Mount Norfolk (13,016 ft)
Prologue
September 2nd 1894. Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Bryant and their guide, Peyto, attempt the mountain from the west side. From observation it seems to offer the most direct route, via a small, tempting gully created by a waterfall which dried a millennium ago.
Within two days they reach a height of nine thousand feet and onto a graphite crag which forms a boundless citadel of razor-sharp ramparts. The heavens open, turning the already treacherous narrow paths on which they step into flowing rapids. Attempt after attempt is made to move onwards, but they are forced to make camp where they stand. Two days later and the rain shows no sign of giving up on its attack. It reinforces itself with ear-piercing winds. Exhausted, defeated, they sound the retreat and begin to descend.
May 4th 1895. Christian Hasler and Christian Bowen (led by Captain M. Dent) spend their first day in the exact footsteps of Peyto’s team. At four thousand five hundred feet, instead of continuing upwards, they spend a day traversing east to the south face, which is rich in vegetation, and I’m told, abundant with wildlife, especially game. They make good speed.
At a little over ten thousand feet they came across an obstacle they name “The Hour Glass”. Two overhangs stand either side of a steep talus slope, some one hundred and fifty foot in height. This obstacle would prove to be fatal to Christian Bowen. Whilst laying a line he misjudges his hold when the mountain launched a sudden volley of rocks at him. As his rope pulled tight, it snags and snaps his neck. Demoralised, the remaining two ended their climb.
These are the only two attempts worthy of mention. In the summer of ninety-five there would be six more, including a joint effort between Peyto and Captain Dent, and one by the Boston Appalachian Mountaineering club. All of these would pass without merit, with one ending in fatality for all those involved. Their bodies, yet to be recovered, await on the mountain in some macabre pose.
June 7th 1896. Alone, and a little after five pm, like a matador and a bull in their final dance, I drive my ice pick into the peak. This is my story.
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Whilst previous attempts had all been conducted from the west and south sides, I would take mine from the north west. There was good reason this route had not been tried before, for whilst the west and south sides can easily be reached from the Bow valley, west-by-north-west is where the Norfolk joins its smaller sisters on the Settle Range. Now, I’m sure as future climbers familiarise and map this range, they may take this crossing down to three or even possibly two days. I would take five, as my focus was on the Norfolk. I did not want to risk any unnecessary injury or strain before I had even started.
This did raise the question and the practicalities of the amount of supplies I would need to carry. So I undertook this route with the aforementioned Christian Hasler, with whom I had been a friend for several seasons.
We had first made acquaintance in a public house in the city of Liverpool. The steamer, the SS Royal, which was to be our passage across the Atlantic, had taken a small blow from one of the many tugs in the harbour. The captain, being one of cautious mind, had taken the precaution of delaying its departure to allow for a full inspection of the hull.
For us passengers, this meant having to find ways of passing the time in the city itself. Normally in such circumstances as this I would have looked for somewhere with a gentleman’s lounge. But in the spirit of adventure I headed into one of the rowdier houses along the quayside called The Baltic Fleet, and what turned out to be an absolute hoot of a night.
I had not been alone in my thinking, and was met with the company of some Bavarian and Swiss climbers, of whom Christian was one. It turned out in conversation that we had both had the misfortune of sharing a railway carriage with a most obnoxious Irish drunk by the name of Tiberius O’Donnell – him in Switzerland, myself in France.
But I digress!
We arrived in the town of Banff during the last days of May, having travelled down from Montreal in the well-equipped and Herculean steam train The Imperial Limited. Where most of the passengers had turned left at the station exit to take up in the likes of the Banff Spring Hotel, or one of the many chalets that adjoin the low hills, myself and Christian, led with out instructions from our feet, turned right, and then a sharp left, down a buffalo trail that dissects the railway tracks. In less than an hour the town of Banff has vanished from our view and we strolled across a prairie which gave way to the beauty and expanse of the shores of Lake Minnewanka. The Lake stretches far into the horizon, where it is met by a body of senatorial pines which have their emperor Mount Inglismaldie (9,752ft) standing high and far over their shoulders.
The banks themselves gently slope down from green grassland to an expanse of white stone and sand, which is where we set up camp for the night. The air was thick with that sweet strong smell of pine mixed in with dashes and pours of flora. The temperature was pleasant enough for us to forego lighting our fire till quite late. Whilst our intentions had been to discuss our upcoming route, the talk turned quickly to swapping yarns, a crime that all of us adventurers must stand up and be counted guilty for, when presented with the warmth of a camp fire and good companionship.
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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
