Starting out early the next morning, we made our way around the banks of the lake and northwards along Simpson’s path, which is a well-trod trail that skirts what is the first of Canada’s great national parks. It was established just over ten years ago, based on the concepts similar to those employed by the Americans in Yellowstone Park. The Park sets out to conserve two hundred and sixty square miles for public use and recreation, not just for this generation, but at least a thousand more. An act I commend and praise in my loudest voice!
The park itself is a most wonderfully curious affair with the South and especially Mount Rundle (9,762ft) much favoured by the Swiss. On a Sunday morning one can find on its foothills many a dictatorial dad looking up to his offspring and filling the air with shouts of, “Keep that bow line tight!“ and, “What have I told you about keeping your leg straight!”
Then way, way high above their heads, and on its glacial peak, there are old masters revisiting a favourite canvas in a leisurely stride.
To the west was a place that you would not find in books by writers such as Coleman and Sch?ffer. But rather in books by authors who seem nameless and their titles interchangeable.
Day Walks in the Rockies.
Climbs Without Ropes.
Day Walks and Climbs.
Here along the peaks such as Tunnel Mountain (5,552ft), discarded bottles give a clue to the joyful exaggerations and boasts that would fill university dorms in the autumn, and I say good on them! Let them cheer out loud! Let us hope that in a hundred years a future generation of young gentlemen can cry the same.
There is plenty of leisure or even laziness to be found in this place, and even for us more skilled climbers, challenges aplenty can still be found. And danger too. Back in Montreal I had dinner with Professor Charles Fay, president of the American Alpine Club, who some weeks earlier had been on an first ascent attempt on Mount Lefroy (11,230 ft) . On this try, a Mr. P. S. Abbot, an established climber who held the first ascent Honour on Mount Hector (11,136ft), fell, sadly earning him the decoration of being the first climber to die in the national park.
By our third day, and with the park far behind us, we headed northwards along Spray Valley, which also began to mark the start of a gentle ascent. The valley itself stood shoulder-packed with regimented pines, occasionally broken by cascading falls. As was demanded by anyone who took this trail, lunchtime was spent in the hot springs that are to be found where the valley begins to twist and turn as it continues its rise.
Nature had decided to paint this cove with a horizontal strata of reds and yellows, which against the backdrop of the green of the trees, the black and white of the mountains, topped off with the blue of the sky, truly gave weight to the belief that God himself is an artist. Much banter was exchanged and we headed off much vitalised and with a fresh step in our advance.
In the afternoon our conversation became more sombre as talk turned to the Norfolk itself. I pumped Christian for every scrap of information he had gained.
”How did the air feel at three thousand feet?”
”What is the rock type at five thousand feet?”
”Did the terrain change gradually or suddenly at six?”
Let no man tell you different. A mountain is a living thing, as unique and beautiful as ourselves. And as such, it should be treated in the proper manner, and not of that attitude reserved for beasts. Sometimes the smallest of details can make the difference between life and death.
That night, near the end of Spray Valley, as the stars began to appear in the evening sky, we made camp in a profusion of large fallen trees which created an almost fort-like structure around us. It brought an immense feeling of safety and calm.
The fourth day began with a most entertaining fast descent. For the valley stepped onto a cliff that gave way to the Columbian ice fields. If one was to come here in the winter, due to its orientation and the movements of winds across the ice, they would find they were standing on a sparkling white pillow of soft snow.
Those of us with experience know well to steer clear of such features, for underneath, the ice is stacked in slanted slabs. The slightest disturbance can cause it to slide, and then you have an avalanche to contend with.
On the other hand, it was summer, and spread in front of me was a most tempting ramp to the field below.
“Hoi!” I shouted.
Forgetting all our combined years of knowledge, precaution and sensibilities, I charged down the slope and Christian followed. Like two schoolchildren we began to chase each other down.
In a combination of what can only be described as controlled falling and rolling, we collapsed into a pile of twisted limbs on the ice, having done an impressive eight hundred feet in a little less than twenty minutes. So much for my precautionary approach! Thankfully we ended up with nothing more serious than a hearty belly-full of laughs.
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Tags: 1890's, 1896, Banff, Canada, Climbing, Dead Adventurer, Englishmen, explorer, gentlemen, Ice, ice climbing, Mount Norfolk (13016ft), Mountain, National Park, Rockies