Camping in the Canadian Rockies / an account of camp life in the wilder parts of the Canadian Rocky mountains, together with a description of the region about Banff, Lake Louise, and Glacier, and a sketch of early explorations.

by Walter Dwight Wilcox

CHAPTER VI.

Paradise Valley—The Mitre Glacier—Air Castles—Climbing to the Col—Dark Ice Caverns—Mountain Sickness—Grandeur of the Rock-Precipices on Mt. Lefroy—Summit of the Col at Last—A Glorious Vision of a New and Beautiful Valley—A Temple of Nature—Sudden Change of Weather—Temptation to Explore the New Valley—A Precipitate Descent—Sudden Transition from Arctic to Temperate Conditions—Delightful Surroundings—Weary Followers—Overtaken by Night—A Bivouac in the Forest—Fire in the Forest—Indian Sarcasm.

The valley to the east of Lake Louise and parallel to it, we named Paradise Valley, on account of the elegant park-like effect of the whole place and the beauty of the vegetation. Our first entrance into this region and the discovery of the valley were partially accidental. In fact, we were making an expedition for the purpose of finding a practicable route up Hazel Peak, on the day when we were diverted from our original plan, and tempted to explore this hitherto unseen part of the mountains.

It came about somewhat in this manner. On the 30th of July, all but F., who was still lame from his accident, left the chalet carrying rope and ice-axes, with the intention of making explorations on the southern slopes of Hazel Peak. Our party, numbering four, left the chalet at a little after eight o’clock, with the intention of returning no later than five in the afternoon. Our equipment, beside our Alpine implements, consisted of a camera, a prismatic compass, and that which proved no less necessary, our lunches and a whiskey flask.

Taking the boat, we rowed to the other end of the lake, and then followed the same route as our party of three had taken on the disastrous expedition of July 13th, till we came to the junction of the two glacier streams. Here we turned toward the east, and followed the moraine of the wide glacier between Mount Lefroy and Hazel Peak.

The whole valley between was floored by a smooth, nearly level glacier, about a half mile wide and perhaps two miles long. Presently we were compelled to get on the ice as the moraine disappeared; so we put on the rope, and advanced with more caution. It was not long, however, before W., who was next to last in our line, broke through the bridge of a crevasse, despite our care, and sank to his shoulders. This member of our party was not versed in the art of snow-craft, and to him, every occurrence common to mountain experiences, and Alpine methods of procedure, were alike novel and terrible. In consequence, this accident fell more severely on him, but fortunately, he was extricated almost immediately by the use of the rope.

At the head of our valley was a remarkable, symmetrical mountain, resembling in general outline a bishop’s mitre. From the glacier and snow-fields where we were walking, there rose on either side of the Mitre, steep snow-slopes, which terminated in lofty cols about 8500 feet above sea-level. That on the north side of the Mitre was exceedingly steep, and was rendered inaccessible by reason of a great crevasse, extending from the precipices on either side, clear across the snow-slope. This crevasse must have been nearly twenty-five yards in width and of great depth. At one side there still remained a thin bridge of snow, suspended, as it were, in mid-air over the awful chasm, as though to tempt climbers on to their instant destruction, or perhaps to a lingering death from cold and hunger.

The pass on our left appeared the more propitious and seemed to offer a possible route to the summit of the divide. We were anxious to get a view into the valley beyond, even though it were but for a few moments. The unknown regions on the other side of the pass had long been for me a favorite pleasure-ground of the imagination. Some fate had hitherto denied us any idea of the place beyond the vaguest suggestions. Several ascents, or partial ascents, of mountains on all sides of this unknown valley, had revealed the outlines of the surrounding mountains, but some intervening cliff or mountain range had always, with persistent and exasperating constancy, shut off all but the most unsatisfactory glimpses. Starting from these substantial foundations of reality, my imagination had built up a wide circular valley, surrounded on all sides by curious mountains of indefinite and ever changing outline and position. The picture always appeared in a gloomy, weird light, as though under a cloudy sky, or while the sun was near totally eclipsed. By some curious analogy, this faint illumination was similar to that which we always associate with the first creation of land and water; or far back in the geologic ages, when strange and hideous reptiles,—some flying in the murky air, some creeping amid the swampy growths of cycads, calamites, and gigantic tree ferns,—excite a strange thrill of pleasure and awe combined, as though the soul were dimly perceiving some new revelation of the universe, though but vaguely. In this weird, gloomy valley I wandered careless, in my imagination, many days and at many times, among forests infested by strange, wild animals, harmless like those of Eden, and by the shores of ever new, ever changing lakes and rivers.

