Читать книгу Canadian Adventurers and Explorers Bundle - John Wilson - Страница 13

On a clear, crisp Saturday afternoon in March 1925, Phyl heard cries outside the cabin. She ran to the front door and out on the verandah overlooking the bluff. Yes, there it was, clearly, a voice calling for help. But where? Phyl shouted for Don.

“Someone’s hurt, Don. I can hear a call below the bluffs.” Pausing long enough to tie up her hiking boots and wrap herself in a winter jacket, Phyl left the cabin and went out on the plateau.

“Hello!” she called.

“Help!” came the reply. “Down here. My friend, he’s gone over. I can’t see him.” Sure enough, there was a teenage boy on the bluff below the cabin. He was in an awful state – scared stiff and panicking.

The main tower of Waddington (elevation 4019 metres) rises to its full

glory. “A nightmare molded in rock and ice” is how Don Munday described

this mountain, located 300 kilometres north of Vancouver. This view was taken in 1928 from the northwest – and lower – summit, the closest

the Mundays ever got in their quest to ascend their “Mystery Mountain.”

“Are you injured?”

“No, I’m OK. We were playing and sliding down the frozen slope, but all of a sudden Sid hit a real icy patch beneath the snow. Sid just fell flat down on his back and rolled right off, down the slope and into the trees.”

“You just stay still there now. We’ll come down to you and get you back up to our cabin. Then we’ll look for your friend.”

Don arrived with a rope that he anchored and then passed down to Phyl, who stood as far as she dared on the edge of the slope. Receiving the rope, she called to the teenager.

“Here, look up now. I’m sending you a rope. You will have to reach out and grab it. Tie it round your middle and let us know when it’s knotted good and tight.” The boy did as he was told and then he pulled himself up to a stand and began to scramble up the slope. With the rope bearing most of his weight, he was able to climb unaided to the plateau where Don and Phyl untied the rope.

Rescuing his buddy was another situation altogether. Fourteen-year-old Sid had not been nearly as lucky as his friend had. Not only had Sid gone completely down the slope, but he had managed to slip between the trees and tumble almost six hundred metres farther down to the brink of another cliff. There was no discussion. Don with his weak left arm would be at a disadvantage in leading a rescue. Phyl had her first aid training and could assess the boy’s medical condition, and besides, she was strong and in good health.

Phyl went down in among the trees to search for him. She carried one of their climbing ropes and a small pack containing some bandages and a blanket. A toboggan trailed behind her. She didn’t know what to expect. Down she went, fearful that she too might lose her balance, but fearful also of what she might find. After more time and patient searching she found him. He was a long way down. So far down she thought she might have missed him as she moved along. His fall had finally been stopped by a windfallen fir tree. There he lay, mere metres from the cliff edge, unconscious.

At first Phyl thought he was dead, but she was able to discern shallow breathing. After a careful examination, Phyl could detect no major bone breakage, and his neck appeared unharmed. But she wasn’t taking any chances. She knew he must have a head injury, so they would have to move him with the utmost care. He was limp, a dead weight. Don appeared from above with another rope that he tied around some trees, and then, using the rope to steady himself, he joined Phyl. They tied the other end of the rope around the unconscious boy. Together Don and Phyl dragged him up a slope to the trees. Gently she moved him prone on to the toboggan. Using supplies from her pack, she strapped him and wedged the wool blanket around his head and neck for extra support. Now began the real challenge – somehow to drag the boy on the toboggan back up the mountain.

For three long hours Phyl had to hold the toboggan tail from above as they traversed the slopes, keeping the boy as flat as possible. Finally they got to the cabin and brought him inside, still on the toboggan. Edith was sleeping, and the other boy who had stayed at the cabin to take care of her was now warmed by the fire in the fireplace. He was calmer, but extremely worried about his friend.

“I’ll go for help, Phyl. I’ll find a doctor and bring him up.” With that, Don grabbed the bug light. He would need it on the return trip with the doctor. He ran out the door and down the mountain into North Vancouver to search frantically for a doctor willing to climb up Grouse Mountain to aid the injured boy, whose name was Sid Harling. Meanwhile Phyl knew what she had to do. Leaving him where he lay, she wrapped Sid up in blankets. She then heated water on the wood stove and put the water in empty jam jars, which she placed all around him. She knew that she shouldn’t move him, and she knew also that a badly chilled body should not be heated quickly. All the while Phyl checked his pulse and breathing. She was certain that he would die at any moment. But he didn’t, and by the time Don returned with Doctor Dyer and a nurse, Sid was breathing evenly and his body was warm.

The doctor examined the boy and indicated that he had suffered a bad concussion. He applauded Phyl’s decision to leave him on the floor and move him as little as possible, adding that in his estimation, if Sid had been exposed to the elements any longer than he had, death would surely have resulted. Only the speed with which he was rescued and removed from the cold had saved his life. Both the doctor and the nurse agreed to stay at the cabin for the next forty-eight hours to monitor Sid’s condition.

