Part IV
I could have continued traversing, hoping that the overhang would get less, or even break, but there was the danger of getting stuck on the ice in the dark, or of the weather turning in.
I could also surrender one of my three ropes to use as a safety line, which would be of use if the lip was tall. But if it was thin I was in danger of it breaking under my weight and being pulled down. I also hated the idea of getting near the top and not being able to attain it due to lack of rope.
I looked at my axes. The one that was currently in the overhang I had had since the start of this season, purchased from a fine outfitters in Alberta. The other in my right had been with me on several successful first ascents, as well as many other climbs. This would be the one I needed to get in with one strike. This would be the one to hold my weight as my body hung with nothing but air below it, as I freed my left axe to bring it up and over the chin. I paused, ran my fingers down its spine, and then placed it back into the loop in my belt.
I then untied and recovered my rope and went to remove the left axe. My fingers curled around its handle, and in a flash my right hand unconsciously reached back down to my right axe and swung it hard and upwards.
It was almost as if the whole mountain held its breath as the axe sliced its way into the overhang. In less than a second I freed my left and began to swing out and over. The swing did not quite make it to the crest, landing six inches short and cracking the ice. Adrenalin kicked in and I windmilled my arms, my heart stopping for a moment when both axes were out of the ice and I was held by nothing but air. My body whipped violently as my right once again took hold in the ice, followed quickly by my left.
Success! With my feet dangling I looked up to see I was once again on a vertical face.
By about seven pm I was at a height of just over nine thousand feet. Whilst the mountain had not let Peyto’s team go any further, it had decided to offer me a secluded ridge to rest on.
I devoured my rations, my muscles craving food to replenish the energy I had spent. Corned beef, cheese, Scotch broth and tinned apricots had never tasted so good. I ached all over. I lay awake in my bivouac, like a child looking forward to a Christmas morning. A hundred and one exciting possibilities of what awaited me ran through my head.
Before the first rays of sun were up, I was with my gear and back on the face. Unlike yesterday I was able to proceed with great speed, and by midday I had already done a thousand feet. It was at this altitude that a most wonderful silence filled the air; there was no wind, nor could I hear the sounds of my axes. I looked up. What was once pure white was turning into the black outline of the final aréte that would lead me to the top.
Eleven thousand feet. I roped myself off and leaned out with both arms back. I could see clearly “The Hour Glass” below. My mind projected the events of the late Christian Bowen’s fall onto the screen of grey rock. It was like the mountain was letting me know, and on devil’s scales, it showed me a clear path for descent that would be my way down, just a short distance to the west, visible from my high vantage point.
As the ice began to give way to more and more rock, the gradient changed to a point where I could stand and walk. I was able to make good distance here, and for a while I could have been one of the many at leisure in the national parks, enjoying a trail laid out by what’s-his-name in what’s-his-book.
With two hundred and fifty feet to go, I saw the final climb to the peak, shaped like a soldier and standing proud. I scouted the base to the right and was saddened to see that from this angle, the veteran peak looked like an old man, hunched over and doubled in pain.
I felt it wrong to take advantage of this easier climb, and moved back to where it stood illustrious and grand. Back on the ropes I placed each piton with respect, paying attention to the details to make sure it would stand up to the scrutiny of parade. I let my ropes glide freely across the face, never arguing or pulling them with haste.
With sixty foot to go this soldier gave one last demonstration of its fight. For from its very crest a deluge of small rocks came flying down. Thirty foot I slipped before my rope pulled tight, my lip split and a gash across my eye.
I wiped the blood away, and with hands, spit and grit, I continued upwards. More rocks fell but this time I held tight. By the time I was near the top another gash was across my face, just above the brow, and my left hand was scraped and skinned of its glove. I paused before that final pull, and then swung my axe high into the air and hard down!
I pulled myself over, eyes down, and caught my breath. Slowly I lifted my head to reveal a sight no man had ever seen. Hidden by the vast mountain guards that protect it in all directions are three hundred miles of ranges, yet to be entered and explored. The sky was crystal clear, with no cloud or fog in sight, and I reached out my finger to trace the many contours of this virgin land. It was both celestial and Olympian, and I now know why the mountain protects it so.
I pulled the Kodak from my rucksack and fulfilled my unspoken duty, making good use of my upturned ice pick as a tripod. I put the camera back and made sure that the place into which I had driven my pick was the very highest point. I am not one for ceremony and flags; scratching my initials into the rock would do. I did, however, have my own personal ritual from my first ascent made six years ago.
I sat down and reached into my bag. From right at the bottom I produced a tin wrapped in paraffin paper and wax. Using the heat of my body to break the seal, I then proceeded to unwrap it, taking great care to keep it dry at all times. Inside it was my Vienna-made briar pipe, and a blend of tobacco I have specially mixed by G. Smiths & Sons of Charing Cross Road, London. The pipe would not stay alight long in this environment, but it was enough.
Enough for me to enjoy this moment, for having made this climb I now knew a bit about those who would follow. I pictured what their reactions would be upon emerging from the ravine. Some would rest in the meadow where I had; others would march on. I gave these future climbers names, and for those I placed in groups I added words to their lips. I could see their faces as they came onto the peak and were mesmerized by the vista, as I had been. I also knew that having completed the climb, they would come to know me. We would be well-acquainted friends, only separated by time.
* * *
But alas, you don’t care do you?
You seemed to care more two days ago, but only about the contents of my rucksack which lays near where I first fell.
When you came back yesterday you were both frightened and amazed by the sparks from my axes as I tried to get a grip on the quartz- and iron-rich walls which now entomb me.
When I cried last night that I would never again see my wife, you at least sat there and bowed your head.
But as I tell you today of my last story, you just sit and stare into space!
It seems the smell of the gangrene in my leg this morning interested you more.
But I don’t care.
This is my story and I have told it.
Even if it was only to you, my black, grizzly and last friend.
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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
