# Canadian Alpine Journal/Volume 1/Number 2/Paradise Valley Camp

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PARADISE VALLEY CAMP.
By Francis C. Walker.
"PLEASE SIR, MAY I GO WITH BILLY"?
MR. ROBINSON! IS MR. ROBINSON IN THIS TENT?
Once Robinson's footsteps had died away I rolled my blankets tighter and tried to sleep. For a time I succeeded, but the open flap of the tent was in the end too much, and before a fair holiday rising hour I felt moved to get up and investigate the camp. My dim recollection of last night's arrival reminded me that I was a lodger in tent No. 5, Men's Quarters, south side of Paradise Creek. After wrestling with the puttees and crawling into the open, I found that tent No. 5 was almost the last from the bridge but at no great distance from the creek; and I soon washed and started out to find the main camp. All along as I made my way cheerfully over the stumps, guy-ropes and rocks that had treated me so scurvily the night before, I found other denizens of the men's quarters creeping out with soap and towel, or furbishing up their ice-axes and boots for the day's work. Crossing the substantial log bridge I reached the stopping place of the pack-train, where a number of the horses, just arrived from Laggan, were waiting to be unpacked. Before me now was the main encampment on the lowest slope of Aberdeen in a clearing hewn from the thick woods. Whatever it was hewn from I suspected it of holding a breakfast for me, and on I pushed through the tents. In another minute the breakfast was in view. Half way up what seemed to be the main street of the camp, and in the middle of ​the street, was a huge strip of canvas flung over a stout horizontal beam and guyed down at either side; beneath were six tables made on a simple rustic frame with oilcloth tops and furnished along either side with stout log perches on which the second relay of breakfasters were already balancing themselves. Opposite every place there was laid an outfit of eating implements, consisting of one tin plate, one tin cup, one knife, one fork and one spoon. These must serve the holder for his entire meal, and later, as we grew accustomed to the etiquette, it was astonishing how simple and natural it seemed to save from the influence of porridge a place large enough for bacon, and to keep an unbaconized surface for final prunes or pie. At that, my first breakfast, however, I was hard put to it, what with the simplicity of the service, and what with my struggles to preserve the equilibrium of the porridge dish on the curving surface of the oilcloth, as well as my own on the diner's perch.
From the mess-tent to the cook-tent below was a short distance, and the speed with which the various courses came on was only equalled by the rapidity with which the food disappeared. The chief cook was Mok-Hen, an old retainer of the President, and familiarly known as Mock Turtle, who had under him two China boys from the Lake Louise Chalet. Mok and his staff served only eatables, tea being handed out by more or less active volunteers, from a small tent sacred to the ladies, which stood just above the mess-tent.
The mess-tent practically divided the main camp in two. It stood almost spanning the main street, with the cook-tent below and official tents above. To the right and on the same level as the mess-tent were the living tents of the President and Secretary, and beyond these, scattered along the woody mountain side, were the ladies' quarters. The official tents of the President and Secretary stood at the upper end of an open space, the forum of the camp. Of this space the most important part was a big ​square of logs with the camp fire in the middle. Here every evening the campers gathered for song and jest, and here, during the day a succession of worried-looking ladies hammered nails, discussed sunburn cures, or fried out the interior of the boots thaty had used in climbing the day before. Not far from the camp-fire was a bulletin board fixed against a large tree and setting forth all the official announcements, especially the successive programmes for the following day. Altogether this year's camp to most of us, even the pioneers of 1906, seemed a model of good arrangement and comfort. The President, however, has in view for next year all sorts of improvements, among them a larger mess-tent and a more satisfactory tea-tent. The tea-tent is really sacred to the ladies, which means that they use it for drying their clothing, especially overflow boots from the camp fire. This system keeps out the mere males from the use of the tea-tent as such; but in future we may see a two-roomed tent with tea in the foreground, laundry at the back, and an entrance at each end. Why not go a step further and have bell tents with electric bells in them, buttless fir boughs, and porcupines furnished with hairpins as well as needles? I am at present working on a self-balancing, three-sided plate especially adapted to club use.
The camp, as it stood, represented no small thought and toil. To begin with, the late-lingering snow had made it necessary to abandon the first site chosen and move lower down the valley. This second site had to be in the thick woods, and a clearing was made only by three days' work on the part of a gang of men loaned by the C.P.R. In addition to the work done by this gang in clearing the ground and bridging the creek, a number of members of the Club worked hard for the first four days of July in setting up tents, cutting boughs and firewood, and doing a hundred and one tiresome, necessary things. Those of us who came after ​and, like Kipling's "Sons of Mary" found the rough places smooth for our feet, owe a debt of gratitude to the hard-working officers of the Club who planned, and the unselfish volunteers who swung axes and stretched ropes for our comfort. The names of these, "The Sons of Martha," I could give—and would, were it not to save a blush in the cheek of the many lingerers. Even so I would venture to make an exception of the man from Woodstock if he had not been already overpaid for those four days; it was then that he thought out the great device for the painless ironing of rough-dried collars on a tent roof. One of the McTavish twins, too, would certainly have been mentioned—if I were quite certain which twin it was that worked. The wrong one would assuredly claim the credit, and he, as it happened, appeared in camp when the work was all done, and just as supper was served. I ought to know, for I came with him.