So strong had this picture become that I felt the most intense anxiety to succeed in reaching the top of our pass, and gain at length a view of the reality, even at the risk of shattering these pleasant air castles, and annihilating, in a single instant, one of my best mental pleasure-grounds.

There were many dangers to be risked, however, and many obstacles to be overcome before this advantage might be gained. The steep slope was rendered formidable by reason of many great schrunds, or horizontal crevasses, caused by the ice of the glacier below, moving downward. In the intense cold of winter the moving ice becomes rigid and nearly stagnant, while the drifting snows accumulate, so as partly to fill these rents in the ice and bridge them over by cornices built out from one side or the other. When the increasing warmth of summer causes the ice to become plastic and to move more rapidly, these rents grow wider and the snow-bridges melt away and eventually fall into the crevasses so as to leave impassable chasms, dangerous to approach. Fortunately, it was not so late in the season that all the bridges were broken down, else we should have been completely defeated, for, on either side, the glacier was hemmed in by dangerous rock precipices. The south side of the glacier, moreover, was subject to frequent rock falls from the disintegrating cliffs of the Mitre. As we advanced over the extensive névé, the slope increased gradually but constantly, and soon became so steep that steps had to be cut, and great care was necessary not to slip. We crossed some of the schrunds by bridges of snow, where it was necessary to proceed with great caution, and, by sliding the feet along, apply the weight gently, lest the bridge should break through. We passed round others by walking along the lower edge or lip of the crevasse, which gave us a splendid but almost terrifying view of the gloomy caverns, extending down through the snow and ice to unknown depths. The dark-blue roofs of these crevasses were hung with dripping icicles, while from far below could be heard the sound of rushing, sub-glacial streams. Three hours of this slow, toilsome work were necessary to gain 1000 feet in altitude. We were now more than 8000 feet above the sea, and the atmosphere was raw and cold. Large damp flakes of snow and granular hail fell occasionally from a cloudy sky, silently and swiftly, through a quiet atmosphere. The whole horizon was bounded by high mountains, covered with glaciers and patches of snow, altogether barren and destitute of vegetation. Not a single tree or shrub, nor even a grassy slope at the far end of the great amphitheatre of mountain walls by which we were hemmed in, relieved the stern, cold monotony of the scene. So far as we might judge by our surroundings, we might have been exploring the lonely, desolate mountains of Spitzbergen, or some distant polar land, where frost and winter rule perpetual. Our progress up the slope of the glacier was very slow, as each step had to be cut out with the ice-axe. The pitch was so steep that a misstep might have resulted in our all sliding down and making further exploration of the schrunds below. The whole party was, in consequence, more or less affected by these cheerless circumstances, and became much depressed in spirit. As, however, the condition of the body is in great part responsible for all mental and moral ailments, so it was in our case. Had we been walking rapidly, so that the circulation of the blood had been vigorous and strong, both mind and body would have been in good condition, and the cold air, the snow, and bleak mountains would have been powerless to discourage. It is always at such times that mountain climbers begin to ask themselves whether the results are worth the efforts to attain them. Any one who has climbed at all, as we learn by reading the experiences of mountaineers, at many times has said to himself: “If I get home safely this time I shall never again venture from the comforts of civilization.” The ancients, when in the thick of battle, or at the point of shipwreck, were accustomed to vow temples to the gods should they be kind enough to save them, but they usually forgot their oaths when safely home. Mountaineers in like manner forget their resolves, under the genial influence of rest and food, when they reach camp.