Across the meadow is a shallow crystal-blue lake, about an acre in size, which forms an almost tear-like shape. I named it “Eagle Lake”, and near its banks is where I made my camp and set my things.
A small but fast-running stream feeds the lake from the east, and it is in these waters that I attempted to wash out the foul odour from my clothes, with somewhat moderate success. They still hold a slight alkaline smell which I will let nature take care of.
In my route log that night, I noted the usual distances, directions and angles of slopes. In the part I reserve for advice, I wrote about the ravine. “Bring a machete, bring torches, and plenty of snuff.”
Dawn came, and the air was rich and sweet with the smell of lavender. The ravine now seemed an eternity ago. Over breakfast, after a morning dip in the lake, I looked up at the reason why I had chosen this route.
The south and south-west routes attempted by Peyto and others start with relative ease, then increase exponentially in difficulty. I know Peyto well, and he is well-famed for his “If we have got this far we can get to the top” attitude, which stems from his prize-fighting days. It is also a belief that has earned him some remarkable feats, such as crossing the Bow summit, and the countless mappings of what were thought to be previously impassable paths. He has made many a Swiss guide rewrite their books, and dare I say question their own skill. I do, however, feel that this was the wrong approach for the Norfolk.
My route, on the other hand, had a hard start and even harder end, but an easy mid section. My logic was I wanted to be able to cover the biggest distance with the least fuss possible, so I could conserve my energy for the top.
For in front of me were the next seven thousand feet, which would be nothing more than a gentle ramble through pleasant green woodland overflowing with verdure. It was made even easier by an escalating zig-zag of well-trampled animal paths. Both I and the mountain knew it was not to last. It was a hint of temptation, a taste of what it could give if it decided to be kind.
The wildlife I counted on my walk included mountain sheep, mule deer, moose, grouse and lynx. I pondered whether this band of woods continued all the way across the east side onto the south and joined up with where Captain M. Dent’s team had walked. That question would, however, be one for another explorer to find out.
In the last afternoon light, the woodland began to give way to rock. Taking an aneroid reading, I saw the height was seven thousand and two hundred feet. A short distant in front of me would be my next two day’s climbing. A four thousand foot, almost perfectly smooth, vertical glacier face. This is why I love to climb.
Excited about what lay ahead, I set up camp with it in view, and that night watched as the stars and moon presented me with a most fantastic light show on the ice. Jupiter led by making its entrance first, from over the ridge of Mount Menai, followed by a chorus of constellations which created a shimmer of blues and whites as random as the waves in the oceans. The wind took the part of the orchestra, gently shimmering the trees in time and whispering over the rocks. Occasionally a gust would bring the cold air down into my lungs, giving me a taste of what was to come. It was truly marvellous. I stood, applauded and cried, “Bravo!” to my entertainer.
In the first light of the morning I packed my ice gear, and just the supplies I would need for the next three days, leaving the rest suspended in the branches of a nearby tree so as not to tempt scavengers. Optimistically, I also set a couple of traps, but truth be told, I’m a far better climber than hunter.
The ice at the base was packed hard. It took six, seven and even eight swings with the axe to make my first holds. Even though my knees were well packed with oilskins, having them touch the side for more than a moment felt deadly.
I proceeded in a zig-zag manner, slow and cautious at first, until I got a feel for the ice and an understanding of its sounds. At around three in the afternoon I felt myself begin to lean inwards as the ice began to slowly concave, and after another hour, I had found myself beginning to lean everso slightly outwards. This feature had been invisible from below due to the light, and it now forced me to traverse to the right.
After two more hours of making no progress upwards, the concavity began to form a horizontal overhang above my head. I stopped at the point where it had become four foot deep. I was also now much further west than I had intended, forced onto a buttress that leaned over a rocky valley that was devoid of any soul.
As a test, I swung an axe into the small ceiling above me, which only took two swings. I debated if I could somehow curve-throw something from my current position to see how thick this hang was. But then I decided no, for that would provide limited information at best. I hammered a Canadian Pacific railway spike into the ice to secure myself as I took time to consider the next move.
There are many formulas I have come to know that I use in my writing and recording of routes, of which many involve the analysing and definitions of slopes. There is one unrelated formula, which at this moment I really wished I did not know. That was:
V=32.2 ft/s2
Or, as I foolishly worked out in my head, about twenty-two seconds before I would end up on the rocks below.
I eased some of my rope off the spike, allowing myself just enough movement to grab the axe above my head. Slowly I placed one hand, and then the other, onto its handle, keeping my feet in their holds. I then cautiously freed the left, then slowly rocked out my right.
A creak began to sound above my head and I quickly replaced my feet and eased my weight.
Decision time.
To Be Continued…
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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