The following evening, the Mundays left Sid in their hands and came down the mountain to attend the local celebrations for the twentieth anniversary of the Alpine Club of Canada, a dinner held at the Hotel Vancouver. Word of the accident had just reached the club, and “cheer after cheer reverberated through the dining room when Mr. and Mrs. Don Munday arrived with apologies for ‘being a little late,”’ noted the ever-vigilant Province newspaper.

The injured boy was unable to travel. Phyl nursed him for over three weeks before he was sufficiently recuperated to handle the trip down Grouse. For her rescue and nursing of Sid Harling, the Girl Guides Association of Canada awarded Phyl their highest honour, the Bronze Cross for valour. She was the first woman in the country to receive this recognition.

Phyl had a busy time on Grouse, for it was only a few months later that she piggybacked an injured teenage girl down the mountain. But the climbing season geared up beginning in May with a little warm-up jaunt to Mount Garibaldi, and then two weeks later she and Don joined good friend Tom Ingram for what Ingram claimed would be “his farewell gesture to climbing.” At age fifty Ingram believed his climbing days to be over. Don and Phyl, to humour him, went along. The threesome travelled to Vancouver Island, and by stage from Nanaimo along the Alberni road towards Mount Arrowsmith (elevation 1817 metres). They planned for a four-day trip but completed it in two. This particular journey would set them on a quest – one that might be seen as an obsession – that would last over a decade.

The following month they were in the Cariboo Mountains west of the Yellowhead Pass where they made a first ascent of Mount Sir John Thompson (elevation 3246 metres) and became the second party to ascend Sir Wilfrid Laurier (elevation 3520 metres). From there the Mundays travelled to Lake O’Hara in Yoho National Park for the Alpine Club summer camp.

Two ascents, one of Mount Hungabee (elevation 3493 metres) and Mount Victoria (elevation 3464) stand out for this trip, the latter climb accomplished in a mere two and a half hours up (a new record) and three hours down. But here at Yoho Park, much to their chagrin, they discovered that the existing topographic maps of the park were inaccurate. Trails were shown where none existed. The maps also omitted many important details including the number of lakes on a specific route and the presence of not one, but three glaciers in the area between Emerald Pass and Emerald Lake. Don complained not too subtly in the fall issue of The BC Mountaineer. “It might not be out of place to put climbers on their guard against being misled [by the map].” On the section of trail from Emerald Pass, “the conditions encountered contained more concentrated mountaineering than this writer ever wishes to cram into half a dozen trips in future.”

Mountaineers who explored and climbed in national parks at this time had only inaccurate or simplified maps to follow. They found the inadequate maps frustrating and dangerous. For ex-Army scout Don, the lack of information was particularly galling. One of Don’s chief delights in climbing was the documentary activity that went with the climb. He and Phyl spent much time and effort carrying in cameras, and later motion picture cameras, to record the scenery and to put together photo-topographic panorama maps of the mountain ranges as viewed from mountain summits and oriented with Don’s compass. The Mundays believed mountaineers had a responsibility to forward precise topographic information to the provincial and federal authorities for inclusion in future mapping.

Closer to home, Don and Phyl knew firsthand the limits of topographic maps depicting the Coast Mountains. This mighty range extends from Alaska in the north, down through British Columbia, and south into Washington State. It covers more land than the Rocky Mountains. But apart from the terrain near Vancouver, the Coast Mountains were largely uncharted. Published maps identified only a handful of summits, and guessed at their heights. The few limited penetrations into the mountains produced some documentation, but much was based on speculation. Although provincial surveyors reported features they spied from a distance, little official work had been undertaken. As they explored in the Tantalus Range and around Garibaldi, Phyl and Don cast their eyes northward along the sea of mountains stretching parallel to the Pacific Ocean. They mused about the possibilities for future climbs and wondered what hidden treasures might be found in the heart of the range. But without maps to guide them, or manuscript references to follow, could they get access to this great range?

Sitting on Mount Arrowsmith with Don and Tom Ingram one day in the spring of 1925, Phyl looked through her binoculars and trained them across Georgia Strait to the mainland, where, on this particularly clear afternoon, the soaring white peaks stood out in sharp focus and their full glory. She could see almost five hundred kilometres along the length of the range. She scanned carefully, mesmerized by the mountains’ sheer magnificence.

“Don, look!” She handed him the glasses and pointed across the waters to a section within the deep white mass. He focussed and then he could see, shimmering above a cloud rift, one fine tall white peak rising above all others. Quickly he checked his compass and calculated.

“Looks to me that it’s about near the head of Bute Inlet, maybe just a little east. It’s a long way off, must be at least 150 miles from here. It’s magnificent! Phyl, why hasn’t anyone noted this peak before?” Before he could complete his thought, another glance through the binoculars answered his question. In the space of seconds, clouds obscured the mountain and it disappeared.

