# Canadian Alpine Journal/Volume 1/Number 1/How We Climbed Cascade

Photo by Byron Harmon (1876–1942)
HOW WE CLIMBED CASCADE
By Ralph Connor
Just beyond the Gap lies Banff, the capital of the Canadian National Park, a park unexcelled in all the world for grandeur and diversified beauty of mountain scenery. The main street of Banff runs south to Sulphur mountain, modest, kindly and pine-clad, and north to Cascade, sheer, rocky and bare, its great base thrust into the pine forest, its head into the clouds. Day after day the Cascade gazed in steadfast calm upon the changing scenes of the valley below. The old grey face rudely scarred from its age-long conflict with the elements, looked down in silent challenge upon the pigmy ephemeral dwellers of the village at its feet. There was something overpoweringly majestic in the utter immobility of that ten thousand feet of ancient age-old rock; something almost irritating in its calm challenge to all else than its mighty self.
It was this calm challenge, too calm for contempt, that moved the Professor to utter himself somewhat impatiently one day, flinging the gauntlet, so to speak, into that stony, immovable face: "We'll stand on your head some day, old man." And so we did, and after the following manner.
Photo, Byron Harmon
CASCADE MOUNTAIN, BANFF, ALBERTA
It was a Thursday afternoon in early September of '91, golden and glowing in smoky purple hues, a day for the open prairie or for the shadowy woods, according to your choice. Into a democrat we packed our stuff, provisions for a week, so it seemed, a tent with all necessary camp appurtenances, and started up the valley of the little Forty Mile creek that brawled its stony way from the back of the Cascade. We were minded to go by the creek till we should get on to the back of old Cascade, from which we could climb up upon his head. Across the intervening stretch of prairie, then through the open timber in the full golden glory of the September sun, and then into the thicker pines, where we lost the sunlight, we made our way, dodging trees, crashing through thickets, climbing over boulder masses, till at last the Professor, our intrepid driver, declared that it would be safer to take our team no further. And knowing him, we concluded that advance must be absolutely impossible. We decided to make this our camp.
To me a camp anywhere and in any weather is good, so that it be on dry ground and within sight, and better within sound, of water. But this camp of ours possessed all the charms that delight the souls of all true campers. In the midst of trees, tall pines between whose points the stars looked down, within touch of the mountains and within sound of the brawling Forty Mile creek and the moaning pines. By the time the camp was pitched, the pine beds made and supper cooked, darkness had fallen. With appetites sharpened to the danger point, we fell upon the supper and then reclined upon couches of pine, the envy of the immortal gods. With no one to order us to bed, we yarned and sang, indifferent to the passing of the night ​or to the tasks of the morrow, while the stars slowly swung over our heads.
At last the camp was still. Down the canyon came the long-drawn howl of a wolf, once and again, and we were asleep; the long day and the soothing night proving too much for the shuddering delight of that long, weird, gruesome sound. We turned over in our sleep and woke. It was morning. The Professor had already "fixed" the horses and was lighting the breakfast fire. Unhappily, we possessed the remnants of conscience which refused to lie down, and though the sun had given as yet no hint of arriving, we persuaded ourselves that it was day. A solid breakfast, prayers, and we stood ready for the climb, greener at our work than the very greenest of the young pines that stood about us, but with fine jaunty courage of the young recruit marching to his first campaign.
An expert mountain-climber, glancing down the line, would have absolutely refused to move from the tent door. With the exception of the Lady from Montreal, who had done Mt. Blanc, not one of us had ever climbed anything more imposing than Little Tunnel, one thousand feet high. While as to equipment, we hadn't any, not even an alpenstock between the lot of us. As for the ladies, they appeared to carry their full quota of flimsy skirts and petticoats, while on their feet they wore their second-best kid boots. It was truly a case of fools rushing in where angels pause. Without trail, without guide, but knowing that the top was up there somewhere, we set out, water-bottles and brandy-flasks—in case of accident—and lunch baskets slung at the belts of the male members of the party, the sole shred of mountaineering outfit being the trunk of a sapling in the hand of each ambitious climber.
As we struck out from camp, the sun was tipping the highest pines far up on the mountain side to the west. Cascade mountain has a sheer face, but a long, ​sloping back. It was our purpose to get upon that back with all speed. So, for a mile or more, we followed the main direction of the valley, gradually bearing to our right and thus emerging from the thicker forest into the open. When we considered that we had gone far enough up the valley, we turned sharply to our right and began to climb, finding the slope quite easy and the going fairly good. We had all day before us, and we had no intention of making our excursion anything but an enjoyment. Therefore, any ambition to force the pace on the part of any member was sternly frowned down.
