–submitted by Melanie Yu
Living in the Comox Valley means never being far from the Beaufort Range. On a clear day, the mountains frame almost every drive through town, but one summit always captures your attention: Comox Glacier.
Long before I ever considered climbing it, I admired it from a distance.
Like many locals, I quickly came to recognize its unmistakable profile. You’ll find photographs and paintings of Comox Glacier hanging in homes throughout the valley because, for many of us, its part of everyday life.
Before it became known as Comox Glacier, it was known as Queneesh, ‘whale’, named originally by the K’ómoks First Nation.
The glacier itself became one of my biggest motivations for wanting to climb this mountain. Whether someone believes climate change is responsible or not, it is undeniable that the glacier continues to retreat. Philip Stone wrote in his 2018 book that “in a few short years” the glacier would be gone. 8 years later, it still remains, although noticeably smaller. I wanted the opportunity to experience it while it still exists.
- Trip Statistics
- Distance: 20 km
- Elevation Gain: 1,920 m
When I first discovered hiking in 2022, I would ask experienced hikers I met the same question:
“What’s the hardest objective you’ve ever completed on Vancouver Island?”
The answer was almost always Comox Glacier.
Its reputation comes from the combination of distance, elevation, scrambling, fitness, and commitment. It wasn’t a mountain I had imagined even leading anytime soon.
Yet somehow…there I was, posting it as a club trip.
That thought alone made me nervous.
Leading this objective carried a different kind of responsibility. There were more unknowns than any trip I had previously organized. Would Mosaic even have the gates open? Would the weather cooperate? What would the snow conditions actually look like after treeline? Would people need microspikes? Ice axes? Crampons?
Throughout the week I found myself checking weather models daily, if not multiple times a day.
Long-range forecasts painted the overall pattern while shorter-range models refined the details. Earlier in the week, rain looked almost certain. As the weekend approached, the precipitation window slowly shifted… exactly as I had hoped!
The gate stayed open.
The forecast improved.
It was time to go.
Day One
Standing at the trailhead, I was surprised that my biggest concern wasn’t the mountain itself.
It was the people beside me.
Everyone looked strong.
They had already accomplished bigger objectives than this.
I kept wondering whether I’d be the slowest hiker in the group.
The climb toward Frog Ponds was straightforward but steep. Carrying an overnight pack changed that. Between large roots and fallen trees, I constantly found myself bending forward to lift my pack over obstacles. By the end of the climb it honestly felt like I’d spent hours deadlifting.
About 600 metres before camp, my body finally protested.
Without warning, both hip flexors seized into full bilateral cramps unlike anything I had ever experienced. I’ve dealt with cramps before, but usually they’re manageable if I catch them early.
This time nothing worked.
Eventually, I simply had to lie on the ground because every position seemed to trigger another spasm.
Reflecting back on this experience, I am grateful how naturally the group shifted into helping.
Water.
Electrolytes.
Food.
A chance to rest while everyone patiently waited.
Eventually the cramps eased enough that we continued on.
We reached Frog Ponds just as the rain arrived, giving us enough time to establish camp before settling in for the evening.
Throughout the afternoon, numerous groups returned from attempted summit pushes. Most had turned around because of poor visibility, slippery terrain, or conditions beyond their comfort level. Only one group aummited that day.
Hearing those stories only reinforced my original plan to wait until morning.
Sometimes patience is the safest decision you can make.
Summit Morning
We left camp around 6:20 a.m.
Everything beyond Frog Ponds felt more technical.
We descended down the col into Lone Tree Pass. It’s a solid Class 3 downclimb using the fixed rope, then climbed back toward the ridge.
The scrambling demanded more commitment than anything I had previously attempted. Several moves pushed me beyond my comfort zone.
Then came the snow.
Crossing the broad snowfield above a blanket of cloud was one of those moments that simply refuses to translate into photographs. Red Pillar stood proudly, while Harmston and Argus dominated in contrast to Milla Lake.
The summit register sits on the North end of the mountain, but Gaia marks the southern end as the summit. We crossed the entire snowfield because none of us wanted to leave wondering whether we had truly experienced the “true” summit.
I will say…standing above a glacier I’d admired for years felt surreal.
Reflections
This mountain taught me far more about leadership than I expected.
Before this trip, I had believed that the leader should be the strongest person, it at least not the slowest in the group.
By the end of the weekend, I was reflecting HARD.
Yes, I was the slowest.
Yes, my scrambling confidence still has room to grow.
Yes, my descent game needs work.
There were moments afterwards where I was in tears, and questioned whether I had failed because everyone else appeared so much stronger.
But reflection has a funny way of changing perspective.
Leadership is more than being fast.
It started days before we even left.
It was studying Philip Stone’s route descriptions until I understood the terrain.
It was monitoring weather throughout the week and adjusting expectations accordingly.
It was recommending equipment based on uncertainty instead of optimism.
A few of us never used our ice axes.
Others appreciated having them.
Good preparation often means bringing equipment you hope you’ll never need.
One moment from the descent continues to stay with me.
Nick F. pointed out to me a perfect bonsai tree growing from the rock ahead of us.
I hadn’t even noticed it.
I was too focused on keeping pace and worrying that I was slowing everyone down.
If I had climbed this mountain alone, I probably would have walked straight past it.
That moment reminded me why I love group hiking.
We don’t all experience mountains the same way.
Everyone notices something different.
Everyone contributes something different.
Sometimes leadership simply means creating the opportunity for those shared experiences to happen.
There were moments after this trip when I honestly felt like I should bury my face into my hands.
I was slower than everyone else.
I questioned whether I held the group back.
I wondered whether I belonged leading objectives that pushed my own limits.
But I also realized something else.
Mountaineering isn’t simply being fit…
It’s nervous system training.
It’s repeatedly placing yourself in situations that stretch your confidence until unfamiliar terrain slowly becomes familiar.
Growth rarely feels comfortable.
Neither does leadership.
What mattered was that I prepared thoroughly, made thoughtful decisions, adapted when uncertainty appeared, and that every member of the group enjoyed themselves, and returned safely after sharing an unforgettable experience together.
One of my favorite moments was when we returned to camp after the summit. I overheard one hiker saying, “I am just feeling so accomplished!” And I didn’t need to see the reaction to know he was glowing. It was everything.
This summer is far from over.
There are still bigger objectives ahead and countless skills left to learn.
I am still becoming the mountaineer I hope to be…and perhaps that’s the biggest lesson Comox Glacier gave me.
You don’t have to be the strongest or fastest person in the group to lead.
You simply have to care enough to prepare well, remain humble enough to keep learning, and be willing to guide others while continuing to grow yourself.