It was a Mystery, and that is what they called that elusive peak – Mystery Mountain. Right there, Phyl knew she had to find it, but with a full calendar of climbing trips scheduled, she and Don would have to wait until September. In the meantime they would plan an expedition up the coast. Tom Ingram, needless to say, forgot all about his farewell to mountains. This was much too exciting a prospect to miss.

In September 1925, Phyl, Don, Tom Ingram, and Athol Agur boarded the Union Steamship vessel SS Chelohsin headed up the coast to Bute Inlet. They took with them a five-metre rowboat with a gas engine, and sufficient supplies for several weeks. After they disembarked at Orford Bay, a local trapper named James McPhee led them up to the head of the inlet to Ward Point. From here the party travelled up a valley and ascended Mount Rodney (elevation 2390 metres) to survey the scene. Looking north, they saw a high prominence – their Mystery Mountain. Don checked the compass readings and calculated the distance to be about sixty-four kilometres from where they stood. Judging by the charts they had brought along, it appeared as if the mountain would be closer to the Homathko River than to Bute Inlet. Perhaps they could access the mountain from the Homathko the next season.

The following summer the Mundays (including Edith), Ingram, R.C. Johnson, and Don’s brother Bert again travelled up the coast, this time heading north of Bute Inlet, to the Homathko River. They dropped Edith off to stay with the McPhees. The climbers had five weeks, and they packed in a tremendous amount of supplies over what proved to be an almost impossible challenge of obstacles. They travelled thirteen kilometres up the swollen river in their small boat, then sixteen kilometres by canoe and backpacking, carrying the boat when necessary. They cut a trail the last nineteen kilometres from the boat to their base camp, and then they relayed the supplies, one load at a time. The Homathko River was almost impassable, for the shoreline was flooding and huge debris was crashing downriver. Finding a spot to set up a suitable base camp and relaying supplies took more time than they had ever anticipated. Never had Phyl and Don encountered such unwelcoming country.

One thing was apparent: this land also held an immense quantity of glaciers; Don estimated the larger ones covered forty square kilometres. After one long day scouting out, Phyl became snow-blind from the glare of the snow. Snow-blindness is a painful affliction that lasts for several days. The eyes burn and ache and cannot be opened. Tea poultices relieved the pain somewhat, but for several days Phyl could go nowhere and had to be led by her hand around camp. Finally, one cloudless day they got what they had come for: a first clear glimpse of Mystery Mountain. They also realized that the great glacier, the Franklin as they would name it, came off this mountain, and that the Franklin River flowing from it drained into Knight Inlet. This discovery was an important piece of topographic detail. But now they had run out of food and had to get out and back to the boat.

In late 1926 the Mundays had to make a difficult decision. Their business arrangement with the Grouse Mountain Highway and Scenic Resort Ltd. had not gone quite as they envisioned. A parting of the ways between the Mundays and the company meant that the family must move off Grouse Mountain. The couple tried to keep a brave face and maintained that the decision to move was based on Edith’s need to attend school. She was now six years old. Although she was well advanced in her education thanks to Phyl and Don’s home schooling, Edith was ready to spend time with friends her own age.

So the Mundays left Grouse Mountain and the log cabin that had been their home for almost three years. They purchased a tiny frame house on Tempe Crescent high on the Lonsdale slopes below the mountain. “We bought it for the view,” said Phyl. “It was such a blow to come off the mountain, we thought that at least here we’d have some of the same marvellous outlook. We see all of Vancouver spread before our feet, and over to Vancouver Island, I can see Mount Arrowsmith. To the west, Horseshoe Bay, The Lions, and the Tantalus Range way in the distance.”

It wasn’t long until the Mundays were once again in the news. Don’s financial situation was made public as he went to court to claim unpaid wages for the 156 days he had spent building the Alpine Lodge. He had not yet been paid the $785 owing, calculated at five dollars per day. For reasons not published, the Court dismissed his claims. It was an embarrassment to have their business affairs become reading material for the city, but losing the court case was also a real financial blow to the Mundays, who believed that they had been taken advantage of and deliberately misled.

Now that she was back in the city, Phyl’s horizons for Guiding expanded. When Edith was seven she was old enough to become a Brownie, so Phyl created the 1st North Vancouver Brownie Pack, with herself as Brown Owl. Long after Edith progressed through to Guides and Rangers, Phyl maintained this position, for she really loved working with these little girls. After several years of her Lones work she needed to actually be with the girls, not just in long-distance communication. She eventually became a District Captain and then Commissioner. In 1945 she reluctantly gave up her Lones work at the request of the Guides and assumed the role of Provincial Woodcraft and Nature Advisor. Her knowledge of the outdoors and her dynamic teaching skills combined in these positions.

Munday party crossing a snow bridge on their 1933 attempt

to reach Mount Waddington from the northeast

via Combatant Mountain and Mount Geddes.