, a year or two later, I had just begun my lifelong adventuring with a hike over the top of Slieve Gallion (see “Flowers on the way to Slieve Gallion”). Casting around for more adventure, my friend Frank Johnston and I decided to see how far we could float down the nearby Moyola in the “new” canoe. The Moyola was the only river of any size close to Magherafelt. Rising near Mullaghturk peak in the Sperrin Mountains, the Moyola winds its way through the rolling farmland of southeast County Derry for 27 miles before emptying into Lough Neagh. A little preliminary scouting revealed that the river upstream of the road bridge on the Tobermore/Maghera road (at 54o 47.150’N, 6o 41.903’W) 1 Left: Starting point: Tobermore/Maghera bridge. Right: Looking downstream from starting point. was too shallow for reasonable canoeing and so we decided to put in at that point. We knew of several other road bridges further downstream and had reconnoitered the river from those vantage points; but we had little information on the river in between those viewpoints. Nevertheless, with the confidence of youth, we decided that we knew enough. Therefore, in the early summer of 1959, we began preparations for this canoeing adventure into the unknown. What attracted me to this exploit, indeed to all the adventures in the fifty plus years that followed, was precisely the thrill of venturing into the unknown, of finding out what was round the next corner or over the next hill and of meeting the challenges that followed. Having obtained my father’s approval to use his canoe and his willingness to deposit us at our starting point, we began collecting the gear we would need. Food and water were obvious. But we also knew that the canvas surface of the canoe was not particularly rugged; it could easily be penetrated if we made contact with rocks in the shallower parts of the river. Fortunately, we knew of adhesive and waterproof bandage tape called “Elastoplast” that my father made valuable use of in his doctoring activities. We obtained a liberal supply of Elastoplast and set off one Saturday morning for the Tobermore/Maghera road bridge (at 54o 47.150’N, 6o 41.903’W). I do remember the mild but exciting apprehension with which we slid the loaded canoe into the water downstream of the Tobermore/Maghera road bridge in preparation for departure. It was a beautiful, sunny Irish day. To the west of us the heather-encrusted Sperrin Mountains glowed purple in the sunlight and all around the lush green fields seemed to welcome us. As long as rain and misfortune stayed away it promised to be a glorious day. We bade goodbye to my father (who must have wondered if he would ever see his canoe again) and started downstream, Frank in front and me behind. Not much paddling was needed but we soon encountered the first of many small rapids, some of which we needed to wade in order to negotiate. Inevitably the first rip in the canvas occurred, the Elastoplast came out and the canoe received its first badge of honor. On we drifted with kingfishers flashing past us and startled herons rising majestically before us. Though farm fields lay all around I don’t think we 2 Left: Curran bridge. Right: Upstream of first weir. Left: First weir. Right: Weak bridge. Moyola House and its weir. saw a single person all day long. The river was its own sanctuary and we felt we should slip respectfully through this ribbon of near-wilderness.