A FEW DENIZENS OF THE CAMP
Here's a health (and we would drink it in that same tea) to the President, the O. C, the Secretary, and all our noble officers. Here's to the governments too, at Ottawa and Edmonton, who have so practically endorsed our work! And here's to that octopus of a railway company who "hewed timber afore out the thick trees," loaned us their guides, and sent us (at one fare) on our way rejoicing!
Of the official climbs, i.e., the climbs by which graduating members were to qualify for active membership, that up Mt. Aberdeen was taken by the greater number. Every day from twelve to thirty persons ascended this mountain, which was right behind the camp and has a height of 10,340 feet. The earlier expeditions from the camp up this mountain were attended with some difficulty owing partly to severe weather and partly to the dangerous course at first taken. Your blood would run cold if I could repeat to you the horrible adventures told in tent No. 5 by the different gentlemen who took part in those first ascents. The ledges along which they walked for hours were never ​wider than six inches, the precipices over which they hung suspended by a single rope were seldom less than 3,000 feet, and the general air of terror which enwrapt the whole performance almost robbed me of sleep on the night before my venture on the same mountain.
The next morning at seven o'clock a ropefull of us were lined up before the President's tent. Nine in all, we started off in charge of our guide without waiting for the sixteen others who were to make the ascent that morning. For the first half hour we tramped up a steep ravine. This seemed easy, though it was not long before it began to shorten our breath; the guide was ready for this, however, and made us sit down for a rest long before any of us would have considered it necessary. Once beyond the ravine and out on the rocks we began to do some real climbing. The easiest going was up the solid rock ledges; the most troublesome was over the great slides of shale, which, even when taken in zig-zags, gave at every step. The greatest care was necessary in placing the foot so as not only to assure your own advance, but to safeguard from sliding fragments the brains of the following climbers. We kept on over rock and snow, for we had now reached the snow-line, till we arrived at the base of a sort of tower of rock with a narrow ledge running round it. Here our guide halted and began roping. There were, as I have said, nine in our party, and after half a dozen loops had been made in the rope and slipped over the shoulders of as many people, it was seen that at least two would be left out in the cold. Some instinct seemed to tell me that I would be one of these heroes. Sure enough, it was to me that he first turned with a cheerful "I know that you won't mind going unroped." "N-no—it's not very dangerous, is it?" He reassured me and the other hero in such ambiguous terms that we followed the party with anything but heroic feelings. From the base of the tower we got into a snow-filled crevice easily negotiated ​by a series of steps made by the feet of the preceding parties. At the end of this crevice we found ourselves, as it were, on the roof of the mountain. We were, however, not on the summit, which we saw to the left at the end of a narrow snow-covered crest. Up this crest we worked for some time, keeping at a respectful distance from its precipitous sides, and before long reached our goal, the cairn marking the top of the mountain. We were Active Members of the Alpine Club of Canada.
It was now almost twelve o'clock and the thoughtful guide took off his rucksack and brought out nine substantial lunches, the work of our friend Mock Turtle. The only drawback to our enjoyment was the lack of drinkables. Some of the party attempted sandwiches of snow and bread and jam, but with doubtful success. After lunch and a short rest we began the descent, not along the snow ridge, but straight over the mountain side, down the back stairs, as it were, the stairs consisting of a peculiarly long and irritating slope of shale. Besides the usual irresponsibility of this loose rock, it occasionally overlay smooth slopes of the firm variety, and several exciting slides added interest to the descent. Finally to our relief we arrived at an oasis of firm rock. Stopping here for a rest we were soon joined by the second party, and then prepared for the most exciting and most enjoyable part of the whole trip.
Below us was a long, smooth slope of snow extending, as our guide said, for nearly 3,000 feet. This we were to travel by the simple process of glissading. Glissading is, roughly speaking, tobogganing without a toboggan. The glissader simply sits down, put his feet firmly together in front of him, draws a long breath, and starts, guiding his way with alpenstock held firmly under the arm. As one who knows, I should like to say, that the only safe from of glissading is "independent firing." On this occasion we were beguiled into ​forming a combination toboggan of sixteen persons linked together by interlocked arms and feet. At a signal we pushed off and began to whiz down the snow slope. For a time all went well. Suddenly some projecting foot caught in the snow, the human toboggan split in two, and the part in front of me continued on its own responsibility. My section, however, came on with terrific impetus, and in their efforts to pass me while still holding on to me, forced my head and shoulders into the snow, and described over me a parabola which must have filled with joy the hearts of the onlookers. After we had gathered up our limbs, alpenstocks and ice-axes we continued our way in strictly independent fashion, and really enjoyed the long slide to the bottom of the snow-field.
