SATURDAY:

Climbing is pretty basic: you go up. As high as your anchors, or higher if you lead climb, but every climber knows that the goal is somewhere above your head. I started climbing rock two years ago when I met my soon-to-be boyfriend, and in an effort to impress him I overcame my fear of heights and hit the indoor gym - although it didn't hurt that I had a great tush.

Two years later and I'm hooked - on the boy and the climb. I'm following my man through shin-deep snow up the river without a paddle - not that we need one since the ice beneath us is several feet thick. It's March in David Thompson country in Alberta, Canada, and it's only a few degrees below freezing. My feet are sweating in my rented purple plastic ice boots and I took off my jacket twenty minutes ago. Crescent Falls lies behind us: the bowl beneath the falls is swirling with black, icy water and there's nowhere to set up a good anchor, so we're off to find nearby Issac's Wet Dream.

It's my first ever ice climb, and we want to ascend someone's WET DREAM. I think it's gross. My man thinks its hilarious.

It's bright and beautiful even though the clouds to the north are black and heavy-bellied with snow. I'm enjoying the walk; the green pine trees crowd thick on the banks and I'm spotting squirrel and coyote tracks in the snow. Half an hour later, though, the boots are chafing and there's no sign of our ice. The clouds are closing in and it's getting late in the afternoon, so we reluctantly turn back and hike out.

I go to bed disappointed and dream of wet ice and a very happy man named Isaac.

SUNDAY:

It's up the CREEK without a paddle, not the river. We find all 35 metres of Issac's Wet Dream up a tributary near the parking lot, and both of us are frozen in surprise when we round a corner in the canyon and come face to face with several tonnes of vertical yellow ice. My man plants a cold kiss on my cheek, and we strap on our crampons before scrambling up to the top of the falls to set up a top rope. I finally comprehend how high 35 metres really is and I'm not sure I like it. My heart begins to race and my palms sweat in my mitts as my man warns me of the dangers of low incline ice; I imagine sliding off the edge - or worse, having to watch him slip out of view. I'm not sure if I'm cut out for ice climbing.

Fifteen minutes later, though, we're at the bottom and I've roped myself in. A pair of vicious black ice axes rest in my mittened hands and I'm faced with

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