By 10 o'clock we had got clear of the trees and had begun to see more clearly our direction. But more, we began to realize somewhat more clearly the magnitude of our enterprise. The back of this old Cascade proved to be longer than that bestowed upon most things that have backs, and the lack of equipment was beginning to tell. The ladies of our party were already a grotesquely solemn warning that petticoats and flimsy skirts are not for mountain climbers. And it was with some considerable concern that we made the further discovery that kid boots are better for drawing-rooms. But in spite of shredded skirts and fraying boots, our ladies faced the slope with not even the faintest sign of fainting hearts.
An hour more, and we began to get views; views so wonderful as to make even the ladies forget their fluttering skirts and clogging petticoats and fast disintegrating boots. But now we bagan to have a choice of directions. We had never imagined there could be so many paths apparetly all leading to the mountain top, but we discovered that what had appeared to be an unbroken slope, was gashed by numerous deep gorges that forbade passage, and ever and again we were forced to double on our course and make long detours about these gulches. In the presence of one unuually ​long, we determined that it was time for our second breakfast, to which we sat down, wondering whether there had ever been a first. A short rest, and we found ourselves with our stock of water sadly diminished, but our stock of courage and enthusiasm high as ever, and once more we set out for the peak whose location we began to guess at, but of whose distance away we could form no idea.
By noon the Professor announced, after a careful estimate of distances, that we were more than half way there, and that in an hour's time we should halt for lunch, which double announcement spurred those of the party who had been showing signs of weariness to a last heroic spurt. It was difficult to persuade any member of the party as we sat waiting for the baskets to be opened, that we had had one breakfast that morning, not to speak of two. After lunch the Professor declared that, having been brought up on a farm, he had been accustomed to a noon spell, and must have one. Being the least fatigued, or the most unwilling to acknowledge fatigue, this suggestion of a noon spell he could afford to make. So, stretched upon the broken rocks, we lay disposed at various angles, snuggled down into the soft spots of the old bony back. We slept for a full half-hour, and woke, so wonderful is this upper air, fresh and vigorous as in the morning. We packed our stuff, passed around our water-bottles, now, alas! almost empty, tied up the bleeding right foot of the Lady from Winnipeg with a portion of the fluttering skirt-remnants of the Lady from Montreal, seized our saplings, and once more faced the summit.
Far off a slight ledge appeared directly across our path. Should we make a detour to avoid it? Or was it surmountable? The Professor, supported by the majority of the party, decided for a detour to the left. The Missionary, supported by the Lady from Winnipeg, decided that the frontal attack was possible. In ​half an hour, however, he found himself hanging to that ledge by his toe-nails and finger-tips, looking down into a gully full of what appeared to be stone, in alpine vocabulary scree, and sliding out into space at an angle of forty-five degrees or less, and the summit still far above him. Hanging there, there flashed across his mind for a moment the problem as to how the party could secure his mangled remains, and having secured them, how they could transport them down this mountain side. He decided that in the present situation his alpenstock added little to his safety and could well be dispensed with. As it clattered down upon the broken rocks far below, he found himself making a rapid calculation as to the depth of the drop and its effect upon the human frame. Before reaching a conclusion, he had begun edging his way backward, making the discovery that all mountain-climbers sooner or later make, that it is easier to follow your fingers with your toes, than your toes with your fingers. The descent accomplished, the Missionary with his loyal following reluctantly proceeded to follow the rest of the party, who had by this time gone round the head of the gulch, or the couloir in expert phrasing, and were some distance in advance. A stern chase is a long chase, and almost always disheartening. But in this case the advance guard were merciful, and, sitting down to enjoy the view, waited for the pursuing party to make up.