The rest of the journey to camp was an easy scramble down the ravine, and we soon arrived rather wet and weary and quite ready for the usual afternoon tea.
For my part, when I have climbed a mountain, I like to sit down for a while and think about it. Yet you will see people coming back into camp with half the nails gone from their soaking boots and with a considerable gap in the garment that bears the brunt of a glissade, who will at once rush to the bulletin board hunting for more trouble. What are you to do with people like that? Mild cases are often satisfied with an enrollment for an ascent of Mt. Temple (11,626 ft.) on the opposite side of the valley, but for others this is as nothing; and for these the President unfalteringly prescribes a two-day trip. To grasp the psychic value of a two-day trip you must understand that the Paradise Valley is a narrow playground running for some six miles north-east and south-west, fenced on the south-west by a wall of rock one mile in height, and on the south-east and north-west by similar walls of from half a mile to one mile in height. Unfortunately no ​gate has ever been built at the front, and there are besides four places where you can climb over the walls. Now your two-day trippers are a sort of restless youngsters who want to see what the outside of the walls looks like. So the President says: "Certainly, my boys. I can put you over, Jimmy, by that gap on the north-west and you can walk along to the corner and down the south-west side and come back into the yard again by a gap you will find on the south-east. And you, Billy, if you like, may go out by the gap at which Jimmy is to come in and inspect the outside of the south-east fence till you come to the front, where you can easily come in by the gateway." Then he looks down and sees a very small boy. "Please, sir, may I go with Billy?" "Oh, no, my little man, that would make you too tired, and besides, Freddy, you might tear your clothes getting through the fence. But here's Mr. Holmes starting out through the gateway to take Billy's blankets to the place where he must stop tonight. How would you like to go along with him? He will take your blankets, too, if you ask him, and when you are tired he will let you ride on one of those nice ponies. Then tomorrow you can come back with Billy?"
All the boys jump at the chance. Jimmy climbs up from the valley, into the Mitre Pass, slides down that to the Lefroy Glacier, picks his way round the corner of Lefroy to the Victoria Glacier, and pushes upward to the Abbot Pass. If he escapes an avalanche in the Death Trap he passes Lake Oeesa, and at the end of the day staggers down to Lake O'Hara at his first fence corner, wondering if the supply of beans and bedding in the rest-house will meet his needs. However, the rest-house, conducted by a gem of cooks and with a base of supplies at Hector on the C.P.R., makes a new boy of him and sends him the next morning through Opabin Pass into Prospector's Valley, then round his second corner by way of Wenkchemna Pass ​and Wenkchemna Glacier till he sights the two gaps in the south-eastern wall—Wastach and Sentinel Passes. Through one of these he scrambles into our Happy Valley. Meanwhile Billy has made his way over Sentinel Pass to Larch Valley, and thence down to the camp at Moraine Lake in the Valley of the Ten Peaks. Here he finds Freddy and the blankets, brought round by Mr. Holmes. Next morning they take a side trip up Consolation Valley and later in the day push along the south-eastern wall till they can come round the end into the Valley.
That many campers should look with favor on two-day trips is no surprise to me, for my own feelings in the matter may be partly hereditary prejudice. An ancestor of mine, many thousand years back, lived with his wife in a Paradise Valley of their own. One day they allowed themselves to be assisted through the gateway—presumably on a two-day trip—and none of the family have got back into that valley since.
ROPING-UP ON ABERDEEN
THE PERILS OF SENTINEL PASS
Sad that none of us can stay in our Paradise Valley forever. Is it our battered boots and our glissaded nether garments that clamor for repair? And, now that I bethink me, it was some question of clothing—that and fresh fruit—that took my ancestor from his Paradise Valley. Look as long as the daylight lasts at the beautiful mountains, sit as late as you can about the camp fire, there must come an end. Already one roll of blankets has gone from tent No. 5, and more are to go. You have sat at the Annual Meeting in the firelight, you have heard the wit and wisdom of the "Alpine Herald" recited in the same magic light, you have taken your last mouthful of Mok Hen's bacon. Pack your dunnage bag, man! Roll your blankets! Hit the trail! As you mount the rise at the valley's mouth and turn for one last look before striding off for Lake Louise and the Outside, you seem to see across the entrance a flaming sword turning every way—or is it only the sunlight glancing from the snows of Hungabee?
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