As we got deeper into the ice field, this solitude land became brilliantly white. It is a place I always imagine a cartographer might come to rest his head. By midday the crampons were out, and by two pm we were on ropes. In the late afternoon Mount Norfolk came into sight, and we were now at the base of one its sisters, Mount Menai (6,753ft) .
I believe it is named after some celebration of Victorian engineering sixty-or-something years ago, by an unimaginative clerk in an office some four-and-a-half thousand miles away. Whilst not a challenging climb for us in the summer, in the winter the ice joins this ridge (and many others) to the ice field, creating a frozen amphitheatre big enough for an emperor colossus to be entertained in. It was here that six months earlier, when in the tier reserved for the plebs, I had first contemplated my plan.
Whilst the last few days had been spent in a jovial manner, the climb over Menai was a rather quiet affair, with the exchange of conversation mainly consisting of asking for rope or confirming a hold. We were still those two schoolchildren who had run down the cliff, but now we were in a classroom with Mount Norfolk looming over us like an old maths master, looking for a reason to wrap our knuckles with his cane.
The next morning Christian and I would part. After his two previous attempts he had resigned any future ambitions for this mountain. He pitched up on the Menai, where he would await my return, happy to have played his part in carrying the extra supplies I had needed. When we parted he handed gave me the late Christian Bowen’s Kodak. No words were exchanged. None were needed.
A short distance away I stopped and looked at what was the second reason the mountain had not been attempted from this face before. A ravine, three thousand foot deep, stood between me and the Norfolk itself, and whilst unnamed, and after having crossed it, I can think of several that would not be polite to say in the company of ladies.
Being in the shadow of both the Norfolk and the Settle ridge, little, if any, light hits the ravine floor. I had estimated on my original survey that it would take about twenty hours to cross. No matter what time of the day I started, I would be in complete darkness at some crucial point. My only hope was that by planning my dates so my crossing fell under a full moon, just enough light might reach me when I needed it most.
There was also the question of what made up the ravine floor itself. The best case would be it was frozen solid and I could easily cross. The worst, a fast running rapid which I would spend much time trying to surpass.
The descent into the ravine began with ease, but this was not to last. I came to an arrest. I instantly sank up to my knees, for the surface was a thick brown slush that was not frozen enough for me to make use of my ice shoes, nor wet enough for gaiters to help.
Every footstep became a pull, getting heavier and heaver as my trousers began to absorb this sickly pulp. Several times I ended facedown. I’m sure most sane men would have given in after an hour. Whilst rationale is the one thing that keeps us explorers alive, when it comes to sanity, lock us up with the rest of the lunatics and throw away the key.
Back at the club they used to joke I had one leg shorter than the other, and they were surprised that I didn’t end up going around in circles. For a while I had a horrible thought they might be right, as nothing down in this darkness gave me any navigation at all. It was a jungle of nondescript silhouettes and shapes. Branches would scratch my face that seem to belong to no tree. I would feel my height rise and fall with no explanation. I felt like one who had gone into the labyrinth long before Theseus had arrived to slay the minotaur.
Then there was the smell.
There were no buzzards, coyotes or even the humble maggots to clear the bones of whatever cursed animals had fallen in. That, mixed in with the unmeasurable amount of many a season’s rotting vegetation, gave off a truly hellish stench that raked at the back of my throat and caused me constantly to wrench.
That was not the only thing in the air down here. For though my face was covered, there were small black gritty alkaline particles that seemed to hang in the air and worm their way through the fibres. When I reached for my canteen, the short time between unscrewing the cap and lifting it to my lips was sufficient for the water to become awash with them.
Fuelled by anger I became an automated machine.
Right foot down, and pole up and in. Left leg lift, left leg down, and pole up and in. Right foot lift…
My initial estimate of a day was woefully unrealistic. I don’t remember when exactly night passed. A vague memory, a glimpse of a fire, an idea of trying to dry my boots with kindling fills that gap where tiredness and darkness seeped into one. Did I sleep? I honestly cannot tell.
When I finally made it to the other side of the ravine, I was confronted with a wall covered in vegetation, packed deep in ice. Barehanded, I swung my right fist. The icy wall was no more frozen than the ground beneath my feet. A second punch and I found the rock some eight inches in. Not ideal, but it was rock.
High above me, icy mountain streams poured over the edge of the ravine. I leaned back, filling my mouth with this taste from above. I hammered in the first piton, improvising with what I presumed to be a log to give me extra leverage in my reach. Using both arms I pulled myself out of the sludge. Cramp immediately kicked into my left leg, which is most distracting when one is concentrating on holding and balancing one’s full body weight with one hand. Pressing myself up against the wall, whilst doing my best to keep my face clear, I punched my left hand in.
Nothing but ice.
I swung out and punched just to the right of my previous hole and found the rock, this thankfully only five inches from the ice. Confirmed by my fifth such intrusion, I concluded the rock underneath formed a dihedral, upon which I was on the inner left-hand side. I proceeded upwards. Gloriously, with each yard I ascended, it got that little bit warmer, that little bit drier and that little bit lighter.
Finally, I emerged onto one of the most beautiful sights my eyes had ever seen. A meadow alive and breathing with purple flowers of a hundred kinds! As I pulled myself over I let myself roll in this most heavenly carpet. I gulped down deep breaths of air, ridding my lungs of the stench of below. Next, I stripped off my soaked and contaminated clothes and leant back to bathe in the rays of our glorious sun.
As I laid there, a mountain eagle soared high above and gazed at this strange alien in his land. I was finally on the Mountain.
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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