It is now late in the afternoon, and a council of war is held to decide whether, with all the return journey before us, it is safe to still attempt the peak. We have no experience in descending mountains, and, therefore, we cannot calculate the time required. The trail to the camp is quite unknown to us, and there is always the possibility of accident. Besides, while the climbing is not excessively steep, the going has become very difficult, for the slope is now one mass of scree, so that the whole face of the mountain moves with every step. ​Still, the peak is very perceptibly nearer, and the party has endured already so much that it is exceedingly loath to accept defeat. Then, too, the atmosphere has become so rare, that the climbing is hard on the wind, as the Professor says. The ladies, despite shredded skirts and torn shoes, however, are keen to advance, and without waiting for further parley, gallantly strike out for the peak. It is decided to climb for an hour. So up we go, slipping, scrambling, panting, straining ever toward the peak. We have no time for views, though they are entrancing enough to almost make us content with what we have achieved. For an hour and then for half an hour, the ladies still in advance, we struggle upward. The climbing is now over snow and often upon hands and knees, but the scree is gone and the rock, where there is no snow, is solid.
At length the Professor demands a halt. In spite of desperate attempts at concealment, various members of the party are flying flags of distress. We are still several hundred yards from the coveted summit, but the rose tints upon the great ranges that sweep around are deepening to purple and the shadows lie thick in the valleys. If we only knew about the descent, we might risk another three-quarters of an hour. The ladies begin to share the anxiety of the men, knowing full well that it is they who constitute the serious element in the situation. With bitter reluctance they finally decide that they will not ask the men to assume any greater responsibility than they already bear. It is agreed that the men shall make a half-hour dash for the summit, while the ladies await their return. Stripping themselves of all incumbrances, the Professor and the Missionary make a final attempt to achieve the peak, the Californian gallantly offering to remain with the ladies. After a breathless, strenuous half-hour, the Professor, with the Missionary at his side, has fulfilled his threat and accomplished his proud boast. Breath​less but triumphant, we are standing upon the head of the old Cascade.
We dare only take a few minutes to gaze about us, but these are enough to make indelible the picture before us. Down at our feet the wide valley of the Bow with its winding river, then range on range of snow-streaked mountains, with here and there mighty peaks rising high and white against the deep blue. One giant, whose head towers far above all his fellows, arrests the eye. There he stands in solitary grandeur. Not till years after do we learn that this is the mighty Assiniboine. But there are no words to paint these peaks. They are worth climbing to see, and once seen they are worth remembering. I close my eyes any day, and before me is spread out the vision of these sweeping ranges jutting up into all sorts of angles, and above them, lonely and white, the solitary sentinel, Assiniboine.
Without a word, we look our fill and turn to the descent. A hundred yards or more and we come upon our party who, with a reckless ambition, have been climbing after us. But the whole back of the Cascade lies now in shadow, and, though half an hour will do it, we dare not encourage them to take the risk. The party has been successful, though individuals have failed. And with this comfort in our hearts and with no small anxiety as to what awaits us, we set off down the slope. It is much easier than we have anticipated until we strike the scree. Here, for the first few steps, we proceed with great caution, but after a short time, becoming accustomed to have the whole mountain slip with us, we abandon ourselves to the exhilaration of toboganning upon the skidding masses of broken rock; and touching here and there the high spots, as the Professor says, we make the descent with seven-leagued boots till we reach the timber. It is here we meet our first accident for the day. The Lady from ​Winnipeg has the misfortune to turn her ankle. But there is no lack of bandages in the party. In fact, by this time the ladies' skirts consist chiefly of bandages, so that with foot well swathed, and stopping now and then for repairs to the ladies' boots, slipping, sliding, stumbling, leaping, we finally, in a more or less battered condition, arrive at camp. The indomitable Professor, aided by the Missionary and the Man from California, set about supper. But long ere it is ready the rest of the party are sound asleep. They are mercilessly dragged forth, however, to the refreshment of tea, toast and bacon, for which they are none too grateful, and after which they drop back upon their pine beds into dreamless sleep.
It takes us a full week, the greater part of it spent in bed, to realize that mountain-climbing, sans guides, sans mountaineering boots, plus petticoats, is a pastime for angels perhaps, but not for fools.
On the upper part of the mountain, the Professor and I were greatly excited over what appeared to be the fossil remains of a prehistoric monster, and if its jawbone had not weighed several hundred pounds—the backbone must have weighed several tons—we would have carried it down as a present to the Museum. We left them behind us, and they are there to this day for some anthropologist to see.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1937, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 86 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
This work is in the public domain in Canada because it originates from Canada and one of the following statements is true:
* The author died over 70 years ago (before 1954) and the work was published more than 50 years ago (before 1974).
* The author died before 1972, meaning that copyright on that author's works expired before the Canadian copyright term was extended non-retroactively from 50 to 70 years on 30 December 2022.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1937, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 86 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
This template must be accompanied by a tag indicating copyright status in the United States.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse